The Autumn Dead (23 page)

"I heard that. She was a nice woman."

"It's all crazy bullshit, isn't it, Dwyer?"

"Yeah, it is."

"You going to tell Susan?"

I kept staring at him. He was treating this as if I'd caught him in nothing more than a simple case of adultery. But Karen had been murdered, and so, earlier tonight, had a sad woman named Evelyn.

"What time did your class start?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Little late for night school, isn't it?"

"We took a vote the first night of class. Everybody wanted eight o'clock." He took out his cigarettes. Lit one. "You gave 'em up, huh?"

"Yeah, almost."

He coughed, as if for emphasis. "Wish I could."

"You know a woman named Evelyn Dain?"

For the first time I could see that he was lying. He just sort of shrugged.

"She was killed tonight. Murdered."

"I'm sorry to hear about that. She a friend of yours?"

"She was obsessed with the idea that Karen Lane killed a boy named Sonny Howard. This was the summer we were going into senior year."

He talked with smoke coming out of his mouth. "Well, that's bullshit."

I picked up the twenty-page manuscript. It was sloppily typed, with many strikeovers, many words written in the margins with pencil. "
The Autumn Dead
. It's about Karen, isn't it?"

"In ways. It's my version of Holly Golightly, too. Very selfish but very fetching. A woman you need to get rid of but can't. She had a story of her own, her own True Life Tale, as she called it. She said we could turn it into a good novel if we collaborated. She said all it needed was a good second draft. She never got around to showing it to me, though."

"Karen tell you everything that happened to her?"

"She told me some of the things."

"Such as?"

"Oh, about her brother. Things like that."

"What about her brother?"

"He's kind of a bastard. She's always tried to help him but it hasn't helped much."

"She ever mention anything about blackmailing anybody?"

He laughed. "God, Dwyer, being a cop really screwed up your mind, didn't it? We're talking about Karen Lane here. She was a cheerleader, she liked to go shopping, she got very sentimental over Barry Manilow records—" He shook his ponytail, trying to rid his eyes of tears. They were big and silver, the way his wife's had been earlier.

I didn't say anything for a time.

He turned away from me and sometimes he snuffled and sometimes he smoked but mostly he just kept shaking his head, his ponytail bobbing, as if to awaken himself from a terrible dream.

I said, softly, "It started when she moved in, you and her, I mean?"

"No. A few months before."

"How'd you keep it from Susan?"

"We just sneaked around a lot. Motels, I guess. Karen had credit cards." He turned back to me. "I knew she was keeping something from me."

"Any idea what it was?"

"No. It was—almost as if it was the central part of her personality. You know, like missing the one vital clue in a mystery. If you knew what she was holding back, then you could understand her. But . . . " He shrugged. "She had nightmares a lot."

"She ever talk much about Ted Forester or Larry Price or Dave Haskins?"

"Price came to see her one night."

"What?"

"Yes. He came to the door and asked if she would come out to the car with him."

"She went?"

He nodded. "When she came back, I could see a welt on her cheek. As if he'd slapped her."

I said, "Was this about the time you started hearing from Evelyn?"

This time he sighed, acknowledged he knew her. "Yes. She started calling me and said she wanted me to help her prove that Karen had killed a boy named Sonny Howard. She scared me, this Evelyn. Really a crazy woman."

"You didn't go to the reunion?"

"No, I didn't. Why?"

"Curious."

"Jesus, you think I had something to do with Karen's death?"

"Possibly."

"Christ, Dwyer."

I touched the manuscript again. The parts I'd read detailed how a middle-aged man falls miserably in love with a beautiful woman from his past and pleads with her to run away with him. "You were in love with her."

"Yes. In a very positive way." He exhaled blue smoke. "We were going to go away together."

He said it so easily, so confidently, that it wasn't half as funny as it should have been. She'd been with many men, good and bad, but they'd had one thing in common, and that was the power of their money to protect her from her demons.

She and Gary Roberts would have lasted maybe three months.

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe you," I said.

"I gave Karen things nobody else ever had."

"Tell me more about Larry Price."

"What about him?"

"He ever come around again?"

"No. But he called."

"When?"

"A few weeks after he came over. She was very upset, sobbing, when she hung up. Then she went out to see her brother."

"She didn't say why?"

"No.

"I need to say something here and I'm going to come off sanctimonious," I said.

He looked at me with his middle-aged eyes and said, "I know."

"'You've got a fine wife."

He nodded. "Don't you think I feel like shit?" Then, "So you're not going to tell her?"

"Of course not."

"Thanks."

"You can still patch it up."

"I want to. It's just—" He shrugged. "It was like being a teenager again. It really was. I mean, we made love everywhere possible. Wrote notes—" His laugh was sour. "While all the time Susan was at home being a good wife."

I set my hand on his shoulder and thought of us as young boys playing ball one summer, and how I could never have predicted that thirty-five years later we'd be standing here having this conversation. We were part of the same generation, falling away now, some of us, to be joined later by the rest of us, our moment on the planet vanished, the sunlight on baseball grass shining for different generations.

I felt sorry for him and angry with him and even half-afraid for him, a marriage being not so easy to put back together again, and at last I said, "You're a goddamn good teacher, you know that?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. I stood in the doorway watching you with that last woman. You're really good."

"Well, thanks. I mean, I'm not sure I'm ever going to sell anything as a writer. But as a teacher—"

I said, "Why don't you go home and take her out somewhere nice."

"Tonight?"

"Hell, yes, tonight."

"Why will I tell her we're going?"

"Tell her because you just realized all over again how much you love her."

He laughed. "You should write sappy greeting cards, Dwyer. That's a great idea."

"Nobody's ever accused me of that before."

"What?"

"Having great ideas."
 

"S
o who has the suitcase and what's in it?"

"That's the trouble."

"What?"

"I don't know."

We had been in bed for close to an hour now. My shoes were off but that was it. Donna was in her blue thigh-length football jersey with the big 00 on the front. She looked attractively mussed and I wondered what she saw in me anyway.

"You want a back rub?" she said.

"No, thanks."

"You want some underwear inspection?"

"I wish I did."

"You want some herbal tea?"

"Sorry."

"You going to let me help you?"

"I guess not."

"Is it okay if I turn on the tube then?"

"Sure."

"Will you at least take off your clothes?"

So I got out of my clothes and got under the fancy blue-andwhite grid work comforter and tried to watch David Letterman.

"He's such an ass," Donna said.

"I know. So why are we watching him?"

"Nothing else on."

"You pay fifty-one dollars a month so you can have thirtyeight cable channels and you say there's nothing else on?"

"You want to argue? Will that make you feel better?"

"Apparently."

"All right," she said. She picked up the remote dial and clicked off Letterman and then sat up Indian-legged with her container of Dannon banana yogurt in one hand and her handful of raisins in the other. A white plastic Dairy Queen spoon stuck out of the Dannon. She always kept her Dairy Queen spoons and she went to the Dairy Queen a lot. "All right," she said.

"All right what?"

"All right your face is sort of messed up from somebody hitting you. And all right your high-school girlfriend is dead, presumably murdered. And all right a crazy, sad woman named Evelyn got blown over her motorcycle by somebody probably equally crazy. So, all right, start talking"

"About what?"

"About how you're feeling."

"I'm feeling like shit."

"So tell me about feeling like shit, Dwyer. Tell me all about it because I can't stand it when you get quiet like this. You just sit there and suffer and it's terrible. For both of us."

"I feel like shit is all. Doesn't that sort of say it?"

"Are you feeling like shit because maybe you sort of got a crush on Karen Lane again?"

"I knew that's what you were thinking. And the answer is no."

"Are you feeling like shit because you don't know what's in the suitcase?"

"Partly."

"What are you guessing is in the suitcase?"

"Something that will explain what really happened to Sonny Howard and will also explain why Forester and Price and Haskins are willing to pay so much for it."

"And who are you guessing has the suitcase?"

"That I don't know yet. That's why I'm going to the park—"' I glanced at my Timex. It was well after midnight. "Tonight."

She dropped some raisins into her yogurt and said, "You're kind of menopausal, you know that? I mean the way you deal with things."

"Gee, thanks."

"No. You really are. You kind of go through these hot flashes and do irrational things."

"Such as what?"

"Such as going to the park."

"That's irrational?"

"Of course it is. That's the kind of thing you should call Edelman about. If there's going to be an exchange of the suitcase for money, then the police should be there, not you."

"This is different."

"No, it's not. It's menopausal."

She clicked David Letterman back on. He was being coy as usual because the topic was sex, a subject he seemed to find disgusting.

I lost it then. It all came down on me and I lost it and I grabbed the remote bar and thumbed through several other channels and as the channels flipped by—pro wrestling, an Alan Ladd movie, William Bendix, a severely hair-sprayed man discussing Wall Street—as the channels flipped by, she moved over to her side of the bed and put her face in the pillow.