Robert Liston - The Tower of Evil

“And will be until she tells where her son is.”

Lupe laughed. “Is this how you two operate?”

“Sometimes.” Doreen smiled. “We make a pretty good team-”

“For a couple of old folks.”

“Speak for yourself, darling.” She patted his cheek. “This JoAnn-Sophia-Amanda, whoever she really is, just has to be an interesting person. As far as we know, she’s never revealed who Jamie’s father is.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know.”

“Exactly, dear. She doesn’t want him to know and has endured hardship to keep him from knowing.”

“And if it is Wright, she has to know the damage she’d do him and wants no part of it-certainly all the hullabaloo it would bring.”

“She wants a normal life for herself and her son,” Doreen said, “not money, not 15 minutes of fame. Quite a remarkable young woman, I’d say.”

He watched Lupe shaking her head and laughed. “We’d better let you throw your cold water before you freeze. What is it?”

“I keep remembering your term charming speculation. That’s all it is, you know. You have no evidence-”

“Speculation is not a bad word, despite the efforts of critics to make it so. To speculate is to reflect, ponder, think. Without speculation we’d all be living in caves. Doreen and I are simply trying to solve a mystery-why a mother, obviously caring about her son, left him with a nearly total stranger.”

“Walter thought at first the mother might have kidnapped the boy, which is why he approached you.”

He served his SOS at the counter. “Fruit and cottage cheese okay for a salad?”

“Whatever’s easiest,” Doreen said.

“You are now learning, my dear Lupe, the origins of a happy marriage, the words whatever’s easiest.”

All three ate in silence for a moment. He was starved. Doreen broke it, “Lupe, you have no idea who asked the police to locate Jamie?”

“Someone surely knows, but not me.”

“Would Kinkaid have the clout?”

“Not officially, but…” She shrugged.

“It has to be the Wright people,” he said. “If Win-Win Moore knew Jamie was in Santa Barbara or, God forbid, the press, we’d be awash in TV trucks. Could still happen, I suppose. Kinkaid could trot out a tearful ‘mother’ to beg for the return of her darling little boy.”

“No, Walter. Kinkaid or whoever doesn’t have a photo of Jamie-needed for the tearful mother bit-or even much of a description.”

“They must know something about him”

“My guess is they tried to get Harry Gould to reveal where Jamie was. He had no idea, of course.” Doreen grimaced. “Under threats, maybe at gunpoint, hoping to save his life, he told them what he knew about Jamie-blond, blue-eyed, about three.”

“He may have only seen him once.”

“Oh, Walter, it must have been so awful for poor Harry.” Doreen shook her head, sighed, then looked at Lupe. “What are you going to do with all this information?”

“What information?” She smiled. “My job is to look for a missing child. I have no idea where he is and I’m still looking. The death of Harry Gould is not my case. The Santa Barbara Police have no reports of alleged abductions, nor are they interested in rumors of illegitimate children, however illustrious the parentage.”

“Like I said, only a matter of time, Captain Hernandez.”

“Hear, hear” Doreen raised her glass. “There is one thing you can do, Lupe, help us find this woman. She’s in grave danger, and we don’t have much time.”

After Lupe left, DeeDee helped clean up the kitchen, then went upstairs to change into her nightie, robe and slippers. She returned to the living room, accepted a glass of red wine-it helped her sleep and she needed it tonight-then got out her knitting. She had neglected it lately.

She took her place in an easy chair, matching Walter’s, both facing the unlit fireplace. This room was by far the largest in the house and her favorite, perhaps because it had sunlight most of the day. She’d decorated it in a variety of pastels, her favorite colors, giving it an aura of softness, warmth and familiarity.

“I find knitting very soothing,” she said. “Must have something to do with occupying the hands.”

“I’m sure.” His nose was in the newspaper.

“You might try it.”

“Yes, dear.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. ”Yes dear, yes dear, the words of the truly henpecked husband.”

“What?” At least he put down the paper.

“You were very funny at lunch.”

“I was?”

“I don’t know anyone who makes me laugh as you do.”

“What a nice thing to say, thank you.”

“And you were most insightful with Lupe this evening.”

He looked at her quizzically, “What’re you getting at?”

“Oh nothing.” She worked her needles. “I just wondered why you haven’t mentioned that Tyrannosaurus Rex standing over there by the piano, slobbering all over my best carpet.”

He actually looked across the room.

“He’s a fearsome, husband-taking, widow-making monster, Walter.”

After a long pause he said, “I think he’s more a pussy cat.”

“No, no, pussy cats get mentioned regularly. Only the big, bad things are ignored.” She sniffled. “Only they just get bigger and badder. What did the damn doctor say, Walter? I won’t be cut out of your life at this late stage.”

His sigh was a deep one. “He biopsied my prostate. He’s running tests. Take a few days.”

“For what? The Big C?”

Another sigh. “It could be the little b, as in benign.”

“Tell me every word he said.” She listened, asked some questions, then said, “Thank you, I feel better now.”

“You do?”

“Of course. It’s always better to know. Your day-long silence scared the wits out of me.”

“I've been afraid to tell you.”

“Don’t be silly. Whatever happens we’ll both deal with it when the time comes. “

He arose from his chair and leaned over her. His fingers felt so cool, touching her chin, raising her head to his. “What a magnificent woman you are.”

“It’s about time you noticed.”

As he kissed her she knew she had done the right thing. No matter what, this beloved man must never know the terrible churning in the pit of her stomach.

Henry Clay hopped into the van. “Can I ride along today, Doc?”

Byerly liked his privacy. Some of his best ideas came while driving. But he knew boredom was chronic among the homeless, particularly for a man like Henry. He may have lost half his wits, but he still had a college education. “Sure, Henry, glad to have you.” Then he smelled him. Should he suggest a bath? No, Henry’s pride might be hurt.

After his second trip to the county clinics, Walter said, “I have to run out to UCSB.”

“Whatever you say, doc.” A few minutes later he said, “Pretty out here, ain’t it, doc?”

“Sure is, Henry.” He raised his voice, imitating a travelogue. “Surrounded by the blue Pacific on three sides, the University of California at Santa Barbara ranks as one of the most scenic institutions of higher learning in the country. Lucky kids!”

He returned to his normal voice. “Of course the university regents have done their best to ruin the place by erecting less than inspiring buildings, however cheap.”

“UCSB has more bicycles than any college in the country.”

“How do you know that, Henry?”

“I dunno.”

He parked and headed for the registrar’s office, Henry Clay in tow. Again he couldn’t refuse him.

“Oh, Professor Byerly, it’s good to see you.”

He had taught a couple of terms and still filled in occasionally. That made him an Adjunct Professor. Sounded so much better than substitute teacher. “And you, too. I wonder if I could see the records of a former student, Harry Gould.”