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  "Fill me in," he said. "What are you getting at? That's Matthew Petrie he's talking about? Is that it? And what's the nonsense about the mud bath?"

  She shook her head. "That's why it would have been helpful if you had read the other novels," she said. "I'll try to tell you as briefly as I can about the mud bath first. In the first novel Link's father owns the resort, a piss-poor sort of place that he begins to fix up, to renovate. There's a hot spring on the property, and some basalt basins with little pools of water that seep in from the big hot pool. He bulldozes the trail to the big pool, but then he has all this dirt to get rid of, and he decides to create the mud bath out of one of the smaller pools. So the customers then can take a mud bath, go up through the next several pools, and by the time they reach the largest hot pool, they've been washed clean of the mud. A good idea, but it doesn't quite work out the way he planned. The warm water combines with elements in the dirt and makes a mud bath with a terrible smell, sulfurous, not enough to be dangerous, but very unpleasant."

  She smiled faintly. "This was one of the recurring themes that Jud had fun with," she said. "You see, the boy's father, in the novel, I mean, is a well-intentioned man, a bit inept, whose plans often go awry. He finds that it was much easier to dump sieved dirt into the basin than it is to get it out again, and finally he makes another trail to the big hot spring, and simply hopes that no one will come across the pool of mud. But to his surprise, stories begin to circulate about the mud bath. Some say it is rejuvenating; most say it's simply soothing, relaxing. A few try it and find that the stench of the mud clings to them no matter how hard they scrub to rid themselves of it. Over the years the mud bath becomes a draw in itself."

  She was gazing at the lieutenant fixedly; he had taken off his jacket and tossed it down on the couch, and he was going to become impatient, she knew, yet this part had to come first.

  "One of the properties ascribed to the mud bath was that it had the power to wash away one's sins, restore grace or innocence. Now, Link, the protagonist of all the novels, was a child when the mud bath was created; he watched it being made, and he believed none of the stories, and of course his father was a nonbeliever, but the stories were there, and people came to put the mud to the test. A kind of dark baptism, if not blasphemous, then at the very least a perversion, I guess."

  "Mrs. Shaeffer—"

  She held up her hand. "I'm getting to those pages I asked you to read, Lieutenant. But you had to know some of the background first. In the novel Link's mother dies when he's a young boy, and his aunt Sookie takes her place in his heart. She has a son, Buster, a few years younger than Link, the man who appears again in those pages. The boys were never close, and Buster left when he was about twenty or so, and now, a middle-aged man, he's come back. But we learn his history; he is a big-time gambler who poses as a successful and respected real-estate developer. But he's really a gambler."

  "Petrie," Caldwell said. "Mrs. Shaeffer, before you go on, I have to tell you we located him, one of the loose ends we've tied off, and he's out of this. Accounted for. Nowhere near Oregon."

  She shook her head. "Let me finish. See, Matthew Petrie was the kind of gambler who might put two dollars on a horse, and then jump up and down, yell, get all excited over the outcome of the race. The character Buster is nothing like that. He could put down half a million and never twitch an eyelash outwardly, regardless of the outcome. Different breed of gambler altogether. So, anyway, he comes back, and he has a deal for Link that is irresistible, he says. He will double his money for him in thirty days; all he needs is seventy-five thousand dollars to get it off the ground. Link tells him no, and Buster begins pressuring him for the money."

  She motioned toward the pages on the couch by the lieutenant. "Well, you read it, you know the kind of pressure he began to exert. His mother, long since impoverished, and quite old, has no money; Link is Buster's only hope.

  "Finally, in real desperation, Buster confesses that he gambled and lost to a syndicate that has sent collectors after him; they'll kill him if he doesn't pay up. It would kill his dear old mother for that to happen, he says.

  "Link considers his aunt Sookie, and he knows she has the will of an iron horse, and then he recalls an incident from his and Buster's childhood, when Buster took Link's marbles and lost them to the village hotshot player. He says, 'You're still playing with someone else's marbles, aren't you?'

  "Soon the collectors come looking for Buster, and he runs up the trail to the mud bath and jumps in to hide. They go up the main trail to the hot spring, fail to find him, and leave. When Buster next turns up, no one can stand to be near him, the stench is so bad. And he can't rid himself of it."

  She smiled again. "I imagine when you came to that part, it bewildered you, since you didn't know the history of the mud bath."

  "Now that I know the story," Caldwell said slowly, "I have to confess, Mrs. Shaeffer, I'm still bewildered. You know who he was talking about, writing about? This character he called Buster?"

  "Yes. I believe Brice Connors has been playing with someone else's marbles." She paused, regarding the lieutenant. "When Jud first introduced Buster, he was writing about Matthew Petrie, but he's changed in the last one. Now he's Brice Connors. Once you read Brice instead of Buster in that section, there's no mistaking him. Jud was an excellent observer."

  Caldwell eyed her steadily for several seconds without speaking, his face completely blank. He picked up his cup and looked surprised to find it empty.

  "Yours is gone, and mine is stone cold," she said, rising from her rocking chair. "Do you want more?"

  "Thanks, but no. You've given me something to think about, but I should be on my way."

  "I have more for you to think about," she said sharply, and walked into the kitchen to pour out the cold coffee and refill her cup. He followed.

  "Think about Jud's will," she said. "He added that six-month waiting period years ago, when there was a possibility that Petrie might try to get money from Abby if Jud died prematurely. There really wasn't anything much to leave her at that time, but he wanted to protect her any way he could. But he added that designation with a thirty-day contingency clause just a few years ago, when he knew there would be a great deal of money. And at that time he did not change the six-month waiting period, he left it in there, still protecting her. But not from Petrie any longer."

  Abruptly Caldwell walked out, came back with his own coffee cup, and filled it. "Go on," he said. "What else?"

  "He intended Abby to inherit," she said. "But if they happened to be in an accident together and she survived him by only a few days, or weeks, then she would not have inherited. I think Jud had no intention of letting Brice ever touch a cent of that inheritance. You know the terms of the will. If she dies within thirty days following Jud's death, the executor, Jud's attorney, will dispose of Jud's estate in a manner to be disclosed at that time, and not until then. A cat and dog hospital? Various assorted people? No one knows. Years ago my late husband talked about that clause to Jud, urging him to straighten out his affairs. The clause protects the estate from inheritance taxation twice in a short period of time, that was Herbert's concern. Jud laughed and said if they taxed nothing twice, they'd still get nothing. But later when there was an estate to protect he added it. I think he had a different reason, to keep Brice from touching the money. And he bought insurance for Abby for at least thirty days with that clause."

  She sat at the small dining table in the kitchen; Caldwell sat opposite her.

  "Mrs. Shaeffer," he said soberly, "you're making some very serious charges. You realize what you're implying?"

  She waved that away. "Just listen," she snapped. "Last summer Abby and Brice called Jud and said they'd be out for a few days. He was really surprised. He knew Brice didn't like him or approve of him and that he tried to keep Abby away as much as possible. Jud was hurt by it. During that visit Jud and Abby came to see me, but Brice stayed back at the cabin.

  Abby said he wanted a nap, he wasn
't feeling well, the stock market had taken a nosedive, his clients were screaming and yelling, and he was up all night, night after night. I think he went under then. And not with just his own money. One day last week Abby mentioned that he was in a state of nerves, year-end reports coming up, the annual audit coming, clients driving him crazy. I think he's running scared, and he has to raise money before the auditors arrive. Neither he nor Abby knew about the six-month waiting period, and they didn't know about the designation with a thirty-day contingency clause. That must have sent him reeling."

  Slowly, as if selecting his words with great care, the lieutenant said, "But he'd still have to wait six months. What you're hinting at just won't compute, Mrs. Shaeffer."

  "It does," she said. "I asked my attorney about the six-month period, and he said that unless there's a contingency clause attached, the way there is for the shorter period, that provision would be nullified with Abby's death. Brice would inherit immediately, no waiting period, after the thirty days have passed."

  "Then why would Jud Vickers have left the six-month clause in?" Caldwell asked. "Why not a trust fund, let her have the interest and protect the principal? It doesn't make sense."

  "That's too controlling. He didn't want to control her from the grave. He never tried to control anyone, but Jud sized up Brice Connors the day they met. Brice tried to get him to put money in his company very early, and a year or so ago, when the market rose like a skyrocket, he tried again, promising really big returns. Jud knew he was a gambler from the start. And he knew he would get in trouble. Gamblers always lose eventually, that's what he said about Matthew Petrie a long time ago, and what he said a few years ago about Brice. Then, last summer, Brice made a desperate plea for help, and Jud said no, and later wrote the scene you just read, changing the surface, keeping the core of it." Very softly she added, "I think he left that clause alone because he knew there would be trouble, if not soon, eventually. Six months gives Abby time to smell the stench, recognize the source."

  "When did you ask your attorney about these matters?" Caldwell asked brusquely.

  "One day last week. I didn't mention names or tell him why I wanted to know, just what the terms mean."

  "Right after you read that section of the novel?"

  "Soon after, yes."

  Caldwell shook his head. "Mrs. Shaeffer, you've built a case that rests on a few pages of a work of fiction. You don't like Brice Connors, and neither did Jud Vickers, and you were extremely fond of Vickers and upset by his murder. Everything you've said is based on your dislike, a story in a book, and your imagination. And what you're doing is dangerous. You can't go around accusing people of murder, of plotting murder."

  "Lieutenant, believe me, I have not called a press conference, and I'm not going around accusing anyone of anything. I called for you to come here, remember. I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone else, certainly not to Abby. She must not become suspicious of her husband, that's the last thing I want."

  "Exactly what is it you do want?"

  "I want you not to be kind and patronizing. I want you to listen to what I'm telling you, and to do something about it. I want you to stop beating the bushes for a blond-haired man, and stop wasting time looking for an extortionist or blackmailer, or whatever you think about that aspect. I want you to concentrate on Brice Connors, the only one with a real motive for killing Jud. I want you to stop ignoring the rope you keep stumbling over while you're off tying up nebulous loose ends that could blow in the breeze forever as far as Jud's murder is concerned."

  Suddenly the lieutenant grinned and leaned back in his chair. "You want a lot, Mrs. Shaeffer. I'm sorry if I appeared patronizing, no intention there. I'm not. I'm interested in anything you have to tell us. But, Mrs. Shaeffer, please believe this, we have checked him out. And Abby Connors, too," he added. "That's always first, you understand, the immediate family. We can account for every minute of her time, and his. We can't put him in that cabin between one and two in the morning, no matter how hard we try."

  "You mean you can't put anyone inside the cabin at that time," she snapped. "Not just him. I've told you who did it, and why. With a whole police force at your disposal, it seems to me that you could find out how he managed it."

  Caldwell pushed his cup back and stood up. "We can't build a case on simple conjecture, Mrs. Shaeffer. You've given this a lot of thought, obviously, but unless you have a shred of evidence, real evidence, it's a fantasy. I appreciate your efforts. Please take this in the spirit in which it's meant," he said earnestly. "I know that real police work might look tedious and unproductive from the outside, but we are following up leads, interviewing people, more people than you realize, getting statements, comparing them, looking into records, and bit by bit through our own plodding, laborious methods we get things done. Not as fast as you'd like, but we're making progress.

  Then, even more soberly, he added, "And I urge you not to repeat what you've told me. Believe me, Mrs. Shaeffer, the consequences could be severe."

  Felicia stood up also; the interview, the dialogue, conversation, whatever it might be called, was over. "You're like the knight who gets on his horse and gallops off in all directions," she said. "I believe that once you know the right direction, you'll find the trail and whatever evidence it will take to convince you. And once you accept who, then you'll find out how. The trouble is," she said, leading the way into the living room, watching him pick up his jacket and put it on, "you'll run out of time. Or Abby will. At midnight Sunday, the thirty-day contingency period will end; she will be the legal heir to Jud's estate. And from that moment on, she will be in danger."

  16

  By the time Willa showed up after work, Felicia had dinner started, the table set, and wine open. She ushered Willa into the kitchen. "Hang your jacket over a chair," she said. "It's pouring again, isn't it? You must be freezing."

  "Well, it's raining," Willa admitted, holding her jacket at arm's length. "It's going to drip on your floor."

  "Let it drip. I'm making a Middle Eastern lamb khoresh, and this time you have to help me eat it. I'm having scotch and water. You want that, or wine? Help yourself to either."

  Willa was eyeing her curiously; Felicia ignored the look, uncovered a pot and sniffed, thought a moment, added a pinch of cinnamon, and covered it again. "That will hold it while we talk."

  Willa poured a glass of wine and sat at the dining table across the kitchen^ "Was Abby here today?"

  "No. She said she had something she had to do. She'll be here tomorrow." Felicia sat opposite her and studied her face. Willa was not beautiful, but striking, with good bones, lovely hair, deep-set blue eyes that were only slightly less shadowed than they had been the previous week. Her grief had left its mark on her expression, one of sadness, a remoteness that never used to be there. For a short period Felicia had feared that Willa would go into a real depression following Jud's death, a clinical depression; her remoteness had been frightening, but she was coming back, not all the way yet, but she was coming back. Basically Willa was levelheaded and very intelligent, possessed of an analytical bent that exceeded Felicia's, and that was what Felicia was counting on now, that steady, analytic intelligence. She took a drink of her scotch and set the glass down, and then without any more hesitation told Willa about Caldwell's visit, their conversation.

  "He didn't believe a word of it," she finished. She had watched Willa's expression change to incredulity, disbelief, maybe even pity.

  Now the younger woman lowered her gaze and sipped wine without speaking. Felicia waited out the silence as Willa thought. Finally Willa said, "It sounds plausible, possible, but Felicia, he was right, you can't accuse someone of murder based on a few pages of fiction, and you don't really know for sure that Jud was writing about Brice. The cousin appeared in the first novel; he wasn't just created." Her eyes widened and she leaned forward slightly. "Have you told Abby this?"

  "No, of course not. I'm telling you because you're intelligent, and you know Brice. Do y
ou think he's capable of it?"

  "I know him," Willa said, "but that's all, just barely know him. He isn't interested in any of Abby's friends. And then, after Jud and I... I'm sure Brice didn't approve. He became even cooler. Polite and cool. I confuse him," she said with a little shrug. "I'm in the art world, which he doesn't trust, but I'm also in administration, which he understands. It's hard for him to decide where I belong." She looked past Felicia, thinking.

  Then she said, "Capable of planning it, maybe. He's the type who can plan elaborate financial deals and such, with all the details that go along with them, but the execution of the plan is a problem. There's still the means of getting to the cabin, which apparently no one has been able to figure out. Felicia, you must know the police had to have suspected him first thing. Isn't that how it works, the family first, then widen the circle to include outsiders? But they would have checked him out, and his alibi must be strong enough to stand up under their investigation."

  More forcefully she said, "Aside from that, there are too many unanswered questions—all that money in cashier's checks, the strange man who flew into Bend that night, maybe a woman from Jud's past. There's just too much no one knows."