F Is for Fugitive

Royce's room. The living room had been restored to some former arrangement of furniture and geegaws. It seemed enormous somehow alter the overbearing presence of the hospital bed with its cranks and side rails. The bed table was gone. The tray of medications had been removed by the police. Nothing could have eradicated Ori more effectively.
    Maxine had arrived, and she seemed faintly mystified to be there with no responsibility to clean. "I'll make some tea," she murmured the minute I arrived.
    We were all using our library voices. I found myself mimicking that tone they all used – saccharine, solicitous, patently maternal. Actually, I was discovering that it was useful for situations like this. Mrs. Maude was all set to bring me a little lunch, but I demurred.
    "I have something to take care of. I may be gone for a while."
    "Well now, that's just fine," Mrs. Emma said, patting my hand. "We'll take care of everything here, so don't you worry about that. And if you want a bite to eat later, we can fix you a tray."
    "Thanks." We all exchanged sorrowful smiles of a long-suffering sort. Theirs were more sincere than mine, but I must say Ori's death had generated a nagging sensation down in my gut. Why had she been murdered? What could she possibly have known? On the face of it, I couldn't see how her death bore any relation to Jean Timber lake's.
    Bert appeared in the doorway and gave me a look. "Call for you," he said. "It's that lawyer fella."
    "Clemson? Great. I'll take it in the kitchen. Can I pick it up in there?"
    "Suit yourself, he said.
    I moved into the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Hi, it's me," I said. "Hang on." I paused decently and then said, "Thanks, Bert. I've got it." There was a little click. "Go ahead."
    "What was that about?" Clemson asked.
    "It's not worth going into. How are things with you?"
    "Interesting development. I just got a call from June Haws at the church. You never heard this from me, but apparently she's been hiding Bailey all along."
    "He's with her?"
    "That's the problem. He was. The sheriff's department is starting a house-to-house search. I guess a deputy came to her door and next thing she knew, Bailey'd bolted. She doesn't know where he's gone. Have you heard from him?"
    "Not a word."
    "Well, stick around. If he gets in touch, you gotta talk him into turning himself in. With word out on his mom's death, the town's going nuts. I'm worried about his safety."
    "Me too, but what am I supposed to do?"
    "Just stay by the phone. This is critical."
    "Jack, I can't. Shana Timberlake's missing. I saw her car keys at the hot springs and I'm going up after dark to take a look."
    "Screw Shana. This is more important."
    "Then why don't you come over here yourself? If Bailey calls, you can talk to him."
    "Bailey doesn't trust me!"
    "Why is that, Jack?"
    "Damned if I know. If he heard me on the phone, he'd be gone again in a flash, convinced the line was tapped. June says aside from her, you're the only one he trusts."
    "Look, this may not take me long. I'll be back as soon as possible and touch base with you then. If I hear from Bailey, I'll talk him in. I swear."
    "He has to surrender."
    "Jack, I know that!" I felt a flash of irritation as I hung up the phone. Why was the guy suddenly on my case? I knew the kind of jeopardy Bailey Fowler was in.
    I turned to leave the kitchen. Bert was standing in the hall. He moved into the kitchen as if he'd been in motion all along. "Miss Ann wants some water," he mumbled.
    Bullshit, I thought. You little snoop.
    I went upstairs to my room and changed into my jogging shoes. I tucked my penlight, my picks, and my room key in my jeans pocket. I wasn't sure I'd need the picks, but I thought I should be prepared. I debated about my little .32. When I bought the Davis, I got myself a custom-fitted Alessi shoulder rig, adjusted so that the holster and weapon would lie snugly against my left side, just under the breast. I yanked my shirt off and strapped the rig into place. I pulled a black turtle-neck over it and studied the effect in the bathroom mirror. It would do.
    I tried Shana's first, just to be sure she hadn't come back in the meantime. Still no one home and no sign she'd been there. I took one of the side streets that arched up over the hill, intersecting Floral Beach Road on the far side of town. The funeral cortege for Tap Granger had probably taken this same route and I was anxious to be off the road before they returned. I did a slow trot north,