house at the time. When I happened to mention the presence of that old-fashioned telephone, I thought the guy was going to haul off and kiss me. Darryl acted as though I had handed him an outright gift.
Once he explained the mechanics of it, we both realized that someone who wasn't Tanya Dunseth must have been involved. There was no way to tell for sure about Tanya's possible involvement. If she was part of it, whoever placed the call couldn't have known that Tanya had been overcome by the gas and was about to become a victim of her own fire. If she wasn't, then she, too, had been an intended victim.
I spent almost an hour talking with the arson investigator. About the time we finished, a 1967 Mercury Montego convertible pulled into the yard. Gordon Fraymore, dressed in khaki shirt and pants and wearing both a fishing hat and vest, climbed out of the car. He spoke to several people-fire and police personnel both-before sauntering over to me.
He raised his head to peer closely at my face through thick bifocals. 'We'd better get you into town to have that hole in your cheek stitched back together,' he said.
I remembered noticing blood much earlier, but bleeding is one of those curious things. If it isn't too serious and if you ignore it long enough, it eventually goes away.
'I understand you need a ride,' he added.
I nodded. I didn't want to talk about the loss of my Porsche. Compared to the loss of a life-compared to Guy Lewis' death-losing a car is nothing. Yet it hurt. Because of all the 928's connections to my past, it hurt far more than I wanted to acknowledge.
Without a word, I followed Fraymore back to his car, and we both got in. The Montego was a classic car in cherry condition with a flawless, cream-colored convertible top and an ink-blue body that was polished to a mirror shine. It takes time and effort to keep a car up that way for twenty-five or thirty years. I chalked one up for Gordon Fraymore.
'Your day off?' I asked.
'Was,' Fraymore answered gruffly. 'Isn't anymore.'
The engine turned over responsively as soon as he started it. Driving carefully, gingerly, he threaded his way back out through the gradually diminishing collection of emergency vehicles.
'She did it again, didn't she?' he said with a grim shake of his head. 'I hope you and that fancy lawyer friend of yours are proud of yourselves.'
'Can it, Fraymore,' I returned wearily, too tired to argue or put up much of a fight. There was no point in bringing up the arson investigator's theories. 'The judge is the one who let her out on bail. The possibility was offered. All Ralph Ames did was take advantage of it.'
'Right,' Fraymore said. 'It may have worked the first time, but let me assure you, it won't again. Her bond guarantee is a pile of ashes. I've submitted a request to the judge and prosecutor that he revoke Tanya Dunseth's bail and that we take her back into custody as of right now. I've posted a round-the-clock guard at her room in the hospital. When she gets out of there, she goes straight back to jail on the original charges-to say nothing of a whole brand-new set. You got that?'
'Got it,' I said. No argument there.
A police barricade had been set up at the turnoff to Live Oak Lane. Ralph Ames' Lincoln Town Car was the first vehicle stuck on the other side. I wanted to stop and talk to him-bring him up-to-date-but Gordon Fraymore wouldn't hear of it.
'He'll find out where you are soon enough,' the detective said to me. 'Right now, I want to talk to you. I want you to tell me what you know and what went on. From the very beginning.'
It wasn't a simple assignment. There was lots to tell, and it took a while, especially since I began with my trip to Medford and Walla Walla the day before. I believe in the anonymity of A.A., but once someone is dead, I don't think it makes that much difference. Besides, I didn't think Guy Lewis would mind. So I told Gordon Fraymore about my conversation with Guy. I also told him in detail of my meeting with Roger and Willy Tompkins.
I confess there's one thing I avoided telling him. It was a deliberate oversight. I told him about how Guy Lewis was caught in the explosion because he was standing beside my car, but I failed to mention that I had asked him to use my cellular phone to make a call. I already blamed myself for it. Why add an official inquiry into the mix? It wouldn't have done any good.
We were interrupted by the arrival of a young ER physician. It took almost an hour for that beardless youth of a doctor-the same one who had sewed up my wrist-to clean and stitch shut the jagged cut along the top of my jawbone. It wasn't until after that when I finished telling my story to Detective Gordon Fraymore.
As I gradually ran down and shut up, I discovered that Fraymore was sitting there, staring down at the floor and spinning his hat in his hands while the brightly colored lures on his hatband whirled into a kaleidoscope of colors.
'So we still don't know much of anything more than we did before, do we?' he grumbled.
'About why she did it?'
'That's right.'
'Nope. Not much. And if we ask her, most likely she'll spin us another set of yarns.'
'That's my guess, too.' Fraymore sighed and rubbed his forehead. For a man who had planned to spend the day fishing, he wasn't having much fun. He still wasn't catching anything.
Fraymore stood up. 'I'm going to go talk to her all the same. By the way, your daughter came through the lobby in a wheelchair while you were in with the doc. She wants you to stop by her room and see her before you leave. Do you need a ride?'
'No,' I said. 'I can call. Someone will come get me.'
He walked as far as the door. 'I suppose those kids of yours lost everything in the fire?'
'Pretty much,' I said.
He clicked his tongue. 'Too bad,' he said sympathetically, sounding as though he meant it.
When I got to Kelly's room a Nursing-No Visitors sign was posted on her closed door, so I went to the nearest public rest room and cleaned up as best I could. The ER folks had scrubbed my face clean, but the rest of me was a mess. I could easily have passed for one of the homeless, down-on-their-luck vagabonds who line up daily under the Alaskan Way Viaduct back home in Seattle, waiting for a handout of food and a place to spend the night. My clothing was sooty and dirty and reeked of smoke and sweat. The sleeves of my jacket had protected my arms from the incredible heat, but some of the hair had singed off my head and the backs of my hands. I literally stank.
After washing up, I went back to the lobby and found a chair. That's where I was sitting, almost half-asleep, when Ralph Ames walked in a few minutes later. He looked brisk and dapper. His clothes were unwrinkled, and there wasn't a hair out of place. I'm surprised sometimes that the two of us manage to remain friends.
'There you are,' he said. 'They told me you wouldn't be done until about now, so I spent the time working. I've notified the insurance company about the Porsche. They're making arrangements to have a temporary rental brought down for you to use.'
'Good.' I sat back and relaxed. I should have known Ralph would be hard at work sorting things out.
'And I've found an apartment for Kelly and Jeremy,' he added. 'It's over in the little town of Phoenix-not the most convenient location in the world; it means a twenty-minute commute to Ashland, but that's the best I could do on such short notice. A couple of the other kids from the farm will be within blocks of the same place, so at least they'll be able to carpool.
'From what she said, I believe Marjorie's going to go ahead and let them continue using her van for the time being. It's not worth much, but Jeremy seems capable of keeping it running. That's what they need more than anything else-a running vehicle.'
'You've talked to Marjorie?'
'Several times. In fact, I met with her this morning. The two of us were having a late breakfast at the Mark Anthony when the explosion went off. We were talking about your visit to the Tompkins family and the patchwork of lies that came out as a result of your visit there. We were trying to decide if it would be wise for Marjorie to rescind her part of the bail-bond guarantee, especially since it would seem Tanya has avoided telling the truth whenever it suited her.'
'How's Marjorie Connors holding up?'
'About how you'd expect for someone who's just lost everything. She's in shock, I think.'
'I can't say that I blame her,' I said. 'So am I. Have you talked to our friend Tanya?'
