Sam McCain - 04 - Save the Last Dance for Me (20 page)

The staff didn’t look all that happy about being awakened in the middle of the night to feed us. I was thinking I’d have to train my inherited cats to cook. Then any time I wanted something to eat-We ate and didn’t talk much while we did so. I had scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, and more coffee. I felt vaguely entitled to renew my membership in the human race. I still needed a shave and a shower but the food was doing wondrous things for my brain and attitude.

“Did you ever threaten to kill Muldaur?” I said when we got rolling again.

“No.”

“Did you ever threaten to kill Courtney?”

“Several times.”

“Did anybody hear you?”

“His wife. And probably the

housekeeper.”

“His wife? Did she say anything to you?”

Sara Hall hesitated. “I’m trying

to remember. She’d had to hear us arguing. I heard steps on the floor outside the door. A dead spot in the wood. You know how older houses are. I got the impression she was listening.”

“So she may have heard everything you said about Dierdre?”

“Yes.”

Even though I’d gone over this with Mrs.

Courtney, hearing it from Sara gave it all more emotion. What kind of impact would it have on a woman when she first learned that her husband had gotten a teenage girl pregnant? And him a minister, no less.

“Did you see anybody around your yard lately? Any strange faces?”

“No,” she said. “Honey?”

Dierdre was barely hanging on. Any moment now she’d be racing to the john again. “No. But then I wouldn’t have noticed, anyway, Mom. I’ve been too busy puking.”

“There’s no reason to talk that way at a dinner table,” the Judge said.

“She was only kidding, Esme,” Sara said.

“Nonetheless.”

And Dierdre was off again. To the bathroom.

I was writing some things down in my notebook when Sara said, “I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“I was in the backyard taking laundry down from the line—th was right at dusk—when I noticed this truck down the alley.”

“What kind of truck?”

She described it.

“It looked familiar for some reason,” she said.

“You remember when this was?”

“I’m not sure but I think it was the day after Courtney was killed.”

The truck was duly noted in my notebook.

It belonged to Muldaur. I decided not to say anything for now.

“You see anybody in it?”

“No.”

“Around it?”

“Not that—no, not that I can think of.”

“How long was it there?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really think anything of it. I just took the wash and went back inside.”

There was more. Lots more, in fact. But nothing useful. I had another piece of toast and another cup of coffee; Dierdre got sick again; the staff, eager to get back to sleep so they’d catch at least a few hours of blissful rest, began making an awful lot of noise to convey their displeasure with us. The Judge returned their glares but this time of night, they were willing to stand up to her. They weren’t intimidated.

Sara and Dierdre stayed there for the night.

The Judge walked me outside. It was that thrilling time of night, just before dawn as all the mysteries of evening begin to vanish and day, reluctantly, begins to reassert itself.

It was actually chilly and it felt good.

“She didn’t do it,” the Judge said.

“I know.”

“I feel so sorry for her.”

“So do I.”

“And I’d like to strangle that little idiot Dierdre.”

Given the condition my sister had left town in, there wasn’t much I could say.

“People do foolish things, Judge. And you and me.”

“Nice of you to remind me.” She lighted one Gauloise off another, pitched the butt into a hedge. “Get a few hours’ sleep and then get back at it, McCain. Dick will be here late tomorrow afternoon. In a few hours, this place will be hell with all the Secret Service men.

They’ll be stringing phone lines and setting up checkpoints and clearing gawkers out of the way and—but it’ll be worth it to see him again. He’s a very charming man.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“I’m being serious, McCain, and you’re being sarcastic.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word on the charming part. He’s about the most wooden politician I’ve ever seen. He always wears a suit, no matter what. Does the guy ever relax?”

“Ever relax? When he was out here for the caucus last year, you should’ve seen him playing croquet in my backyard. This year we’re going to play volleyball.”

“Gosh, I sure hope so. Dick Nixon

playing volleyball. How lucky could I get to see that?”

“Get out of here, McCain, before I have Cliffie arrest you.”

“On what charge?”

She allowed herself the tiniest of smirks. “For being insufferable, of course. You were born insufferable, McCain, and I’m sorry to say you’ll die insufferable.”

The phone woke me around nine-thirty that morning.

Tasha was sleeping on my chest, where she usually was whenever I slept on my back, Crystal slept near my head, and Tess was at my feet. Biting them.

“Yes?”

“You’re still asleep.”

“I was till you called. Shouldn’t you be writing Lesbo Landscapers or something?”

“That’s not all that bad, McCain. For just waking up.”

“Do I get my National Book Award now or later?”

“Later. After you go see Muldaur’s first wife.”

“You going to tell me something, Kenny?”

“I told you I’m really getting into this private-eye jazz. It’s fun.”

“So who’s his first wife?”

“Bill Oates’ wife, Pam.”

“You’re kidding. How’d you find that out?”

“Guy down the block works out at the quarry where Oates does.”

I eased out of bed, eased a Lucky between my lips, eased a book of paper matches into my right hand. I knew how to strike one with only one hand. Any time I got down on myself for not accomplishing much in my life, I always asked myself how many people could strike a paper match with one hand and then I felt a whole lot better.

“Your neighbor say anything else?”

“Just that one night Muldaur was over there and Oates walked in on them.”

“Walked in on what exactly?”

“He isn’t sure. But he said later that Oates told him he pulled a gun on

Muldaur and ordered him out of the house.”

The cigarette was helping to wake me up. So was the information.

Pam Oates had seemed so open, so forthright.

You always feel betrayed on a personal level when somebody you arrogantly dismissed as a simpleton proves not to be a simpleton at all. Because that makes you the simpleton, doesn’t it?

“The way I see it,” Kenny Thibodeau said. He was wearing his deerstalker hat, no doubt about it. “Oates kills Muldaur over Pam and then kills Courtney when Courtney won’t give him the blackmail money he was giving Muldaur.”

“How did you find out about the blackmail?”

“It’s all over town.”

“Oh, great. Poor Dierdre.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Thanks for the call, Kenny. This is helpful.”

I got some coffee going, took a shower, and got dressed in the lightest clothes I could find.

It was already in the mid-eighties.

It was Sunday morning but I went to the office anyway.

The place had a Sunday feel. Lonely, and making me feel a little like an intruder in my own place. I went through Saturday’s mail. No money, nothing of interest.

I walked over to Monahan’s for my second breakfast in less than ten hours. Scrambled eggs and a piece of toast. I was having my after-meal cigarette and coffee when Kylie came in.

She had a grin that could’ve lit up the Holland Tunnel.

She was dressed in a pink sleeveless blouse, pink pedal pushers, white flats. Her lustrous hair and eyes were set off nicely. She ordered coffee and took out her pack of Cavaliers.

“Well, you still married?”

“Not only still married. More married than ever.”

She sounded like a convert to some cult religion that promised nothing less than perpetual bliss.

“I’m jealous.”

“You’ll find somebody, McCain.”

“That’s what they keep telling me.”

“You could have had me if Chad hadn’t really come through last night.”

I’d never seen her this happy. In a strange way, she was a bit scary.

“He told me about every one of his slips.”

“His slips?”

“Turns out, this girl he’s seeing now, she wasn’t the first one. You know, on the side.”

“Ah.”

“There’ve been at least five others.”

“At least?”

“He isn’t sure. He said it depends on how you count. A couple of them, he didn’t go all the way, strictly speaking.”

“The considerate devil.”

“And I’ve made mistakes, too,

McCain.”

“Not like he has.”

She thought a moment. “This is where being a Catholic would be nice.”

“Huh?”

“I could just go to confession and I’d feel better.”

“Maybe Jews should have confession.”

“Nah, it wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Jews are so guilty about everything, if we had confession we’d be in there eighteen hours a day.”

I laughed.

She thought some more. She let me tune in in mid-sentence. “But that’s all behind him now. He said to think of him as the new Chad.”

“New and improved.”

“I know you’re cynical about this, McCain.

But don’t Catholics believe in redemption?

People do change, you know.”

“So you really think he’s changed?”

“He’s going into Iowa City today—he’s already left, in fact—and breaking it off with this girl.

Complete break. And then we’re going on a three-day trip together. Maybe get married again in some little chapel up in Door County.”

“That’s the prettiest part of Wisconsin.”

California has the most variegated and spectacular scenery but for sheer beauty, I’ll still take Wisconsin.

She grabbed my hand. Squeezed.

“Thanks for getting me through this, McCain.”

“My pleasure.” And it was.

I had a perky erection just sitting here next to her. It’s always nice when somebody who’s fun, bright, and great company also stirs your groin.

“So when do you leave?”

“Tonight. Soon as he gets back from Iowa City. He’s got a bunch of work he’s got to wrap up there. And I’ve got stuff at the paper. Say, there isn’t anything new on the Muldaur thing, is there?”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

“It goes without saying that I’ll be the first reporter you tell, right?”

I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

She had thrilling flesh. “You’ll be the first, Toots.”

I was heading out to talk to Pam Oates when I saw her husband’s truck parked at Clymer’s Seed and Feed. Clymer’s sold just about

every kind of seed and feed for farm and animal life there was. The Chamber of Commerce always mentioned Clymer’s because it was a good draw for small communities nearby. And when people drove their pickups and panel trucks in to buy things at Clymer’s, they just naturally spent money other places in town, too.

The place was long, narrow, and sunny and contained various scents that combined to form an earthy perfume. The one thing Clymer’s did that some folks objected to was open on Sundays. But the place was crowded, so not everybody took offense.

I saw Bill Oates in the back, talking to a salesman about cattle feed. Special varieties were hard to come by at the co-op, I was told. They sold only the most popular brands and types.

I didn’t want him to see me. He

wasn’t going to like what I was about to do.

The salesman was a kid named Bobby Fowler.

This would be a summer job. He’d be a freshman at the university in a few weeks. He looked like 1953: crew cut, high pants, checkered short-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way to the top. He even had a plastic pencil holder jammed into his pocket, with a variety of pens and pencils stuck in it. Still the acne problem. Still the teeth problem. Crooked and unsightly.

I’d always liked him. He used to come by the house on his ancient, clattering Schwinn with the ancient, worn saddlebags and the big light on the handlebars. He had this obvious and tormented crush on my sister, Ruthie. She was way too pretty and cool for him. Never cruel to him, the way the other kids were, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice anything for him, either. The Ruthie McCains of the world just didn’t go out with the Bobby Fowlers.

After talking with Kenny Thibodeau, I realized that one person who had a reason for killing both Muldaur and Courtney was indeed Bill Oates. Muldaur had been sleeping with his wife and Courtney did in fact represent an income source to him. Not inconceivable that he knew about Dierdre and Courtney. Maybe Muldaur had told Pam and Pam had told her husband.

And maybe Oates had poisoned Muldaur, taken care of Courtney, and then

planted the rat poison in Sara Hall’s garage.

And if he was going to buy rat poison, Clymer’s would be a good place to do it.

Oates was talkative. They spoke for another five minutes. Bobby kept tapping the feed bags the way he’d seen the more experienced salesmen do, and once he even put a brown oxford on the edge of a bag and shot his trouser cuff. The way the pros did.

Oates didn’t look especially

impressed. He was not, apparently, hearing what he wanted to hear, because every few minutes or so he’d shake his head and look unhappy. Not angrily, just stubbornly. You ain’t impressin’ me, kid, and you might as well quit tryin’. Something like that.

Oates finally left and I walked over to Bobby.

“Gee, hi, Sam.”

“Hi, Bobby. You getting ready for

college?”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “I guess there’re a lot of chicks there.” Those teeth were killers.

“There sure were when I went there.”

The pain came up fast and without warning, luminous in the depths of his eyes like tumors.

“So how’s Ruthie?”

Fitzgerald was always doing that in his stories.

Having some guy think about some girl who’d deserted or betrayed him long, long years ago.