Desperate Measures by Kate Wilhelm Page B

Shelley’s father made yachts; her mother was an heiress to an immense fortune, and Shelley was a very rich young woman.
    Barbara filled in details as Shelley drove through Eugene, through Springfield, and into the countryside. The valley floor was still flat here, but in the distance the Cascade Mountains rose, and closer, behind the farmland, hills were beginning to appear. They had entered filbert country. The world might call them hazelnuts, but here they were and would always be filberts. The trees were not very big, twenty feet or less for the most part, and they were meticulously spaced. Now fully leaved, their twisted limbs were concealed; the canopy cast deep shade beneath them. Occasionally a green groundcover, something that thrived in shade, protected the ground from the relentless winter rains. They passed several impressive bonfires, with small huddles of men around them; the orchardists were torching the blight.
    Opal Creek was off to the right, a racing silver stream cutting its own little channel in its run to the big Willamette River. They came to a stop sign and a bridge to the new road on the other side of the creek.
    â€œGus Marchand’s property,” Barbara said, pointing. On the other side of the creek was another orchard, where Mike Bakken and the inspector had been the day of the murder. They passed the Marchand house, set back a couple of hundred feet from the road, with shrubbery and shade trees all around. It appeared almost obsessively neat: the grass mowed, circles of mulch around bushes and trees, no weeds anywhere. Then came the land that he said he would put houses on; this ground was heavily forested, with a hill that rose to the state forest land behind it. She saw the track that led into the woods; the place where Minick said the girl Rachel and her boyfriend went to park. It was impossible to tell where the Minick property started; it looked exactly like the forest until they came to a gravel driveway. Trees concealed the house.
    Rhododendrons in bloom lined the driveway and crowded the house. There were no other signs of gardening, but anyone who couldn’t grow rhodies in Oregon simply had never stuck a bush in the ground and walked away from it.
    The house was a low, rambling building, clad in cedar siding stained a natural color, with white trim. The front door opened as they drew near, and Dr. Minick stepped out to meet them.
    On the porch Barbara introduced Shelley. “My colleague,” she said. “If Mr. Feldman hires us, if a case actually develops, Shelley will assist me.”
    â€œWell, come on in. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”
    â€œThanks, but no,” Barbara said, surveying the room they entered. Comfortable and very male. Fireplace, leather furniture, no knickknacks of any kind, no plants, just lots of books and magazines and an enormous pile of newspapers. Of course, she thought, Alex was right on top of the news. She noted with interest that there was a wood-burning stove and a fireplace. One for efficiency, one for comfort.
    Then a door on the far side of the room opened and Alex came in. He was wearing a baseball cap. She had steeled herself, Barbara thought distantly; she had thought she was prepared, but no one could be prepared for this. Worse than the pictures, far worse than she had imagined.
    â€œMs. Holloway and—” Minick started, only to be interrupted by a strange sound that Shelley was making.
    Barbara turned to look at her. Shelley was choking and gasping, and trying to hide her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say, and turned as if to flee.
    â€œNonsense,” Dr. Minick said firmly. “Let me show you our bathroom. Come along.” He took her elbow and steered her toward a hallway. She was sobbing like a child as he led her away.
    Barbara turned back to Alex. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said.
    â€œWhat for? That’s the first normal human