F Is for Fugitive

still seated at the dining room table. Her gaze traveled to my face when I entered the room, but she registered no response.
    "Are you all right?" I asked.
    No reply.
    I sat down next to her. I would have taken her hand, but she didn't seem like the type you could touch without asking permission first. "I know Quintana must have asked you this, but did your mother have allergies?"
    "Penicillin," she said dully. "I remember she had a very bad reaction to penicillin once."
    "What other medications was she taking?'
    Ann shook her head. "Just what's on the bed table, and her insulin, of course. I don't understand what happened."
    "Who knew about the allergy?"
    Ann started to speak and then shook her head.
    "Did Bailey know?"
    "He would never do such a thing. He couldn't have..."
    "Who else?"
    "Pop. The doctor..."
    "Dunne?"
    "Yes. She was in his office when she had the first bad reaction."
    "What about John Clemson? Is his the pharmacy she uses?"
    She nodded.
    "People from the church?"
    "I suppose. She didn't make a secret of it, and you know her. Always talking about her illnesses..." She blinked and I saw her face suffuse with pink. Her mouth tightened, turning downward as the tears welled in her eyes.
    "I'm going to call someone to come sit with you. I've got things to do. You have a preference? Mrs. Emma? Mrs. Maude?"
    She curled in on herself and laid her cheek against the tabletop as if she might go to sleep. Instead she wept, tears splashing onto the polished wood surface like hot wax. "Oh God, Kinsey. I did it. I can't believe it. I actually stood there and injected the stuff. How am I going to live with that?"
    I didn't know what to say to her.
    I went back into the living room, avoiding the sight of the bed, which was empty now, linens stripped off and carted away with the rest of the physical evidence. Who knew what they might find in the bedding? An asp, a poisonous spider, a suicide note shoved down among the dirty sheets.
    I called Mrs. Maude and told her what had happened. After we went through the obligatory expressions of shock and dismay, she said she'd be right over. She'd probably make a few quick telephone calls first, rounding up the usual members of the Family Crisis Squad. I could practically hear them crushing up potato chips for the onslaught of tuna casseroles.
    As soon as she'd arrived and taken over responsibility for the office, I went upstairs to my room, locked the door, and sat down on the bed. Ori's death was confusing. I couldn't figure out what it meant or how it could possibly fit in. Fatigue was pressing down on me like an anvil, nearly crushing me with its weight. I knew I couldn't afford to go to sleep, but I wasn't sure how much longer I could go on.
    The phone shrilled beside me. I hoped to God it wasn't going to be another threat. "Hello?"
    "Kinsey, it's me. What the hell is going on?"
    "Bailey, where are you?"
    "Tell me what happened to my mother."
    I told him what I knew, which didn't sound like much. He was silent for so long I thought he'd hung up. "Are you there?"
    "Yes, I m here."
    "I'm sorry. Really. You never even got to see her."
    "Yeah."
    "Bailey, do me a favor. You have to turn yourself in."
    "I'm not going to do that till I know what's going on."
    "Listen to me –"
    "Forget it!"
    "Goddamn it, just hear me out. Then you can do anything you want. As long as you're on the street, you're going to take the blame for whatever happens. Can't you see that? Tap gets blown to hell and you take off like a shot. Next thing you know, your mother's dead, too."
    "You know I didn't do it."
    "Then turn yourself in. If you're in custody, at least you can't be blamed if something else goes wrong."
    Silence. Finally he said, "Maybe. I don't know. I don't like this shit."
    "I don't either. I hate it. Look, just do this. Call Clemson and see what he has to say."
    "I know what he'll say."
    "Then take his advice and do the smart thing for once!" I banged the phone down.

Chapter 22
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    I had to get some air. I locked the door behind me and left the motel. I crossed the street and sat down on the sea wall, staring down at the stretch of beach where Jean Timberlake had died. Behind me, Floral Beach was laid out in miniature, six streets long, three streets wide. It bothered me somehow that the town was so small. It had all happened right here in the space of these eighteen blocks. The very sidewalks, the buildings, the local businesses – it all must have been much the same back then. The