Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan) (22 page)

“You’ve paid your debt to society, you mean,” Olivia said ironically.

But his eyes moved to Doris Resler and he responded seriously. “No. Time in jail is punishment, all right. But it doesn’t help society, or help the victims.”

Doris had been quiet as long as she could stand it. “That’s what Frank always said! And he tried to instill in his clients the desire to do better, to improve the world.”

“Was he successful with many clients?”

“Quite a few, yes,” Doris replied. “I know you reporters are very cynical people. But Bob here, and Mrs. London, and William Schultz—oh, there are quite a few. And Frank used to tell me he wished he could set up an organization to aid offenders, help them find their talents.”

“Aren’t there other groups that do that already?” Olivia had personally written a feature on one of them.

“You mean the literacy programs and church counselors?” Bob Bates managed to sound contemptuous even while maintaining his air of humble courtesy. “Yes, those people mean well, and of course they help some. But they don’t really get a man back into society.”

“Yes, Frank’s idea was much more ambitious,” Doris explained. “It would work like AA partly, but it would have funding for necessary support mechanisms.”

“Support mechanisms?’’

Doris Resler looked as uncertain about the term as Olivia was. “To, well, support the people after they’ve served their time. And so that’s what I’m doing, as a memorial to Frank. It’s my duty and joy to carry on his work!”

“I see.” Olivia looked from plump triumphant Doris to smooth, humble, tattooed Bob. She was afraid she understood. “You said like AA,” she ventured cautiously. “So there’s a role for people like Mr. Bates?”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Bob Bates.

“He’s an enormous help!” Doris explained. “Of course that nice woman in Representative Knox’s office helps some, and Frank’s law partners with the legal stuff. But Bob is the one who’s crucial. Because he really knows.” She beamed at her husband’s protégé.

Olivia tried one last time. “But there must still be a few clients who served time and didn’t understand that your husband did his best. Because they still went to jail, or something.”

“Ungrateful, you mean.” Bob Bates shrugged.

“Yes. Or opponents, maybe, who might think Mr. Resler freed someone who deserved punishment.”

“If so, they didn’t bother Mr. Resler. They’d be more likely to go after the person they thought was guilty. That was certainly who I was mad at.”

“You never heard him talk about ungrateful clients, Mrs. Resler?” Olivia asked.

“No. He was a very positive person, you see. He was more interested in success. Well, every now and then he would complain that someone wouldn’t help him defend themselves. But they all thanked him in the end. They knew he did his best.”

“He explained things to us,” Bob Bates added. “We knew what was possible.”

“I see,” said Olivia.

Bob Bates said humbly, “It’s important to have a memorial to such a fine lawyer and human being.”

“Frank Resler will never die!” declared Doris through her damp handkerchief.

Enough, Olivia decided. She stood up abruptly. “I’m glad I met you, Mr. Bates. And thank you very much for your help, Mrs. Resler. I’ll be back if I hear of any developments.”

“Yes, thank you.” Doris Resler was on her feet now, smiling anxiously. “You do understand now, don’t you? Now that you’ve talked to Bob?”

“Oh, yes.” Olivia let them walk her to the door. “I understand.” Her last view of them as she turned from the walk into the driveway was of Doris Resler closing her expensive paneled door while Bob Bates stood protectively beside her, murmuring comfort into her ear.

Olivia looked at her watch. She still had an hour and a half before she had to meet Nate and Edgy. She decided to stop by her own house.

Nick and Maggie were in the living room finishing a plate of sandwiches. The three children were in the dining room, Josie staring out the bay window at the yard, Tina and little Sarah inventing an adventure for the Barbie dolls. Olivia couldn’t hear them because John Denver was singing on the stereo. “Hi,” she said to Nick and Maggie, grabbing a sandwich. Tuna. “Where’s Donna?”

“At the funeral director’s,” said Nick. “One of the teachers at her school came by. The one called Linda that she called last night. She wanted to know what she could do to help. So I said I’d watch the kids if she’d take Donna to arrange the funeral. I thought maybe a few minutes away from the kids and us strangers might be good for her.”

“Good idea. Poor Donna.” Olivia shed her shoulder bag onto a chair and dropped into another near them to eat her sandwich. “She’s such a traditional woman, isn’t she? Mother, wife, schoolteacher. Perfect house, perfect kids.”

“Coping with Parkinson’s isn’t my idea of perfection,” Maggie mumbled around a mouthful of tuna sandwich.

“God, I didn’t mean it was a picnic!” Olivia exclaimed. “I know it’s damn tough. Hell, coping with a reporter is tough even without Parkinson’s. Just ask Jerry.”

“Right.” Maggie grinned.

“But that’s really another example of what I meant,” Olivia explained, munching a pickle. “Perfect nurse. All those traditional roles she did so well. And now this happens. It must be especially hard for someone whose life revolves totally around someone else. I mean, she wouldn’t have the resources she’d have with more of a life of her own.”

Nick was shaking his head sadly. “The resources you think you have don’t save you,” he said gently.

Belatedly, Olivia remembered that his first wife had died. He’d experienced Donna’s tragedy firsthand.

Maggie said, “It’s tempting to turn our backs, to say Donna’s different and we’d never get hurt like that, because we’ve arranged our lives better. But Nick’s right. We’re all vulnerable.”

“Yeah,” Olivia admitted awkwardly. Then, in a burst of honesty, “God, I hate thinking I could be devastated like that! It’s almost easier to think of dying myself.”

Maggie reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Yeah.” After a moment she asked gently, “So what’s the news, newswoman?”

Olivia returned to the puzzle. “Just saw Mrs. Resler. Weird situation there.”

“Weird? How?”

“Okay. Rich widow, right? As soon as they finish investigating the plane crash, she’ll be even richer. Apparently her husband was interested in helping his clients after they got out of prison. So she’s setting up a foundation to help such people. Self-help groups plus money and education, I gather. Frank Resler’s name will never die.”

“Well, that sounds a normal enough goal,” said Nick.

“Yeah, but what worries me is the self-help expert. Ex-con named Bob Bates. Near as I can see, he’s the guiding force behind the foundation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he arranges things so he can skip with the Resler Foundation money one of these days.”

“Why did he go to jail?”

“Apparently he got a bank to hire him. He’s smooth. Well-bred yet humble. A con job of some type because the bank was worried about its own liability when he blew up their armored truck.”

Maggie was interested. “Blew up?”

“His own words.”

“So besides being a con man, he knows explosives.”

“As in making a plane crash. Right. Plus, he knew Resler’s situation, and obviously the widow turned to him immediately when her husband died.”

“Why was she asking Dale Colby to be discreet?”

“She was upset at his suspicion that some of Resler’s clients might be ungrateful enough to blow up his plane. But meanwhile there’s dear Bob Bates patting her hand consolingly and getting her to set up the foundation.”

“And what were they doing yesterday afternoon?”

“He lives on the premises now. They say they were working on foundation business all afternoon. The call to Dale was just one example.”

“Very interesting,” said Maggie. “A couple to keep in mind. How about Moffatt?”

“Nate’s going to tackle him.”

“Because someone in the construction business would know explosives too.”

“Right. Now, what did you find out from your friend in Congressman Knox’s office?”

“I found out she’s half in love with Knox. And maybe because of that, she’s most nervous about the accusations of Ann Kauffmann’s father. Ann was a college student, temporary aide to Knox’s office.”

“Hanky-panky with a sweet young thing?” That always made good copy. Olivia thought of Wilbur Mills and Fanne Fox.

“Yes. Mr. Kauffmann claims his daughter was done in as in Chappaquiddick.”

“Wow.” Olivia took the last sandwich so she could think better. “But Dale didn’t say anything about that.”

“It’s probably not true. Carol Carson denies it vehemently.”

“Dale was always super-careful with his stories, too,” said Olivia. “Wanted to be in total control of the facts. That was his real strength as a reporter. Triple-checking.”

“There’s another problem,” Maggie pointed out. “Let’s say for some reason Knox wanted to get rid of the girl. He could find someone to blow up the plane, I’m sure. But he wouldn’t blow up another aide and two major donors at the same time, would he?”

“You’re right. Still, it’s worth nosing around. What are you doing next?” She stood up to inspect herself in the mirror over the mantel and brushed a crumb from her mouth.

Nick said, “The police called just after Donna left to say the Colbys could go back home, except the one room should stay sealed. So we can help get them settled.”

“Is Donna in any shape to talk to?” Olivia asked hopefully.

“Still pretty zombie-like.”

“You think she’ll let her hair down with her friend?”

“Probably,” said Nick. “May or may not help you.”

“I’m worried about Josie too,” said Maggie soberly, with a tiny jerk of her head toward the immobile girl in the dining room. “She just sits there like a stone.”

“Poor kid.”

“Anyway, Nick and I can get the Colbys settled in again. Then I’ll check on Ann Kauffmann’s story.”

“Fine.” Olivia retrieved her bag.

“I also want to call the woman in Harrisburg that Felicia mentioned. Nan Evans,’’ Maggie said.

“Felicia’s alibi. Right,” Olivia said. “That’s great. I’ve got to meet Nate and my editor at two, and I’ll follow up on the pilot. We could meet back here late this afternoon.”

“It’s a deal.”

Olivia looked at her watch as she puddle-hopped back to the van. Still plenty of time before she was due at the Sun-Dispatch meeting. With sudden decision, she pulled out the address she’d looked up in the phone book after she and Nick got back from the bar last night. She’d get the interview with the pilot’s friend out of the way now. Ernie Grant, she’d written. Appleyard Road off Vale.

The hills northwest of Mosby were cut-velvet green, as though some titanic seamstress had dropped the rumpled fabric across Virginia, clipped areas yielding suddenly to the deeper pile of forest and underbrush in a gigantic pattern that couldn’t be read from Olivia’s lowly vantage point. It was like this investigation, Olivia thought. She was too close to see the logic of it. Fragments of pattern would attract her attention—Bob Bates’ influence on the widow Resler, Felicia Colby’s fierce battles for her son, Leon Moffatt’s fury at Dale in the office yesterday. But what was design, what was background?

She drove past a great gash in the earth, a construction project, green stripped away by giant Tonka toys that grunted across the muddy landscape, carving it into a different shape. At one end of the gash a couple of houses with matchstick skeletons were rising from the bared earth, substanceless until a skin of clapboards would make them suddenly real and solid. Above her, ranks of clouds nosed their way balefully over the crests of the hills like a pack of furry dark beasts grazing the sky.

Appleyard Road was the next right. Olivia almost overshot it, but managed to pull the van around by veering into the wrong lane briefly. The road, narrower than Vale, twined upwards, tucked into the folds of the hills. On her right, on the other side of the hill from the construction project, the land was divided into fields by a wire fence, but they were overgrown meadows rather than tilled crop fields. On ahead were woods, posted against trespassers. Old woods. Ghostly in their dampness. Union soldiers in these parts had lived in dread of Colonel Mosby’s raiders, who materialized from these very woods to strike and melt away, back into genial civilian farmers once again. She remembered a fragment of Melville’s poem about Union cavalry troops returning to camp after one such bloody encounter: “Each eye dim as a sickroom lamp, All faces stamped with Mosby’s stamp.”

The mailbox peeped suddenly from the massed Queen Anne’s lace beside the road. Grant, it said. Good Union name. Beyond it, half-hidden by the high grasses, a wide crushed-stone driveway led back toward a cluster of buildings. Red barns, solid but peeling in places. A sturdy square white house with a full-width porch sitting in an acre or so of ragged lawn. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a shadow moving in the patchy hedge beside the drive. She drew up behind a Chevy pickup truck, as close to the house as she could get, and peered out suspiciously at the hedge. No one. Mosby’s ghost, maybe.