Meadowlark (24 page)

Mary just cried harder.

Sarah said, "She won't calm down now. And she won't tell
you anything, either. Leave her alone."

I looked at Pierce. He dug out his wallet. He handed me a
business card.

"This isn't your home phone."

"You're a hard-nose," he said without rancor and got out a
pen. He took the card from me and scribbled on the back of it. "There
you go. Address and phone number. We won't go away."

"Word of honor?"

He nodded.

I stuffed the card into my handbag. "Okay. I'm a fool to trust
you, Jerry, but I do. Call the sheriff."

He nodded.

"I'm going to," I said. "Immediately."

"Give us time to get her calmed down."

I stared at Mary's heaving shoulders. I admit it. I don't
understand weepers. Mary was getting her way, though. If it
works...

Pierce picked up his bag. "Haul her up, Sarah. I'm taking the
two of you home."

Sarah levered Mary to her feet, and the three of them started
off toward the terminal. I paced them as far as the first bank of
telephones. Then I dug out Pierce's card, opened the phone book,
and verified that there was indeed a Gerald Pierce at the number he
had indicated. I tried to call Jay without success. I also called the
sheriff's office and left a message that included Pierce's name and
phone number.

The whole melodramatic episode had taken twenty minutes.
It was past time for me to rescue Francis Hrubek.

I found Hrubek with some difficulty in the scrimmage of
passengers near the Delta baggage carrel. He did not look happy.
When I spoke his name, however, he composed his features into a
kind smile and asked if I had found my friend.

I drew a long breath. "Yes. I do beg your pardon. I'll explain
everything--"

He was handing me his plane ticket. "Look for the black bag
with a green plaid ribbon on the handle, and point me to the nearest
men's room."

I walked him to it and went back to the carrel. Luggage was
still tumbling down onto the conveyor belt. The passengers
scrabbled and bumped each other. I stood back and watched.
Eventually I spotted the bag. When I heaved it from the conveyor, I
realized that Hrubek had exercised a mild revenge. I came close to
rupturing a disc. Books, obviously. The bag had wheels and a
telescoping handle, though, so I pulled it after me to the carpeted
hallway and waited until he emerged from the restroom. When he
didn't see me, I said his name again.

"Ah, you found it." He beamed at me.

"Yes. Do you want me to drive the car around or shall we
walk to it?"

"Walk," he murmured. "My legs need stretching."

So we crept across the zebra-striped walkway to the parking
structure, I trailing the black bag with the green ribbon. I even
remembered where I had left the Honda.

When we finally reached I5 North and the traffic thinned, I
said, "I owe you an explanation."

"Eh?"

"For abandoning you in the baggage claim area."

"My dear young lady," he said with the elaborate courtesy of
his generation, "it is I who am in your debt for meeting the
plane."

I shot him a sideways glance and decided he was as mad as a
hornet. Hrubek was a major writer, after all, and I was supposed to
cosset him. I had even forgotten to mention the clerk at Powell's
books.

Too late for autographs. I swallowed. "It's this murder, you
see."

"Murder?"

"Didn't Bianca tell you that a member of her staff had been
murdered?"

"Oh, the young man who was killed. Murdered, you
say."

I felt the flame of pure rage. Damn Bianca. "Murdered," I said
firmly. "The woman I chased after is not a friend. She's a material
witness, and she's been missing for more than a week."

He twisted to face me. "Missing?"

"And presumed dead." I explained. In fact, fueled by my
anger, I talked from Vancouver to Clatskanie. I told him
everything.

Though I was furious that Bianca had not made the situation
plain to him, Hrubek seemed more interested than appalled. He
listened with the murmurs and cues that signal encouragement, but
when we drew up at the town's sole light, he said, rather plaintively,
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to stop for a burger?"

I looked at the dashboard clock. It was eleven thirty. "Lord,
your stomach's on Eastern time, isn't it?" I negotiated an abrupt
right-hand turn and pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant I
knew. "We can do better than a hamburger."

The least I could do was to buy him lunch.

He did want a burger--a double cheese with a mountain of
fries--though the restaurant specialized in seafood. I had the shrimp
salad. We ate in friendly silence. I finished first.

He bit into a large greasy French fry with the relish of a man
who has fallen off a low-cholesterol diet. "That's more like it. Hadn't
you better telephone your husband again?" I had explained my futile
attempts to communicate with Jay and Dale.

"Will there be anything else?"

Distracted, I looked up at the waitress. "No, I--"

"Another cup of your splendid coffee, my dear." Hrubek
contemplated the final French fry.

The waitress gave him a professional smile. "Right away,
sir."

"Uh, I'll take the check," I muttered. She handed it to me and
went off for the coffee pot. I stood up. "I'll call Jay and settle this." It
was the kind of restaurant where you pay the cashier.

"Take your time, Lark. Thanks for the snack."

Snack? It occurred to me as I paid the tab that Marianne was
going to enjoy Francis Hrubek. "Irks care the crop-full bird?"

The hospital switchboard paged Jay again, and this time he
picked up the phone.

My relief was disproportionate.

He had gone home for a couple of hours for a shower, he
said. Dale had driven him, and he'd returned in the Toyota, so I
wouldn't have to pick him up. Jason had still not regained
consciousness. Worse, he had developed pneumonia, but the doctors
thought it would respond to medication. Jay sounded very tired.

When I told him I had found Mary, though, he perked
up.

"Holy shit! You mean she's alive? Is she with you? Christ,
this puts a spin on everything."

"Jay!"

He gave a laugh that was pure exuberance. "I love you,
babe."

"Well, I, er, love you, too." The phone was quite near the
cashier's counter and the people lined up to be seated were listening
to me with every sign of interest. "Mary isn't with me."

"What!"

"Jay, pipe down. I didn't have any kind of authority over her
and, believe me, she doesn't want to come back to Kayport." I gave
him a recap of my encounter with Mary.

He kept making small sounds of astonished disbelief, but I
knew he was drinking it all in, even the irrelevancies. I finally wound
down. "And get through to Dale, will you? I tried."

"Right away."

"Will he accuse me of tampering with his witness?" I was
feeling a little anxious, because I had already tampered with the
candy maker in Seaside.

Jay gave a snort. "He's more likely to kiss your feet--if Mary
doesn't take off again. What was the address?"

I read it to him and the phone number as well. He said Dale
would probably ask the Portland police to interview her. I wondered
if they would take her into custody. I didn't like that thought, but I
didn't express it. I did emphasize Mary's emotional fragility, and I
think Jay listened. He told me again that he loved me, a sign of
extreme ebullience and some kind of record. I said I'd see him in a
couple of hours.

I went back to my captive writer with a huge sense of relief
tempered by uneasiness. Hrubek rose when I started to sit down
again and said he wanted to use the restroom. I followed him as far
as the lobby and stood there looking at the old photos of logging
camps that decorated the walls between shelves full of country
kitsch and artsy costume jewelry.

The place was a tourist mecca in summer, but the crowd
that Sunday were locals. My thoughts drifted to my bookstore. Two
more weeks and I'd be dealing with tourists myself. I could hardly
wait.

U.S. 30 follows the cliffs along the Columbia, except for a few
recent straight cuts through the forest above it. The driving can be
tricky in bad weather, but that day the road was dry and almost free
of traffic. Hrubek's long flight--and the cheeseburger--put him
rapidly to sleep, so I had time to think about things.

Mostly Bianca. I was by then convinced she had killed Hugo,
though I still had no idea of her motive. In this judgment I was
influenced by pure fury. It was bad enough that she had manipulated
me. That she should practice gross deception on a man of Hrubek's
stature seemed to me both immoral and foolish. Clearly she was
capable of anything.

I glanced at the snoozing writer. He had reacted to my
revelations with some shock, but he hadn't seemed angry. I
supposed Bianca had conned him, as she had conned me.

Mary had said repeatedly that "she" would kill her, too. The
"she" couldn't be Angie. Angie had an alibi. Of the two other women,
the obvious choice for the role of murderer was Bianca. It had taken
me that long to admit the obvious because I was in denial. I hadn't
wanted Bianca to be the killer because I hadn't wanted to admit what
a patsy I'd been. It was that simple.

I screeched around a curve marked 35 MPH and the rear
end of the Honda slewed. I slowed down. No point crashing the car
because I was mad at myself.

Crashing. Could Bianca have engineered Jason's wreck?
Would she have known he was likely to take the shortcut? Not
impossible, I told myself firmly. Besides, the crash might not have
been rigged. Jason was more than capable of running the pickup off
the road without assistance.

As we approached Astoria, the highway reverted to its
1930s origins and began twisting. I geared up and down repeatedly,
and Hrubek began to stir. At Tongue Point a camper pulled out in
front of me going twenty, and I had to brake hard.

Hrubek sat up with a snort. "Where are we?"

"Astoria. We cross the river again here. It takes about
forty-five minutes from the bridge to the farm."

"I had quite a nap, then."

We crawled into Astoria. "Feel better?"

"Less mush-brained." He burped. "Sorry. Tasty burger."

The sluggish camper turned off at a supermarket, and I
speeded up to thirty-five.

Hrubek was peering out the window. "Nice town?"

"I like it. Lots of nineteenth century carpenter gothic
architecture, big Scandinavian population."

"Fishermen."

"Yes, though the salmon runs are vanishing."

"According to William Clark, salmon jumped out of the river
into the Indians' nets in 1801."

I eased through a yellow light. "The salmon die-off is a
rotten shame."

"What's causing it? The dams?"

"Partly. Partly clear-cutting. That raises the temperature of
the streams the salmon spawn in. The loggers deny it. They blame
the Russian and Japanese fishing boats offshore."

Hrubek clucked his tongue. "Plenty of blame to go around. I
wish I could see better. I have the feeling I missed some spectacular
scenery."

"And some spectacular clear-cuts." We were approaching
the bridge. From the east, the sheer height of the span over the ship
channel is stunning. I knew when Hrubek caught sight of it, because
he drew a sharp breath.

"We're going up on that? Looks like a roller coaster."

The traffic lights were with me. I eased onto the winding
ramp that leads up to the bridge. As we reached the apex of the span
Hrubek said, "Freighters?"

Three cargo ships lay at anchor below in the river. "Astoria
is the first port of call for a lot of trans-Pacific shipping. Most of the
vessels go upriver to Portland, but they take on their pilots here and
let the crews loose for a little R and R."

"Must make for lively Saturday nights."

We swooped down onto the lower segment of the bridge. A
falling tide had again exposed the mudflats at mid-river. Across the
water, the hills on the Washington shore stood out in sharp focus for
once. Sometimes they disappear in a grey mist. The water was a deep
blue-gray.

Hrubek wriggled his shoulders in the seat harness and gave
a small sigh. "You'd better tell me what I need to know about Spider
Woman."

There were no flies on Francis Hrubek.

I gave him a restrained evaluation of Bianca's life and
accomplishments. I did my best to sound neutral.

He said, "You're a loyal employee."

That was too much. "I'm not an employee at all," I said
grimly. "I'm an independent book-dealer she conned into helping her
with the workshop. I was also the murdered man's landlord, and I
liked him. In my opinion, Bianca should have cancelled the workshop
when Hugo's body was found. At the very least, she should have
warned you that you're being thrust into the middle of a murder
investigation. She is--" I hesitated. "She's a suspect," I finished
lamely.

"I see. What shall we do about it?"

I eased to a stop at the end of the bridge. "I don't know, Mr.
Hrubek."

"Frank."

"Thank you, Frank. I threatened not to show up, and Bianca
got around that. It's too late to cancel the workshop."

"Oh, the workshop will happen. You misunderstood me. I
meant, what shall we do when the sponsor is hauled off to the
pokey?"

"Contingency planning?"

He smiled. So we talked it over. By the time I turned off the
highway at Meadowlark Farm, I felt much less panic-ridden. I also
learned some interesting things about Hrubek.

He was not a naturalist by training, as I had assumed. He
had a degree in journalism from Columbia and had worked on
several urban dailies before deciding that modern journalism offered
no room for thoughtful discussion of long-term issues.