F is for Fugitive

I crossed back to the motel, where I picked up my car and drove a block and a half to Shana Timberlake's. She'd been out when I'd called this morning, but she'd have to be home now and dressing for Tap's funeral if she intended to go. I pulled in across the street. The little wood-frame cottages in her courtyard had all the charm of army barracks. Still no Plymouth in the driveway. Her front curtains were still as they had been before. Two days' worth of newspapers were now piled near the porch. I knocked at her door, and when I got no response, I slyly tried the knob. Still locked.

An old woman stood on the porchlet of the cottage next door. She watched me with the baggy eyes of a beagle hound.

"Do you know where Shana went?"

"What?"

"Is Shana here?"

She gestured impatiently, turned away, and banged back into her place. I couldn't tell if she was mad because she couldn't hear me or because she didn't give a damn what Shana did. I shrugged and left the front porch, walking between the two cottages to the rear.

Everything looked the same, except that some animal-a dog, or maybe a raccoon-had tipped over her garbage cans and spread her trash around. Very classy stuff. I climbed the porch steps and peered in the kitchen window as I had before. It seemed clear that Shana hadn't been home for days. I tried the back door, wondering if there was any reason to break in. I couldn't think of one. It is, after all, against the law, and I don't like to do it unless I can anticipate some benefit.

As I went down the steps, I noticed a square white envelope among the papers littering the yard. The same one I'd been sniffing at the other day when I talked to her? I picked it up. Empty. Shoot. Gingerly, I began to sort through the garbage. And there it was. The card was a reproduction of a still life, an oil painting of opulent roses in a vase. There was no printed message, but inside, somebody had penned "Sanctuary. 2:00. Wed." Whom could she have met with? Bob Haws? June? I tucked the card in my handbag and drove over to the church.

The Floral Beach Baptist Church (Floral Beach's only church, if you want to get technical) was located at the corner of Kaye and Palm streets-a modest-sized white frame structure with various outbuildings attached. A concrete porch ran the width of the main building, with white columns supporting the composition roof. One thing about the Baptists, they're not going to waste the congregation's money on some worthless architect. I'd seen this particular church design several times before, and I pictured ecclesiastical blueprints making the rounds for the price of the postage. A florist's truck was parked out on the street, probably delivering arrangements for the funeral.

The double doors were standing open and I went inside. There were several paint-by-the-numbers-style stained-glass windows, depicting Jesus in an ankle-length nightgown that would get him stoned to death in this town. The apostles had arranged themselves at his feet, looking up at him like curly haired women with simpering expressions. Did guys really shave back then? As a child, I never could get anybody to answer questions like that.

The interior walls were white, the floor covered in beige linoleum tile. The pews were decorated with black satin bows. Tap Granger's coffin had been placed down near the front. I could tell Joleen had been talked into paying more than she could afford, but that's a tough pitch to resist when you're in the throes of grief. The cheapest coffin in the showroom is inevitably a peculiar shade of mauve and looks as if it's been sprayed with the same stuff they use on acoustic ceilings to cut the sound.

A woman in a white smock was placing a heart-shaped wreath on a stand. The wide lavender ribbon had "Resting In The Arms Of Jesus" written on it in a lavish gold script. I could see June Haws in the choir loft, rocking back and forth as she played the pipe organ with much working of the feet. She was playing a hymn that sounded like a tender moment in a vintage daytime soap, singing to herself in a voice with more tweeter than woofer. The bandages on her hands made her look like something newly risen from the dead. She stopped playing as I approached, and turned to look at me.

"Sorry to interrupt," I said.

She put her hands in her lap. "That's all right," she said. There was something placid about her, despite the fact that the tincture of iodine was working its way up her arms. Was it spreading, this plague, this poison ivy of the soul?

"I didn't know you doubled as the organist."

"Ordinarily, I don't, but Mrs. Emma's sitting with Ann. Haws went over to the hospital to counsel Royce. I guess the doctors told him about Oribelle. Poor soul. A reaction to her medication, was it? That's what we were told."