Free Desperate Measures by Kate Wilhelm Page A

Barbara had seen with gas pumps out front and stocked with the same kinds of foodstuffs that convenience stores carried, as well as a small deli counter with prepackaged sandwiches and organic juices side by side with Dr Pepper and Coca-Cola. There was a grill, but no one manning it at that hour.
    Barbara and Shelley bought sandwiches and juice and carried them out to a picnic table. “Flatland foreigners,” Barbara murmured.
    Driving back to Eugene after their hurried lunch, Barbara said, “The first issue we have to deal with is to preserve his privacy, keep his anonymity. I want to talk to Dad. Drop me off in town.”
    She had not been in her father’s law offices for more than a year, yet the pretty receptionist knew her and smiled broadly when she approached the desk. To her shame, Barbara could not remember the young woman’s name.
    â€œYour father’s in his office,” the receptionist said. “I’ll give him a call.”
    While she waited, Barbara gazed about. Sometimes she thought that her father and Sam Bixby had started this firm as soon as the Flood receded and had not changed a thing except to add space. They had started with two rooms and now had the whole floor. Barbara had started her career here and might still be here if Sam Bixby hadn’t kicked her out. When she said something like that to Frank, he had snorted. “He didn’t kick you out. You walked.”
    â€œHe was lacing up his kicking-out boots. I had a narrow escape.”
    Sam Bixby did not like criminal cases, did not like the riffraff she and her father associated with. She was grinning at the thought of going to his office to say hi, and watch the worried frown cross his face.
    The receptionist said, “He said for you to go right in.”
    Frank met her at the door and kissed her cheek. “That was quick,” he said.
    She saw Bailey slumped in a chair with a drink in his hand. “Hi, Bailey. Don’t go away. I have something for you.”
    â€œDo I look like I’m going anywhere?” he said, raising his glass.
    â€œNope. But you never do, even when you’re at full speed.” He looked like the most disreputable person who ever entered these premises, she was certain. She turned to Frank. “What do you mean, quick?”
    â€œI called Maria about half an hour ago, and presto, here you are. Come sit down. I have an interesting little problem.”
    She sat in one of his comfortable chairs and propped her feet up on his nice old coffee table. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
    â€œYou read about the Marchand murder, I guess,” Frank said, sitting down opposite her.
    She felt the stirring of something very unpleasant in her stomach and hoped it was the sandwich she had eaten at The Station. “I read about it.”
    â€œGood. Yesterday an old friend, principal of the school out there, came to me for advice; she’s afraid she might be a suspect—”
    Barbara jumped up and walked away from the table. “Hilde Franz? She’s an old friend?”
    â€œHow the hell…? Yes. Hilde’s my client.”
    â€œDad, don’t say another word. Stop right there. Oh, God!” She walked to his desk and stood with her back to him, hands pressed hard on the desktop.
    â€œWhat is it, Bobby?” Frank demanded. He had stood up and drawn closer to her.
    She was thinking furiously. She couldn’t tell him the name of her client. He’d sic Bailey onto Alex in a flash, before they had time to cover their tracks. She bowed her head, trying to think. Now Frank touched her shoulder.
    â€œBarbara, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
    She straightened and turned around. “No. I’m fine. Dad, I have a client, too. Same murder. Different client. I guess we draw swords and meet at dawn or something.”
    He looked as stunned as his words had left her. “Who?”
    She shook her head. “I can’t tell