"I wonder…" I said tentatively.
"Wonder what?" Peters asked, going for the proffered bait like a half-starved fish, exactly as I knew he would.
"If someone else is using Tanya Dunseth as a fall guy."
"Fall guy or fall woman?" Peters returned. He spent so long in Media Relations that politically correct language has become second nature.
"Are you saying she's being framed?"
"Possibly."
"By Detective Fraymore?"
"Not deliberately. He's a jerk, but he's only doing his job. He wants to clear the case as soon as possible, and he has what seems on the face of it to be pretty conclusive evidence. But what if someone else is handing him that evidence, someone we don't know about?"
There was a long silence on the other end of the line as Peters considered. I knew it was only a matter of time.
"Who?" he asked.
"Guy Lewis maybe?"
Ron whistled. "Are you serious? As in king of the chemical toilets? You think he's the one pulling the strings?"
"I take it you already know him?"
"Only what it said in the paper up here this morning. Chemical toilets may not be all that glamorous a racket, but there must be good money in it. According to the article, he and his late wife were big benefactors on the local arts scene. You want me to see what I can dig up on him?"
I knew I had Ron Peters then. I had sucked him in the same way Alex and Ralph had cornered me. Other than Ron's impossible affinity for natural foods, he's a pretty squared-away guy. When we worked together, we got along well because we were a matched pair of unconventional mavericks-typical homicide dicks.
"What do you want to know?" Ron asked.
"Everything."
"Make it easy. How about some hints?"
"Look into Guy Lewis and his wife. Both wives, actually. And you might see if you can turn up any current connections between Daphne Lewis and Martin Shore."
"The way you say that, it sounds as though there were some connections in the past," Peters said.
"You got it. Shore and Daphne were equal partners in a porno ring over in Yakima."
"No joke! Guy Lewis, too?"
"No. I'm thinking Guy found out about it only recently."
"And it disturbed him enough to want to get rid of them?"
"Seems plausible."
Over the phone, I heard the scribble of pencil and paper as Ron made notes. "Anything else?" he asked.
"Actually, there is. Check out a prison guard over in Walla Walla-a guy by the name of Roger Tompkins. I'd like to know what he's up to."
"You've got it," Peters said cheerily. "That's all?"
"One more thing. You take Consumer Reports, don't you?"
"Every month."
"Would you see which companies manufacture the best high chairs and car seats? We're talking top-of-the-line here. I want names and model numbers both."
"Car seats. You mean for little kids?"
"Yes."
"I presume these are for Amber, the one who was yelling her head off a few minutes ago," Peters said. "Interfering is one thing. Aren't you going off the deep end?"
"They're not for Amber," I replied. "They're for Karen."
"Karen? Your ex-wife? She's not having a baby, is she?"
"Not my ex-wife. My granddaughter. Kelly's baby."
"Granddaughter!" Peters echoed. "Wait a minute. How the hell did you end up with a granddaughter? You never told me Kelly was married."
"She isn't," I answered.
There was a long pause while Peters assimilated that information. "Oh," he said at last. "Well, how about telling me what else is going on?"
Just then the call-waiting signal buzzed on Florence's line. "Nothing much. I'll explain it all later. I've got to go now. This is a business line. I can't keep it tied up any longer."
"Wait a sec here," Peters bristled. "I've got one more thing to say to you." He sounded as if he meant it-call-waiting be damned!
"What's that?" I asked innocently.
"Did anyone ever tell you you're one close-mouthed son of a bitch?"
"No," I told him. "I don't believe anyone's ever mentioned it before. You're the very first one."
"The hell I am!" he growled, and slammed down the phone.
I tried clicking the switch hook, but the caller had already given up. Feeling guilty, I headed into the dining room in search of breakfast left-overs.
I still don't understand why Ron Peters was so offended. If I had tried to tell him the whole story of my romantic interlude in Ashland, Oregon, we would have been on the phone for days.
CHAPTER 13
Around ten, two young women from the Festival appeared. One came to take care of Amber. The other was a temporary fill-in as Oak Hill's upstairs maid. Although I'm sure they were both just scraping by financially, neither would accept any payment. The substitute maid told Florence that she should fill out the time card as though Kelly had come to work herself. Nice people.
Cut free from our self-inflicted baby-sitting chores, Alex and I stopped by the hospital to see Kelly. The room had been fairly dark the night before. This morning the curtains were open, and the entire place was alive with flowers.
Some of the arrangements were obvious refugees from the canceled wedding. A few were commercial-type baskets, including a huge one from the board of directors of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. But the ones that got to me most-the ones that put a lump in my throat-were the numerous amateurish but thoughtfully put together, homegrown variety in simple cut-glass vases. This astonishing array covered every available horizontal surface. It was as though all the gardeners of Ashland had collectively taken their green thumbs outdoors early that morning and plucked their flower beds clean of every colorful bloom.
When it comes to flowers, I don't know much beyond the basics, which is to say roses. And some of the bouquets actually contained roses, but most of the flowers in that vivid assortment I couldn't have named on a bet.
Looking at them ranged everywhere and spilling out into the hall, I didn't think it possible that the people of Ashland would shower someone as new to town as Kelly with that kind of abundant affection. What I kept forgetting, though, is that Ashland is small-town America. In a place like that, people don't have to know someone personally in order to give a damn.
Don't get me wrong. I like Seattle, but Ashland was showing me that my home turf isn't necessarily the only place to live.
Kelly was asleep when we first arrived. Alex waited around a while, then Dinky came to pick her up, and the two of them set out for Medford to do some shopping. I sat beside Kelly's bed watching and thinking.
I knew that beneath the swathe of bandages the doctors and nurses had shaved off a huge patch of her long blond hair. If anything, the bruises on her face had grown darker overnight. But hair grows back. Bruises heal. The important thing was that she was still alive and most likely would recover.
A few minutes later, Kelly's eyes blinked open. At first she looked around with the dazed, puzzled expression of someone who can't remember quite who or where she is. Then her gaze settled on my face, and she smiled. Her hand sought mine, held it, and squeezed. No paralysis, at least not in her arms. I breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving.
"Hi, Daddy," she whispered. "How long have you been here?"
"Just a couple of minutes."
"Why didn't you wake me? Have you seen the baby?"
I nodded. "She's perfect. She looks just like you did when you were born."
Kelly's lips were dry and cracked. Positioning the straw, I helped her take a sip of ice water from a glass beside the bed. "Jeremy told me what you're doing for Tanya," she said. "That you're helping her and taking care of Amber. Thank you."