"Kate Wilhelm - Sleight of Hand(2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

For an hour Barbara asked questions and Meg answered, or sometimes futilely tried to answer. Maria brought in coffee, and when Barbara finally stood up and said that was enough for now, Meg looked exhausted.
"I'll turn my bloodhound loose and see what we can find out," Barbara said. "I'll want to talk to you and Wally tomorrow. I'll call first. Meanwhile, try to take it easy."
"I should tell the police, shouldn't I?" Meg asked in a low voice.
"Did you witness anything? See anyone?"
"No. Nothing."
"So mum's the word, at least for now. We need some information. Are you going to tell Wally?"
"I don't know."
"Okay. Your decision. Just let me know how you decide. I'll call tomorrow."
They went to the door, where Meg paused. "I didn't see anyone, but someone could have seen me."
"We'll keep that in mind," Barbara said, opening the door.
After Meg left, Barbara said to Maria, "See if you can reach Bailey."
Maria nodded. "Have you had any lunch?"
"No time. I'll get to it later." She entered her office and sat at her desk to make notes and to study a crude map of the drive and the only rooms of Jay Wilkins s house that Meg had seen. A semicircular drive from the street, the other car or van roughed in a dozen feet from the entrance, on to where Meg had parked, about the same distance past the van. A very large foyer with the study off to the left, the room with the bar on the right. Broad carpeted stairs in the center rear, and narrower halls on both sides of the stairs. Both back halls and the head of the stairs were dark, Meg had said. She was right, someone could have seen her while remaining unseen.
Maria buzzed, Bailey was on the line. Barbara was still talking to Bailey a few minutes later when Maria brought in a sandwich from the shop across the street.

At fifteen minutes before six Barbara called Frank to say that if he was free she would drop in, and ten minutes later she was in his kitchen where he was pouring her a glass of wine. He already had a plate of cheese set out.
"What's up?" he asked, handing her the wine.
"I want to watch the six-o'clock news, local news," she said. "It seems that on Saturday night Jay Wilkins was killed. Let's catch the broadcast, and I'll spring for dinner somewhere quiet and tell you about my interesting day."
"Christ on a mountain," Frank said softly. "I hope to God it's just a coincidence."
She made a rude sound and headed for his study to turn on the television.
When the news item came on details were almost as scant as what Meg had reported. Wilkins was killed sometime Saturday night, his body discovered Monday morning by his housekeeper. He had died of a blow to the head. Apparently robbery was not a motive. The police asked for anyone who knew the whereabouts of Mrs. Wilkins to please call in. She was traveling, they said. There was a number and her photograph, with a brief description: five feet five inches, one hundred thirty pounds, shoulder-length blond hair, brown eyes, forty years old. She was very attractive with clearly defined cheek bones and a wide, generous mouth, smiling in the photograph.
"How do you figure in?" Frank demanded.
Barbara was reaching for his phone. "I'll give Martin a call and get him to hold a back booth for us. I don't want you futz-ing around in the kitchen while I tell you about it." She believed cooking took superhuman concentration, and she wanted his full attention when she told him the predicament Meg presented.
Later, waiting for shrimp gumbo in a back booth at Martin's Restaurant, Barbara told Frank about Meg's visit. He did not say a word until she finished, then he cursed in a low undertone. Martin came with a tray and they were both silent while he chatted, placing the food on the table. He had beamed when they appeared. As big as a grizzly bear, black as a human being could be, he could have served as a bouncer if the need had ever arisen. He was an ex-NFL linebacker and looked it. And that night he had a bottle of Italian Soave. "I've been saving it for a special guest," he said pouring it. "My treat, this one time only," he added quickly when Frank started to protest.
"That's why we don't come here more often," Barbara said. "There go your profits for the week. We can't bear so much responsibility."
Martin laughed. "Let me know how you like it," he said, moving away.
As he had done so often in the past, Frank wondered what on earth Barbara had done for Martin that had earned his undying devotion to her. He suspected that he would never find out.
Barbara sipped the wine and closed her eyes, then sipped again. "I knew it would be good, but I never knew how good it could be," she murmured. Then, between bites of gumbo she told him what she had been doing the rest of the day. "Bailey, for starters," she said. Frank nodded. They both knew Bailey Novell was one of the best private investigators to be had.
When she finished, he asked, "Did you believe Meg?"
Barbara stopped the bite she had been about to take and put her fork down. "I want to believe her. We both said she's deep, and she's also sharp. She knows exactly what Wally was facing if Wilkins had pressed charges. At best the ruination of Wally's career, at worst a long prison sentence, which she likens to a death sentence. And now she knows that when the boat is found, the decision could go either way. A bit of a mistake on Wally's part, a practical joke gone bad, all forgiven, or a malicious, mean-spirited frame-up, initiated by Wilkins and intended to destroy Wally. Justification for murder possibly. Or," she continued more slowly, "she suspects or knows that Wally took it and she, in trying to save his skin, might have made the problem worse. Or she might have knocked off Jay herself thinking no one would see her coming or going, only to come to believe a witness had been lurking about." She finished off the wine in her glass and refilled it. "In other words, I haven't got a clue about Meg yet."
"Fair enough," Frank said. Then, soberly, he went on, "But I hope we agree that Meg is in possession of evidence that could be vital in finding a murderer. And you're aware of the fact. Obstruction of justice can be a serious charge."
She nodded. She knew.

Chapter 5

Stephanie Breaux stood over her daughter, stroked her hair softly, and murmured, "Eve, wake up, darling. Please, wake up."
Eve did not stir. She was curled in a tight fetal position, her eyes squeezed shut in such a way it was impossible to tell if she was awake or sleeping. A light coverlet over her trembled now and then, the only sign of life she exhibited.
She was twenty-three, her hair was as gossamer fine as the purest wheat-colored silk. It was hard to believe any adult human being could be rolled as tightly as the mound on the bed indicated. Stephanie spoke to her again, then turned and walked from the bedroom, every step leaden. She realized how tired she was when she caught the wall in the hallway to steady herself.
More coffee wasn't the answer; she was already jittery from two nights of too much coffee. She walked down the few steps to the lower level and on to the kitchen where she checked the wall clock against her watch. Eleven-thirty. Why didn't Eric return her call? She had called her son at eleven and left a message on his voice mail at work. She kept moving, out to the patio to breathe deeply of the fresh air, trying to clear her head, to quell her rising tension.
Ten minutes later her son arrived. She hurried to the door to admit him. "Mother, something Ч What's wrong?"
"It's Eve," she said. "She's had a relapse."
"Evie? Where is she?" What he had come to tell his mother was forgotten.
"In bed."
He ran past her, up the steps and down the hall. At Eve's room he approached his sister and touched her hair gently, exactly as Stephanie had done. "Evie, it's me, Eric. Want to go for a walk?" After a moment he stepped back and took in the scene with a swift glance. His mother had dragged in the rocking chair from her room, arranged pillows and a throw, and no doubt had tried to rest there while she maintained a vigil. She was gray with fatigue and worry. He decided his own news could bloody well wait.
"When did it happen?" he asked, once they were downstairs again.
"Saturday evening. I was working at my desk and she was on the exercise bike. When I came down I found her huddled on the patio floor."
He didn't ask what had brought it about. They rarely found out. Eve could never tell them. She would have complete amnesia of the episode from before, during and for a day or two after; she always did. "Why didn't you call me? Where's Reggie?"
"She took a long weekend. She'll be back tonight sometime. And I thought maybe it was like the last time it happened. Eve slept sixteen hours and came out of it. I thought... It's been two years! We thought it was over. She's been so well."
Stephanie turned away. When she spoke again her voice was strained with the effort it was taking not to cry. "I called Dr. Mohrbeck this morning. He'll get in touch with Cedar View and they'll be expecting us. You'll have to drive. I have her overnight bag in the car."
Eric nodded. "I'll bring her down." He hesitated. "Is she dressed?"