Free Defense for the Devil by Kate Wilhelm Page A

Sylvia knows more than Bailey.
    “She fit in, kept busy, volunteer work, stuff like that, but it wasn’t quite enough. Then one day she came to see me and brought a maid in with her, and the maid’s story was that a nursing home had killed her mother through neglect, wrong medication or something. Sylvia believed her, but there wasn’t a shred of evidence. Inspectors never found a thing out of line. Bailey said he might be able to get a ringer, someone to send in undercover, and Sylvia said she’d do it herself. Right before my eyes she changed from queen of high society to a barely literate, ignorant drudge. So she went in and got a job emptying bedpans and scrubbing; she took a camera with her, and she nailed them. The usual thing, sugar pills instead of prescription drugs, and pocket the money, a lot of things like that.”
    He laughed. “Thing is, Sylvia loved doing it, and Joe was so proud, you’d have thought she just invented heaven. Sylvia told Bailey she’d be available if something else came along. And, by God, every now and then something does come along.” Very softly he added, “Everybody loves Sylvia, and no one more than Joe. He’s still the happiest man in the county.”
    They all cleared the table, and Frank brought out a raspberry torte and a carafe of coffee. As if on cue, Bailey arrived at that moment.
    Finally even the dessert was gone, and Bailey put sugar in his third cup of coffee and said, “You tell him anything yet?”
    “I told John about it, but not Dad.” She told Frank then about Maggie’s visit, Mitch’s death. “What did you find out?” she asked Bailey afterward.
    Frank’s face had been jovial, a look of fond reminiscence had softened his features; now he was grim-looking.
    With a reproachful look Bailey said, “You sent me straight into bedlam. Three sons—Ray, James, and David—two wives, a thousand kids, Maggie, the old man and old lady all talking at once. Nobody listens, everyone talks.”
    She shook her head impatiently, and he continued.
    “Okay, okay. Problem is, you ask Ray a question and while he answers it, so does everyone else, a chorus of answers, and no one seems to notice. I fingerprinted the whole crew, even little kids wanted their fingerprints made, so I did them, too.”
    John looked bewildered. “Why?”
    “Elimination. Match up what I can, and anything left over goes to the FBI lab for identification,” Bailey said. “So, no point in doing that house, not with people swarming everywhere like they were. Maggie, Ray, James, and the old man, we all went to Ray’s house and I did that one. Got a nice footprint in the bathroom, and another one on a hassock in the living room. Looked like someone had put his foot against it and shoved it across the room.”
    No one moved as he talked. “Okay, out at his house, I asked Ray to show me around the property, alone. And I got to ask him some questions without the Greek chorus helping out. Ray says that the old man showed up at seven or a little later on Friday, hauling Mitch in with him. The old man took off in his truck, and Ray told Mitch about the party at Maggie’s place and warned him if he showed up, they’d make the last beating look like practice. Then he took off, collected his brother James, and they went to the coast.
    “On Monday when Ray got home, the living room looked like Mitch had gone wild. Two broken lamps, a can of beer spilled on the floor. Mitch had shaved with Lorinne’s razor, and he had eaten and left dishes on the table. He had showered in the big bathroom and left a footprint. He had put on a pair of Ray’s jeans and a shirt with the shop logo on the pocket. Mitch was gone and so were his own clothes. That’s all Ray knows about that.
    “This morning at seven two cops come to the house and seem a little surprised to find Ray. They might have thought he was the dead man. Anyway, they split up—one goes in with him to identify the body, and the other one tags along behind.