F Is for Fugitive

I pulled my sleeve up far enough for him to see the pattern of bruises left by Madame's tennis serve. I jerked my arm out of his grasp and held the card up. "Want to talk about this?"
    "What is it?"
    "Oh, come on. It's the card you sent Shana Timberlake."
    He shook his head. "I never saw that in my life."
    "Excuse my language, Doctor, but that's a fuckin' fib. You wrote her last week when you were down in L.A. You must have heard about Bailey's arrest and thought the two of you better have a chat. What's the deal? Can't you just pick the phone up and call your lady love?"
    "Please lower your voice."
    When we reached the parking lot, he glanced back at the building. I followed his gaze, catching sight of his wife peering at us through the office window. She realized we'd spotted her, and withdrew. Dr. Dunne opened my car door on the driver's side as though to usher me in. His manner was uneasy and his eyes kept shifting to the building behind us. I pictured Mrs. Dunne belly-crawling through the bushes with a knife between her teeth.
    "My wife is a paranoid schizophrenic. She's violent."
    "I'll say! So what?"
    "She handles all the books. If she found I'd put a call through to Shana, she'd... well, I don't know what she'd do."
    "I'll bet I could guess. Maybe she was jealous of Jean and wrapped a belt around her neck."
    His ruddy complexion glowed pinker from within, as if a bulb had gone on behind his face. Perspiration was collecting in the crevices in his neck. "She would never do such a thing," he said. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped at his forehead.
    "What would she do?"
    "This has nothing to do with her."
    "What's the story, then? Where's Shana?"
    "She was supposed to meet me here Wednesday night. I was late getting up there. She never showed, or she might have left early. I haven't spoken to her, so I don't know where she was."
    "You'd meet her here on the premises?" My voice fairly squeaked with incredulity.
    Elva takes a sleeping pill every night. She never wakes."
    "As far as you know," I said tartly. "I take it your affair is ongoing?"
    I saw him hesitate. "It's not an affair in that sense of the word. We haven't been sexual with one another for years. Shana's a dear woman. I enjoy her company. I'm entitled to friendship."
    "Oh, right. I conduct all my friendships in the dead of night."
    "Please. I'm begging you. Get in your car and go. Elva will want to know every word we said."
    "Tell her we were talking about Ori Fowler's death."
    He stared at me. "Ori's dead?"
    "Oh yeah. This morning she got what was probably a penicillin shot. She went to heaven right after that."
    For a moment he didn't say a word. The look on his face was more convincing than denial. "What was the circumstance?"
    I did a quick verbal sketch of the morning's events. "Does Elva have access to penicillin?"
    He turned abruptly and started walking toward the building.
    I wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. "You were Jean Timberlake's father, weren't you?"
    "It's over. She's dead. You'll never prove it anyway, so what difference does it make?"
    "My question exactly. Did she know who you were when she asked for the abortion?"
    He shook his head, walking on.
    I scooted after him. "You didn't tell her the truth? You didn't even offer to help?"
    "I don't want to discuss it," he said, biting off the words.
    "But you do know who she was involved with, I bet."
    "Why ruin a promising career?" he said.
    "Some guy's career meant more than her life?"
    He reached the door to the reception area and went in. I debated going in, but I couldn't see any purpose in pursuing the point. I needed corroboration first. I reversed myself, heading for my car. I glanced back over my shoulder. Mrs. Dunne was standing at the window again, her expression inscrutable. I wasn't sure if my voice had carried that far or not, and I didn't care. Let them sort it out. I wasn't worried about him. He knew how to look out for himself. It was Shana I was worried about. If she hadn't showed up at all Wednesday night, then where had her car keys come from? And if she'd arrived for their meeting as planned, then where the hell had she gone?
    I drove back to the motel. Bert was handling the desk. Mrs. Emma and Mrs. Maude had taken charge of the Fowlers' living room. They stood side by side, plump women in their seventies, one in purple jersey, the other in mauve. Ann was resting, they said. They'd taken the liberty of having Ori's bed moved into