A Cry of Shadows

by Ed Gorman

  I leaned in so I could whisper. "Why don't you just go tell Mr. Farnsworth I'd like to see him?"

  Understanding that he was being chastised, he flushed. "Yessir."

  And went away to return about two minutes later, during which time I traded smiles with the two salesmen-types who kept looking me over. So this is what a real detective looks like, huh? Gee, what a disappointment. He didn't even shoot anybody.

  "Mr. Farnsworth said all right."

  I turned back to the kid, my eyes having become almost permanently fixed on the woman in the water, and said, "Down that hallway?"

  "Yessir."

  "Thank you."

  "Yessir." He was very tight now and he didn't like me worth a damn. He had too much pride for a kid his age.

  The hall smelled of chlorine right up to where I reached a heavy, carved wooden door. I knocked with a single knuckle and a rumbling bass voice told me to come in.

  The office was wide and done in leather and mahogany and big framed photographs of various state university football players. On his desk was a stand-up plaque in the shape of a football with the state colors saying I'M A BOOSTER AND PROUD OF IT. Much as I like state football, all this stuff embarrasses me. The owners of this paraphernalia always manage to come on like the worst kind of teenagers; it seems to freeze them in gawky adolescence. And maybe that's exactly why they do it. Beer parties forever.

  "Mr. Dwyer?"

  I stuck my hand across the desk. Farnsworth was a beefy, bald man with mean blue eyes. He had a grip that meant to impress and did. As he sat down, he tucked his red power tie inside his blue power suit. He sat back and brought thick hands into a prayerful position. He wore two big diamond rings and a sneer. I doubted that Mr. Farnsworth and I would ever become good friends.

  "A detective, I understand?"

  "Yessir." Now I sounded like the kid at the desk.

  "There's no trouble, I hope."

  "Not really. I'm just trying to get a few questions answered."

  "I've got Rotary early today. I'll help you if I can—if you're not going to be here long."

  "I appreciate that." From inside my sport jacket, I took a photo of Richard Coburn and set it on the desk. "I just wonder if you knew this man."

  "Richard Coburn."

  "You knew him, then?"

  "From the newspapers and television anyway. I assume you're aware he was murdered."

  "Yes, I am aware of that, Mr. Farnsworth." I paused. "So other than the newspaper and the television you didn't know him?"

  "Did I say that?"

  "I guess not."

  "I'd appreciate it if you didn't put words in my mouth, Mr. Dwyer."

  "All right."

  He sighed. He looked disturbed. "I don't want to drag the motel into any of this."

  "I understand."

  "I own fifty percent of it and my brother-in-law owns the other fifty percent. He's a lay minister in one of the local Lutheran churches. If that tells you anything."

  "He wants the motel run strictly for business?"

  "Exactly."

  "He'd be happy if everybody who checked in here brought their wife and kids and if they spent the night in their rooms singing hymns."

  I laughed out loud. Maybe Farnsworth here wasn't as bad as I'd judged him.

  "In other words," he said, "I want everything I say to you to remain confidential."

  "I understand."

  His mean eyes looked furtive momentarily. He looked around as if checking for listening devices and said, "Richard and I were drinking friends."

  "I see."

  "He was a hellion."

  "That's what I heard."

  "One night in Chicago I was told by a hooker that he took on three different women and managed to show all of them a good time."

  I thought of his inability to make love to Deirdre. He must have hated her terribly.

  "Did he use your place often?" I asked.

  "All the time." He shook his head. He seemed caught between admiration and disgust. "It was like a beauty pageant."

  "Anybody in particular?"

  "Anybody he could wile up here. And Richard was a very resourceful man." He shrugged. "Of course, we kind of drifted apart the last year."

  "Why's that?"

  He pointed to the wide, diamond-filled ring on his wedding finger. "I got hitched again." I hadn't heard "hitched" since the Fifties. It had a quaintness about it. "And my wife didn't approve of Richard at all."

  "But he came here anyway?"

  "Oh, sure. I didn't stop liking him. I just stopped trying to be like him. I decided to start acting my age."

  "Do you know his partner Anton?"

  He smiled. "I know his partner, I know his wife Deirdre and I know his mistress Jackie. They're quite a team."

  "A team?"

  "Sure. Every once in a while, Richard would exasperate them to the point that they'd forget all about disliking each other and get together and beat him down. That's when he really used this place. Whenever Richard got real low, he'd start hitting on the women really hard. He liked his booze but nothing seemed to work for his self-esteem like women." He frowned. "There was only one thing I didn't approve of."

  "What was that?"

  He looked furtive again. "It's so sleazy I almost hate to say it. When I found out about it, I really raised hell with Richard. I told him that if he ever brought her here again, I'd personally call the law on him. Christ, this is the kind of thing men go to prison for."

  "What kind of thing?"

  "Underage girls."

  "He was into underage girls?"

  "Only one so far as I knew, but in her case one was enough." He glowered. "Mignon Anton."

  I wanted to say something dramatic, but all I did was sit there and let the information make its slow inevitable way into my mind. Of course an ass-bandit such as Richard Coburn would look for the ultimate conquest—and what better a conquest than a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl? If Coburn had been in the room, I would have smashed his face in.

  "Jesus Christ," I said. I thought of my own daughter and felt sick.

  "Richard could get to you at times."

  "Does her father know?"

  "Not as far as I know."

  "How long did it go on?"

  "All I can tell you about is how many times he brought her here."

  "All right."

  "I don't think it was much longer than a month or two."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because the next time he came here—after I warned him about Mignon, that is—he brought somebody else."

  "Any idea who she was?"

  "Stewardess. He majored in stewardesses."

  "Anybody regular after that?"

  "Not that I could tell."

  "How about around the time of his death?"

  He thought a moment. "Nobody special. Some more stewardesses." He smiled. "Enviably enough, Richard was into quantity as well as quality. In fact, I sometimes used to think that he preferred quantity to quality."

  "Did he ever get into it with anybody over a woman?"

  "A jealous lover, you mean?"

  I nodded.

  "No, not really. A few altercations in bars over the years—Richard wasn't averse to fistfights in his younger days—but it was usually because Richard would get drunk and hit on somebody who had a date with her. Sometimes when Richard got drunk, he thought he was invincible. You know how that goes."

  "But no recent altercations."

  "No, I'm afraid not." He sat forward. He was suddenly confidential. "It was one of them."

  "Them?"

  "The three of them. Tom or Deirdre or Jackie."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "They had the most reason to hate him. He'd managed to screw each of them over very badly."

  "How did he screw Deirdre over?"

  "Hard as she likes to pretend she's this really hard bitch, there was a time when she genuinely loved Richard. He sort of forced her into her role."


  "By being unfaithful?"

  "Richard never tried to make any secret of it."

  "I'm told he spent her money."

  "Most of it."

  "What about Jackie?"

  He sat back in his chair and stared at the gray oblong of overcast sky in his window. "I've never been able to read Jackie, if you know what I mean. There's something unknowable about her. Almost too good to be true sometimes."

  "Was Richard in love with her?"

  "For a time. But then Richard was in love with all of them for a time. And with Jackie he felt an obligation. He felt she helped him through a period when he was having some sexual difficulties. I read somewhere that Casanova was impotent for long stretches in his life. Maybe it's part of the Don Juan syndrome."

  "Richard told you about his problems?"

  He shrugged. "Poor bastard had to talk to somebody, I suppose. He was really terrified. I suppose he thought he was being punished by God or something. He was really into a lot of guilt for things, despite the way he acted sometimes." He checked his wristwatch. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dwyer, I've got to be pushing off for Rotary. I'm head of the gifts-for-tots committee this year." He stood, frowning. "My father grew up in the Depression, but I'll tell you something —I think there are more poor people now than then. And I'm not sure there's a damn thing we can do about it. The Democrats keep trying to create new bureaucracies to take care of the problem but when you think about it we've had a poverty program since the days of FDR—and now we've got more people on the dole than ever." He put his hard hand out. "I hope I don't sound heartless."

  "Not at all," I said. I smiled. "That's a paid political announcement I give myself sometimes."

  "Got any answers to our dilemma, Mr. Dwyer?"

  "Not a damn one, Mr. Farnsworth," I said. "Not a damn one."

  Chapter 18

  "May I help you?"

  "I'd like to see Mignon, please."

  "Is this is a joke?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Mignon is sixteen years old."

  "I realize that."

  The squat woman in the housedress and the frilly white apron and the brown sensible shoes continued to glare at me. Mignon and Tom Anton lived in an expensive condominium that looked over the river to the east and a forest to the west. I was not surprised that they employed a housekeeper, even one who apparently lived on the premises.

  "My name is Jack Dwyer."

  "You're a friend of the family?"

  "Not exactly. I'm an investigator. I'm sure Mignon will say it's all right to show me in."

  "But will Mr. Anton?"

  "I don't know. Go ask him."

  "That's the problem. He's not here."

  "I see."

  She glared at me some more and then began chewing on the inside of her cheek. "All right. I'll go speak with Mignon, but you're not to come inside. Do you understand?"

  "Scout's honor."

  "That's not very funny."

  She probably trained nuns in her spare time.

  "Right there. And not one foot inside. Do you understand?"

  I nodded. She went away.

  After a time, a nice-looking older couple who looked to be on their way to a holiday party came out of their door down the corridor. As they went over to the elevator, struggling across the thick carpeting, they stared at me as if they'd never seen one of me before. They continued staring, discreetly of course, until their elevator came and they were packed inside.

  "Hello, Jack."

  When I turned back around—I'd almost been tempted to wave at the holiday couple—Mignon stood in the doorway. In a white blouse and designer jeans and her hair in a ponytail, she looked to be fourteen.

  "Our housekeeper thinks you're an escaped convict."

  I smiled. "I shot four orphans on my way over here."

  She smiled back. "She said it was five." She leaned over and picked something up. A Levi jacket. "Do you mind standing in the cold for a few minutes?"

  "I guess not."

  "I'm not supposed to smoke in the apartment."

  "You shouldn't smoke at all."

  "You sound like our housekeeper."

  "I do, don't I?"

  She crossed the threshold, closed the door quietly behind her, took my hand in hers and then led me down the corridor to double glass doors that led to a veranda. Snow was piled in white dunes on both corners of the wide stone patio. She pushed through the doors and we went outside.

  "It's beautiful," I said, and it was, even though it was freezing. Sunlight made the frozen river golden and steep snowy hills covered with pine trees seemed to reach all the way to the blue sky.

  "You want one?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Did you ever smoke?"

  "Too long."

  "I really like it."

  "I'm refraining from giving you any speeches."

  "That's nice of you."

  She got a cigarette going and then walked down to the opposite end of the patio. "Sometimes I stand here and try to count the stars. Do you know that old Indian legend?"

  "No."

  "It saysthat God put man on this planet to count the number of stars in the heavens."

  "And what happens if we ever count them all?"

  "We die. We'll have served our purpose."

  "Sounds like afun sort of God."

  She inhaled deeply. The smoke was silver coming from her lovely red lips. I kept reminding myself of how young she was.

  "When my mother died, I hated God," she said. "I used to tell him that all the time."

  "Do you still hate him?"

  "I don't hate him, but I don't like him either."

  "Is that how you felt about Richard Coburn?"

  "Did I hate him, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "No.

  "Did you love him?"

  She took another drag. Suspicion had narrowed her gaze. Inside her jacket, she shivered. "Rose—you know our housekeeper—she doesn't want me to stay out here very long. Maybe I'd better have a few more drags and go back inside."

  "Somebody told me you were having an affair with him."

  She didn't say anything.

  "Somebody told me that you used to go to acertain motel with him frequently."

  She kept quiet for a while longer and then said, "I thought we were friends, Jack."

  "We are."

  "Friends don't attack each other."

  "I'm not attacking you. I'm trying to find out the truth."

  "My tenth-grade philosophy teacher told me that truth is often an illusion."

  "Then your tenth-grade philosophy teacher is full of shit."

  "You're very angry, aren't you?"

  "I guess I am."

  "Why?"

  "Because you slept with Coburn."

  "Isn't that sort of my business?"

  "Did he rape you?"

  "No."

  "Coerce you?"

  "No. Richard was the seducer and I was the innocent. That's what you'd like to believe, isn't it?"

  "I guess."

  "I lost my virginity when I was ten. I got pregnant when I was thirteen."

  I said nothing.

  "The fact is, Jack, I seduced Richard."

  I remained quiet.

  "I've always been attracted to older men. I'm attracted to you."

  "I don't think you should say any more."

  "Because it spoils your image of me, doesn't it?"

  I shrugged.

  "Doesn't it, Jack?"

  "I guess." Then I said, "Did your father know about you and Richard?"

  "That's why you really came here, isn't it? To find out if Tom knew—because if he did, then he would have had a good reason to kill Richard."

  "Did he know?"

  She flipped her cigarette into a dune of snow and then looked up at the sky. "Isn't it wonderful when you inhale cold air into your lungs?"

  "Did he know, Mignon?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he confront Richard?"


  "Several times."

  "And what happened?"

  "Richard just said it was our business."

  She dropped her head and turned back to me. "I don't think he killed him, Jack."

  "You don't sound very sure."

  "That's the only thing I couldn't handle."

  "What?"

  "If what I did drove Tom to—" She shook her head. "If I come over there, would you give me a hug?"

  "Maybe that's not a good idea."

  "I'm not playing the seductress, Jack. I just need to be held. Don't you ever need to be held?"

  She came over. She pushed her arms around me and held me tight. She put her head against my chest. "I wish you liked me, Jack."

  "Don't play games here, Mignon. You know I like you but I don't approve of how you live."

  "I don't either, really, but I'm not sure how else to do it."

  "Try finding friends your own age, for starters. And try staying out of the Avanti."

  "Tom likes to take me there."

  "The hell with Tom."

  She held me tighter. "Do you have any kids?"

  "A boy and a girl."

  "What's the girl's name?"

  I told her.

  "I wish I was her," she said. "I wish I was your daughter."

  I kissed her forehead. "Come on, kiddo. We're both starting to freeze."

  But she held so tight I couldn't move. "There's a boy," she said.

  "A boy?"

  "In eleventh grade."

  "I see."

  "He's cute but he's also kind of dorky. But I like him."

  "Yeah?"

  "Umm-hmm. I was even thinking of asking him to the Christmas dance."

  "Why don't you?"

  "Because the other girls wouldn't think he was cool enough."

  "To hell with the other girls."

  She laughed and pulled away from me. She took my hand again and tugged me toward the glass door. "You have such simple solutions to things, Jack," she said. "That's why I like you."

  At her door I kissed her on the forehead again. She went inside, Rose standing in the doorway. Mignon looked at her and then at me and smiled sadly. I left.

  Chapter 19

  The Ardmore Chemical Company was located a mile off the football stadium exit. It was a two-story concrete-block building that had been whitewashed not too long ago. From the looks of the parking lot, Ardmore seemed to employ maybe fifty people. Judging by the age and condition of their cars, no one there seemed to be doing so well. Presumably the five-year-old Porsche belonged to the owner.