The Prettiest Girl I Ever Killed (13 page)

He was talking about our marriage. I didn’t want to go into that.

“What are they saying, that I have a weakness for the Friedland family?”

“For violence … destructive men. Maybe you see it in the men, or maybe you bring it out in them, I don’t really know.”

“Like I bring violence out in you. What a violent man you are, Lou.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You think so?”

At that moment I didn’t know. I said: “You think there’s anything in what they’re saying about Curt and me?”

“No.”

Somehow that only made me angrier. “I see. You are the calm voice of understanding. You only brought it up to remind me of our place in the community, and how we shouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our position. I’m expected only to be careful, and if we should decide to sleep together, we should tell you, and you’ll make sure that we’re discreet about this thing and nobody knows—”

“You can stop now, Velda. Your nose is getting red.”

I jumped up and went into the bedroom. While I lay there I could hear him in the kitchen, getting a bottle from the cupboard. I drifted into a half-sleep; I didn’t hear him come into the bedroom. Suddenly I felt the blanket jerked off and my nightdress yanked up to my waist. I could hear the rush of breath through his nostrils as his strong hands rolled me and sprawled me on my back. There was no point in pretending to be asleep; I helped him in order to end it more quickly….

“Every other night, Velda,” he said when he rose. “Maybe that will keep you home. That’s what all the boys tell me.”

Gaby’s call awoke me next morning. The eaves still dripped from an early-morning shower. Lou had already left for work and Sharon had gone to the corner to catch the schoolbus. Gaby said:

“Can you come over? It’s urgent.”

“Has anything happened to Curt?”

“No. One of his traps has sprung. He wants us there. You’ll have to come and get me.”

She was waiting in front of the house with two suitcases. “He found Gil.”

“Found him?” A picture of Gil lying dead in a ditch leaped into my mind, but Gaby’s next words corrected it. “He hasn’t taken him yet, but he knows where he is. He found out Gil has a cabin on Lake Pillybay. The detective’s been watching it. Late last night Gil came back to it. He’s still there.”

I helped her load the suitcases into my car and asked what they were.

“Recording apparatus,” she said. “Just finding the killer won’t help Frankie. There has to be a confession, and an impartial witness.”

“Who—?”

“You.”

As I drove I learned that most of her information had been received in a phone call which instructed her to implement plan 3a. That meant a suspect was cornered and the recording equipment was needed. She showed a sheaf of typewritten pages on which he’d listed plans for various emergencies. One said:
Arrest by sheriff.
It called for Lou to bail him out, and I wondered if Lou really would. Another was labeled:
My death. Clear out without delay. Hand evidence to FBI and forget
it. That one horrified me; I knew Curt thought that way, but seeing it coldly written on paper made it seem almost as though it had already happened.

Gaby directed me to the opposite side of Lake Pillybay, a rolling wooded area which Shermanites seldom visited. Curt was waiting at a crossroads; he looked pale and grim and he wasted no breath saying hello.

“Cabin’s down there. Detective Boggus is watching it. You two wait here until I get this stuff strung out.”

He took the two suitcases and disappeared into the dripping woods. After a half hour he came back.

“Okay. We’ll go in close.”

We got out of the car and closed the doors silently. We started down the dirt road; I was too tense to ask questions. Suddenly Curt stopped and motioned us close:

“The cabin’s right around this bend. You two go in there—” he pointed to a break in the sumac which lined the road “—and hide where you can see the action. I’ll knock on the door and see if I can startle Gil into making a move.”

Gaby motioned me to go first; I guess she assumed I was an experienced woods-runner. We crawled through the underbrush; each time I brushed against a sapling it dumped a shower of droplets on me. We were both soaked by the time we came in view of the cabin. It was a sprawling lodge with a green roof and brown siding. The forest surrounded it from three sides, making it a perfect hidden love nest. I wondered how many Sherman women knew the inside of it; I wondered who Gil had with him now. There was no sound; the only sign of occupancy was Gil’s convertible standing just outside the door.

I saw Curt walking toward the door, his shoes squishing in the mud. He knocked loudly and waited, his eyes roving the woods. They passed ever us without pause, so I decided we were well hidden.

After a moment Gil opened the door. His eyes widened at the sight of Curt; he stepped out quickly and jerked the door shut behind him. His hairy shanks protruded from beneath a maroon silk bathrobe. He stood blinking in the light, looking rather more embarrassed than scared. His face looked stiff and painted, like a theatrical mask. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but Curt obviously wanted to go inside and Gil didn’t want him to. Finally Curt squared his shoulders as though he were about to shove Gil aside and open the door. Gil shrugged; he opened the door and called out a name. It sounded like “Bunny” but it must have been “Benny” because a young man appeared in the door. He looked slim and girlish, with long hair and a narrow, large-eyed face which also had a painted look. He frowned at Curt and pouted his full red lips. Curt turned abruptly and started walking away. Puzzled, I heard Gil call out in a plaintive tone which didn’t sound like Gil’s voice.

“Say, old fellow, you don’t plan to noise this around Sherman, do you?”

“No,” said Curt gruffly, “I won’t.”

Gil slid his arm around the boy’s shoulders and the two went inside. Their attitudes were those of a husband and wife who’d just gotten rid of an unwelcome visitor and abruptly I understood. My face prickled with embarrassment, whether for Gil or Curt or just for the human condition, I wasn’t sure. I looked into Gaby’s wide eyes and saw that she understood it too.

At the car, Curt discharged Detective Boggus with a check; he was a short, chubby man with a dozen black hairs combed carefully over a bald pate, not at all my idea of a private detective. Curt loaded the recording equipment in his car—telling Gaby to erase it, since it was useless, and to drive on home. “I’ll ride back with Velda,” he said.

For a time we drove in silence, then he said: “You understood the scene back there?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel about Gil?”

I had to think, because I’d identified so closely with Curt that I’d felt only disappointment at the failure of his trap. “About Gil? I think … all that muscle, manhood … what a terrible waste.”

He laughed abruptly. “That’s funny as hell. I’ve heard men say exactly the same thing about an attractive Lesbian.” He sobered abruptly. “But that explains Gil’s absences … and why he worked so hard to get a reputation as a ladies’ man. I’ll have to take him off the list for good. That kid was wearing lipstick; Gil had it smeared all over his face. You wouldn’t fake that.” He grimaced. “Stop here. I need a drink.”

It was a little gas station and honky-tonk; the kind you see around the country with names like Burntwood Inn and Cozy Dell. This one was called Pine Cove Tavern and was crowded (there was no work in the fields because of the rain) with men in overalls and a couple of women in print dresses. We drew stares as we walked to a booth in the back. I felt wicked and daring, and though it was unlikely that any Shermanites would see me, I found that I didn’t really care if they did. I told Curt to order me a boilermaker: a glass of beer with a shot of bourbon inside it. He ordered the same for himself and drank silently for a few minutes. Finally he said: “You’ve been patient, Velda, working in the dark. Now I’ll tell you something, but I’ve got to have your word you’ll keep the secret.”

“Okay. You’ve got it.”

“Specifically, I want you not to tell Lou.”

I stared at him. I was mad at Lou at the moment, but I didn’t like the position I was being put in. “I don’t know if I should promise that, Curt.”

He shrugged and drank his drink. He wasn’t going to tell. Finally I asked: “Does it concern Lou?”

“Yes.”

“And me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve got to tell me.”

“Promise first.”

“Curt, I’ll throw this beer in your face.”

“Go ahead.”

“Look, does it … I mean, if I don’t tell Lou, will it get him into trouble?”

“No.”

“He won’t suffer?”

“The incident is done and past. If it were known in Sherman, people might smile, but nobody would blame him. It will only add to your fund of knowledge concerning your husband, but nothing which will work to your advantage.”

“God, I’ve got to know. I promise not to tell Lou.”

“Okay. Remember that night you met me in the store, and I searched for hidden microphones?”

“Yes.”

“Lou followed you.” I gasped. “No!”

“I watched after you went in, remember? He drove his pickup past the head of the alley and parked somewhere. Later he came back and stood in the shadows. He didn’t see me watching him.”

“You didn’t say anything then.”

“I was waiting to see what he’d do.”

“He didn’t let the air out of your tires?”

“No. He was there all the time. When Gaby honked, he disappeared.” I felt angry and prickly. “Damn him. Of all the sneaky …” I looked at Curt, who was smiling. “Why did you tell me this now?”

“I need some information from you.” I looked down at my drink. I felt depressed. “About Lou?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “If you suspect Lou you … you’re crazy. He was in bed when the phone calls came. He was home the night that Sandy was killed. He was in Omaha when my sister Anne was killed. He was in the alley the night the air was let out of your tires—”

He was nodding. “I know all that, Velda. But he’s a common denominator. He was Jerry Blake’s partner, and Jerry Blake made a pass at you. To a jealous man that’s a motive for murder right there….”

“He isn’t jealous. And he didn’t
know.”

“We aren’t sure. Even if he didn’t he profited by Jerry’s death. He took over the store; he had partner’s insurance on Jerry and he collected that. And when Ethel’s husband died he bought another store cheap. I don’t know his relationship to Anne, but there was Mart. He married you when Mart was killed—”

“Curt, I won’t listen to another word.”

“All right, let me put it another way. When Gil Sisk faded out as a suspect, it left me with nothing”

“Johnny Drew.”

“Okay, Johnny Drew. Anne was about to leave him, that’s a possible motive for killing her. But how can you tie him with the others?”

“He worked for Jerry Blake and Jerry fired him. Okay? And Mart … I don’t know. Once Johnny said he’d been in love with me all his life. That could have been drunk talk, or it could have been true. There’s something else. Johnny gambled a lot, and sometimes he was terribly lucky. Once he took Anne to Bermuda on his winnings. She came back alone, wired home for money because he’d lost again. He used to disappear after he’d make a killing. People figured he was living up his winnings, but who knows? To me he’s a prime suspect.”

“Okay. But he’s disappeared.”

“Find him.”

“I will, but I need some more help. Your husband’s a smart man, probably smarter than you think. I could use his help. If I clear him I can trust him.”

“Is that why you’ve been playing games with me? Waiting until I was ready to spy on my husband?”

“Spy?” He looked thoughtful. “Okay, call it spying if you like.”

I had a giddy sensation which didn’t come from the liquor I’d drunk. I’d just looked into myself and it was like looking down a deep well; I found to my surprise that Curt had timed me perfectly, because I was ready.

“What do you want to know about Lou” I asked.

“Everything,” he said. “Everything you know.”

When I told Curt about Lou, I told myself I was simply laying to rest Curt’s suspicions about him. But I suppose it was partly to examine my own feelings about Lou. It’s hard to explain my motives; it was like two radio programs going at once, each drowning out the other.

Lou came from a small town near Connersville. He used to visit his aunt here during the summers. He played with the Brush Creek boys: Eli Black, Rolly Cartwright, Mart and Gil and Johnny Drew and Frankie and Teddy Groner who’d drowned, but he’d been gone every winter and he never really belonged. He seemed to endure an initiation every spring when he’d come to visit his aunt. She was a fanatical Methodist, and each summer she’d launch Lou’s visit by trying to indoctrinate him into the church. I remember seeing Lou in the churchyard in necktie and shiny patent leather shoes wearing a frozen smile while the boys ran up to spit on the shoes. After a few weeks, Lou’s aunt would drop the church routine, but Lou never completely made it with the boys. During the war he was 4-F because of a heart murmur and that cut him off even further. He came to Sherman to run his aunt’s farm, then he ran Jerry Blake’s store when Jerry joined the Navy. Lou started making money, and people resented that. One fight I remember.. not really a fight—with Johnny Drew

“What happened?” asked Curt.

“It was at Gable’s tavern where the Brushcreekers went—the quiet drinkers used the other one. I was fourteen then, and I’d gone in to see Dad—on Saturday night he’d drink beer and I could figure him for a dime provided I got there before my brother and sister had cleaned him out. I used to hang around awhile; it was an exciting place, always a few servicemen, loud talk and sometimes a fight. On this night Lou was sitting at the bar drinking a beer. I didn’t notice him until Johnny Drew came in. He was just out of boot camp, wearing his marine dress uniform with marksmanship medals all over it. He saw Lou in civvies and decided to have some fun. He said, ‘What’s wrong, Lou? You have an eardrum punctured?’ Lou murmured something which nobody else heard, and Johnny said: ‘I don’t see how that could keep you from fighting.’ ‘Well, the Army thought so,’ said Lou. And Johnny said: ‘It couldn’t keep you from stepping over into the park and having a friendly little match?’ Lou said he’d rather drink his beer. Johnny turned to the crowd and said: ‘Whaddaya think, this civilian would rather drink his beer.’ Then he laughed and knocked the beer in Lou’s lap. Everyone got quiet waiting to see what Lou would do. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. The blade wasn’t more than two inches long, but the quiet way he did it, kind of sad and regretful, caught everybody’s attention. He jabbed it into the bar in front of him and ordered another beer. He didn’t even look at Johnny, but Johnny got the message. He walked out and never bothered Lou again. That’s the way Lou worked; I’ve never seen him lose his temper. It’s like something he keeps in a bottle and lets loose only when it will do some good.”

“Yes,” said Curt. “He’s a rich man now.”

“Well, he made it honestly. He started with the farm his aunt left him, then bought into the hardware store when Jerry came back from the Navy. He had a talent for being in the right place at the right time. Take the turkeys … when the big feed companies started offering inducements to get people to raise turkeys, Lou borrowed money to get into it: ten thousand poults the first year, fifty thousand the next, a hundred thousand the year after that. Suddenly the whole county was raising turkeys, and Lou stepped out. That year the bottom dropped out of the turkey market and those who were still in lost their shirts. Not Lou. And construction…. when the government started subsidizing farm ponds, Lou bought a bulldozer and started digging. Everybody wanted work done; things had fallen apart during the war and everybody was rolling up their sleeves to put it back in shape. Lou bought more equipment; he built roads and reservoirs and a string of small airfields to get ready for the big air age. The air age never panned out. You can see some of the fields be built, weeds coming up around the concrete, a ramshackle hangar, a couple of peeling piper cubs. Some people went broke, but not Lou. He’d taken his profit and gone on to something else. Somehow he knew when to get in and when to get out. The fact that he happened to make money when certain people died means nothing. He made money at everything.”

As we were driving home, Curt asked: “How about Mart’s death.”

I thought about it. “Lou took me out a few times while Mart was in the service, but he didn’t seem serious. Never really tried anything beyond a single goodnight kiss when he took me home. I was going to marry Mart, and he seemed to accept it. In fact, he sold Mart the farm we planned to live on after we were married. When Mart died Lou took me to the scene of the accident and showed me that he’d bulldozed off the bank so that no more accidents could happen.”

“And just happened to cover up the evidence,” said Curt. “I wonder who told Struble he should have the well filled in.”

My face felt hot. “You’re twisting everything up, Curt. Lou just gets a kick out of helping people behind the scenes. Like the sheriff …”

“He helped the sheriff?”

“Loaned him money or something. I don’t know.”

“And I suppose the sheriff shows his gratitude.”

“Well … not directly. When somebody in Sherman has trouble they often ask Lou to smooth things over with the sheriff. Like Johnny Drew when he passed some bad checks—”

“What did Lou get out of that?”

“Nothing, for Pete’s sake. Maybe a feeling of importance, I don’t know. Curt, don’t get me started looking at motives. I have to look at what a man
does.
Lou showed up pretty good after Anne’s death. My folks never had any other home, but here they were surrounded by painful memories. Lou had a farm fifty miles away and he made Dad a proposition; he could live on the place for life and give him a tenth of the crop. It was twice as good a farm as the one they had here.”

“Are they happy there?” asked Curt.

“Are you looking for trouble?”

“No, but people uprooted at that age—”

“Maybe they’ll adapt. They don’t like it there, but who knows whether they’d like it here or not?”

“Why’d he pick a farm so far away?”

I realized that everything I said in defense of Lou could be turned against him. Curt could have said that Lou wanted my folks out of the way so that Anne’s murder would be forgotten. I didn’t believe him.

But that evening I looked at Lou sitting under the reading lamp and realized that I had no idea of what went on in his head. He
could
kill; any man could kill if he thought he had to. Our country’s wars have taught us that if nothing else. I thought of Lou creeping up while I slept; I damned Curt for planting this little seed of horror….

Next day Curt wanted me to take him to see Lou’s mother. I wondered how I’d explain the visit, but I needn’t have worried. Lonely old women don’t question the rare arrival of visitors. Lou’s mother was a starchy white-haired woman living in a prim white house on an elm-shaded street.

She told Curt what a well-behaved boy Lou had been; always went to church, always did his homework. I’d heard it all before, so I concentrated on stifling yawns until she displayed some relics of Lou’s eight-year-old interest in taxidermy: twenty little white mice, almost perfectly preserved.

Curt looked at me and smiled; I wondered what his suspicious mind was making of this. Personally, it made me realize what a strange, lonely childhood Lou had had.

That night I talked to Lou about Bernice Struble. I told myself I was personally curious, but I’d reached the point of not being sure whose motives I was acting on, my own … or Curt’s. Lou didn’t seem interested in the subject but said yes, he’d told Struble the well would have to be filled.

“You wouldn’t expect people to drink out of it. Would you, Velda?”

I had to admit that I wouldn’t.

The next night I was surprised to see Curt’s old car coming up the drive. Curt and Gaby stepped out dressed for visiting, Curt in slacks and knit shirt, Gaby in a wraparound skirt and blouse. I met them at the gate and my face must have revealed worry because Curt said: “Just a social call. Relax.”

I didn’t relax, because I knew Curt had come to study Lou. I must admit that Lou seemed pleased to see them; he kept the glasses filled and led the conversation.. I found that I wasn’t the only one on edge. Gaby was watching Curt and acting on his signals. She’d reach for a third drink and abruptly refuse it; she’d start telling a story and suddenly change the subject. I began picking up his signals; a slight pinching of the lips and a movement of the eyes. Lou missed them, I’m sure. I saw them because Curt didn’t try to hide them from me.

Maybe it was curiosity, but I didn’t want to leave Curt and Lou alone. When Lou took him out to see the shop, I went along. It was weird to hear Curt lead the conversation into the subject of wire taps and hidden receivers: “With transistors and printed circuits,” said Curt, “you could hide a receiver in a cigaret lighter. If somebody wanted to spy on you, you’d never be out of earshot.”

When Lou showed Curt his guns, Curt asked questions and showed polite interest, but it was clear to me that he was studying Lou and not the guns. I’d always felt that Lou bought guns just for the joy of possession, but Curt led the conversation to killing. “I don’t like guns particularly. As tools for killing they’re so damned … noisy. If I were going to kill a man I’d never use a gun.”

“What would you use?” asked Lou.

Curt smiled. “That would depend on the situation. I’d kill a man only if he were trying to kill me, and then I’d use … whatever I had.”

“You might happen to have a gun,” said Lou.

“If I did, it would be because I expected to need it. And if I expected to need it, I might create a situation where I did. The subconscious plays funny tricks.”

Lou nodded, but I was puzzled by Curt. It seemed to me that if Lou
were
the killer, he would
know
that Curt suspected him. Then I remembered: Curt wanted the killer to make a try at him.

Later they talked about the killing instinct; I don’t know who led the conversation into it, Curt or Lou, but suddenly Lou was saying he’d never been in the service so he didn’t know if he could kill or not. He’d always been awed by the way the Army made killers out of ordinary farm boys-Curt shook his head. “They- don’t
create
killers, Lou, they educate the one that every man has inside him.” Lou raised his brows. “Seems like a risky business. They can’t be sure they’ve got him de-educated. One minute the killer’s a patriotic citizen; suddenly there’s an armistice and the killer becomes an antisocial beast.”

Gaby laughed. “You should get Curt to show you the psychiatric study they did on him. They didn’t think they could get him to stop.”

“Stop what?” I asked.

“Stop kill—uh, fighting.”

An awkward silence fell in the room. Gaby drew back in her chair and I think she regretted her words because the psychiatric study was obviously a touchy subject with Curt. But it was out and he had to deal with it.

“They gave me a clean bill,” he said. “I got an honorable discharge, finally. But like you said Lou, I resented those bastards in Washington who think they can turn a man into a killer by pushing a button that says go. Then turn him into a decent taxpayer by pushing one that says stop. I wanted to show them that I controlled my own switch. So I let the fighting machine run on a little while until they got panicky, then I got tired of the game. I shut myself off.” He rose from his chair and walked to the table, poured his glass full of straight bourbon. He looked at me over the rim and for a second there was something in his eyes I didn’t like. Then he went on: “For a while it would get turned on again without warning. Other guys could turn it on, but only I could shut it off.” You’d never know Curt was excited, except that between each sentence he’d drink. I found myself sitting on the edge of my chair. “Now I control both ends,” he said, taking a drink. “I turn it on.” Drink. “I shut it off.” Drink. “It’s a comforting feeling to control your own killer. Everybody should do it.” Drink. “But to do it you have to let him run loose until you know him well enough to get a halter on him. Takes a war to do it, Lou. That’s where you’re at a disadvantage.”

He smiled, set his empty glass down on the table, and walked back to his chair. I felt an immense relief, because I felt he’d re-experienced the entire war while he was talking to us. I resolved never again to ask him about the Army or the war because of the way his eyes went flat and dead….

I glanced over at Lou and saw a studious look in his eyes. I realized that just for a minute they’d switched roles; Lou was the observer, and Curt was the subject …

After they’d gone Lou sat with an untouched drink in his hand looking at the empty TV screen. I showered and dressed for bed; as I passed Lou’s chair he asked without looking up:

“What do you think of him?”

I paused. “He’s like you, Lou, in certain ways.”

Lou jerked his head up. “How so?”

I sat down on the hassock and tried to define my vague feelings. “I don’t mean physically. You’re opposites there; he’s tall and blond, you’re short and dark. But you have the same way of talking, those long rushing declarations when nobody can get a word in edgewise. And you both have an uncanny way of shifting the burden of proof to the other person. You get the other person talking, explaining, apologizing, then suddenly the guy gets a puzzled look in his eyes and wonders why he’s apologizing….” When I paused, Lou said: “Go on.”

“Well, neither of you seem to have close men friends. You think weird thoughts, all that talk of death and killing. You don’t tell jokes. You don’t
enjoy
things … at least not the way I see enjoyment. I don’t understand what goes on inside either of you, only the parts you let show above the surface. But Curt seems … tighter, somehow. He cares more about things … doesn’t dissemble quite as well….”

Lou smiled vaguely. “He’s nine years younger. Give him time.”