F Is for Fugitive

a number of motel rooms with the intervening walls punched out. The resulting town house was spacious, but jerry-built, with the traffic patterns of a maze. I peeked into the room across the hall. Dining room with a bath attached. There was access to the kitchen through what must have been an alcove for hanging clothes. I paused in the doorway. Ann was setting cups and saucers on an industrial-sized aluminum serving tray.
    "Need any help?"
    She shook her head. "Look around if you like. Daddy built the place himself when he and Mother first got married."
    "Nice," I said.
    "Well, it's not anymore, but it was perfect for them. Has she given you a key yet? You might want to take your bags up. I think she's putting you in room twenty-two upstairs. It's got an ocean view and a little kitchenette."
    "Thanks. That's great. I'll take my bags up in a bit. I'm hoping to talk to the attorney this afternoon."
    "I think Pop set up an appointment for you at one-forty-five. He'll probably want to tag along if he's feeling up to it. He tends to want to stage-manage. I hope that's all right."
    "Actually, it's not. I'll want to go alone. Your parents seem defensive about Bailey, and I don't want to have to cope with that when I'm trying to get a rundown on the case."
    "Yes. All right. I can see your point. I'll see if I can talk Pop out of it."
    Water began to rumble in the bottom of the kettle. She took teabags from a red-and-white tin canister on the counter. The kitchen itself was old-fashioned. The linoleum was a pale gridwork of squares in beige and green, like an aerial view of hay and alfalfa fields. The gas stove was white with chrome trim, unused burners concealed by jointed panels that folded back. The sink was shallow, of white porcelain, supported by two stubby legs, the refrigerator small, round-shouldered, and yellowing with age, probably with a freezer compartment the size of a bread box.
    The teakettle began to whistle. Ann turned the burner off and poured boiling water in a white teapot. "What do you take?"
    "Plain is fine."
    I followed her back into the living room, where Ori was struggling to get out of bed. She'd already swung her feet over the side, her gown hitching up to expose the crinkled white of her thighs.
    "Mother, what are you doing?"
    "I have to go sit on the pot again, and you were taking so long I didn't think I could wait."
    "Why didn't you call? You know you're not supposed to get up without help. Honestly!" Ann set the tray down on a wooden serving cart and moved over to the bed to give her mother a hand. Ori descended ponderously, her wide knees trembling visibly as they took her weight. The two proceeded awkwardly into the other room.
    "Why don't I go ahead and get my things out of the car?"
    "Do that," she called. "We won't be long."
    The breeze off the ocean was chilly, but the sun was out. I shaded my eyes for a moment, peering at the town, where pedestrian traffic was picking up as the noon hour approached. Two young mothers crossed the street at a languid pace, pushing strollers, while a dog pranced along behind them with a Frisbee in his mouth. This was not the tourist season, and the beach was sparsely populated. Empty playground equipment was rooted in the sand. The only sounds were the constant shushing of the surf and the high, thin whine of a small plane overhead.
    I retrieved my duffel and the typewriter, bumping my way back into the office. By the time I reached the living room, Ann was helping Ori into bed again. I paused, waiting for them to notice me.
    "I need my lunch," Ori was saying querulously to Ann.
    "Fine, Mother. Let's go ahead and do a test. We should have done it hours ago, anyway."
    "I don't want to fool with it! I don't feel that good."
    I could see Ann curbing her temper at the tone her mother used. She closed her eyes. "You're under a lot of stress," she said evenly. "Dr. Ortego wants you to be very careful till he sees you next."
    "He didn't tell me that."
    "That's because you didn't talk to him."
    "Well, I don't like Mexicans."
    "He's not Mexican. He's Spanish."
    "I still can't understand a word he says. Why can't I have a real doctor who speaks English?"
    "I'll be right with you, Kinsey," Ann murmured, catching sight of me. "Let me just get Mother settled first."
    "I can take my bags up if you tell me where they go."
    There was a brief territorial dispute as the two of them argued about which room to put me in. In the meantime, Ann was taking out cotton balls,