Somehow, knowing I wasn't the only target for Fraymore's ire did make me feel a little better.
"I take it you've had your hands slapped?" Ralph asked.
"Officially, yes. Peters passed along Tony Freeman's verbal message, which was, ‘You're on vacation. Act like it.'"
"And unofficially?"
"Ron's going to dig around up there in Seattle and see what, if anything, he can find out that might be of help."
"I've always liked Ron Peters," Ralph said. A moment later, he paused in his typing and frowned. "What are you up to today?"
"Not much. I guess I'll hang out at the hospital. Worry."
"I've got some legwork that needs doing, but I don't want you to wind up in any more trouble."
"Legwork's something I'm good at. If you've got something for me to do that will keep me occupied, let me at it. We'll worry about trouble later."
"You're sure?"
"What kind of legwork?" I returned.
Ralph reached over and shuffled through an already impressive stack of rolled-up fax-generated paper. Pulling out one sheet, he handed it to me. "I don't have time to chase this down myself. It's going to take all morning to prepare for the arraignment. On the other hand, I don't see how Fraymore could possibly object to your doing this, since it has nothing whatsoever to do with the murder investigation, per se." He paused and then added, "It may end up having some bearing on our defense, however."
Glancing down at the paper, I was riveted by what I saw there-the names Roger and Willy Tompkins, along with a street address in Walla Walla.
"You want me to go see them?"
Ralph nodded.
"To talk to them, or to punch that guy's lights out?"
"Talk," Ralph said. "Definitely nothing but talk. We've got to learn whether or not these people will try to make any kind of trouble when it comes to sorting out long-term custody arrangements for Amber. If they'll be reasonable, so will we. If they try to make things difficult, I'll blow them clean out of the water."
"Long-term custody?" I asked. "That sounds like you think we'll lose and that you've already given up."
"We have to be prepared for every contingency," he returned darkly. Ralph Ames is not a man prone to discouraging words. Clearly, things weren't going well.
"Fraymore's evidence is that solid?"
Ralph nodded. "It's solid all right. And there's no reason for him to lie to me about it."
"Have you given any thought to the possibility that we might be dealing with a carefully planned, well-thought-out frame?"
"Frame?" Ralph repeated.
"I spent all night thinking about it, and I talked it over with Ron. There's something about this whole thing that doesn't ring true. It's too pat."
"You think Fraymore's crooked?"
"No. I didn't say that. Misguided, maybe. Overzealous, perhaps. What if he's being suckered by somebody else?"
"All I can say is that somebody went to a hell of a lot of trouble," Ralph replied.
"But wouldn't you?" I asked. "If you wanted to get away with murder, you'd do whatever was necessary."
We were both quiet for a few moments. Finally, Ralph shook his head. He wasn't buying it. Tired of arguing, I let it go.
"How's Tanya holding up?" I asked finally.
"All right, except…"
"Except what?"
Ames shook his head. "It's hard to explain. I can't quite put my finger on it. She seems almost drifty and vague at times, as though she can't quite grasp the reality of all this, as if it isn't quite getting through. Other times she's totally on track."
"She's probably just feeling overwhelmed," I suggested.
"Maybe," Ralph agreed. "But there's something else that bothers me. I've thought about it ever since last night. I was there in the room when she told Detective Fraymore the same story she told us. I listened to the whole thing again, Beau. It was almost verbatim. Like a prepared speech."
"All of it?" I asked.
"Word for word."
I felt a slight tinge of worry. Most people don't use the exact same words to tell a story the second time. There are always some changes, some slight variations. Unless what's being delivered is a canned speech, lines of dialogue delivered by a consummate actress. Were Ralph Ames and J.P. Beaumont being played for suckers one more time?
In my present mood, that question wasn't one I cared to sit around contemplating. I got up and walked over to the telephone jack.
"If I can commandeer the phone away from your fax machine for a few minutes, I'll see what kind of connections are available between here and Walla Walla."
Armed with my Frequent Flyer number, I started checking for flights. What I found out in a nutshell was that you can get to Walla Walla from Ashland, but it isn't necessarily easy. There are really only two decent connecting flights per day-one in the early morning, which I'd already missed, and one in the late afternoon, which required an overnight stay. I went ahead and booked that one. With Amber most likely spending another night in the room with Alex and me, I couldn't see that it made a hell of a lot of difference.
I had no more than finished booking the flight and putting down the phone when it rang again. "Should I answer it?"
Ralph shrugged. "Go ahead. If it's for me, find out who it is and take a message."
"Hello."
"Beau, is that you?"
It was Ron Peters, calling from Seattle. I had told him where Ralph was staying in case he couldn't locate me, but I was surprised to have him call back so soon.
"What's up?"
"I thought you'd like to know that I've just solved the mystery of where Guy Lewis disappeared to."
"You found him? Is he back home in Seattle?"
"Not quite. He never made it this far," Ron Peters answered. "In fact, he never made it past Medford."
The way he said it made it sound permanent. Not another murder, I thought. "Don't tell me. Is he dead?"
"No, but it's a miracle he isn't. God knows he should be. The Medford cops and the state police acting together picked him up at six o'clock Sunday morning, drunk as a skunk, and driving his Miata northbound on southbound I-5 at ten miles an hour. He blew a point-two-nine on the breathalizer and was so out of it that they took him to a hospital to dry out instead of throwing him in the drunk tank."
I was thunderstruck. How could Guy Lewis end up that smashed within eleven hours of our attending an N.A. meeting in the basement of that Ashland church? "Good work, Ron," I said.
"Wait a minute. You haven't heard the half of it. By Monday evening, he was sober enough to post bail. He was about to be released from the hospital, when that cop you told me about, Detective Fraymore, showed up to tell Lewis that his wife had been murdered. As soon as he heard, he went into some kind of coronary arrhythmia. It must not have been all that serious, but they kept him there under observation. He's been in the hospital ever since, but he's due to be released late this morning or early this afternoon."
Fumbling for paper and pencil, I jotted down the name and address of the hospital in Medford. "Have you had a chance to do any checking on the rest of it?" I asked. "Anything on either Shore or Daphne?"
"You want it all, and you want it right now, don't you? I'm working as fast as I can, Beau. I can only do so much. Try practicing a little patience."
I'm nothing if not an ungrateful wretch. "You're right, Ron. This is great. It's a big help."
A few words later, we hung up, and I gave Ralph the news. He didn't seem surprised or even all that interested when I told him, but then he hadn't spent the first part of Saturday evening at the N.A. meeting with a then-sober-and-proud-of-it Guy Lewis. I had. After ten years of sobriety, what had blown him off the wagon?
Ralph and I talked a minute or two longer, then I told him I was going to head back to Oak Hill, tell Florence I'd be away overnight, pick up an extra key, and leave a note to that effect for Alex. I didn't mention the hospital address on the piece of paper I'd shoved in my pocket. I didn't say I might go there to see Guy Lewis, because at the time I left Ralph's room at the Ashland Hills, I still didn't know for sure I would.