by Ed Gorman
“Right.”
“Well, I’ll show Mr. Fancy.”
“Damn right you will, Cliff. Damn right you will.”
For just a moment there, I almost felt sorry for him. I almost forgot about the many times he’d billy-clubbed me and punched me and
kicked me, just in the line of duty as he saw it, and the many times he’d cheated and railroaded and framed my clients. For a moment, I forgave him all of it. And then, being Cliffie, he had to go and disabuse me of my Christian charity.
“Chalmers is the man, McCain.”
“He didn’t have any reason to kill her.”
“He hates Squires.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Well, I guess that’s a good point. But he’s also an ex-con.”
“So that automatically makes him the killer?”
“McCain, I’ve read a lot about
ex-cons. Hell, let’s face it, my
family’s got a lot of ex-cons in it. Our family reunion looks like a prison yard.”
He walked to the door.
“I’m gonna be one busy boy, McCain.
First I’m gonna meet up with our friend Squires and tell him what I think of him; then I’m gonna go arrest Chalmers. You can take that as fair warning.”
A minute later, he fired up his Indian and was gone.
The phone rang a few minutes later.
Dick Keys.
“Any word on Mary yet?”
“Not yet, Dick. Thanks for asking.”
“She’s sure a sweetheart. You give her folks my best.”
“I sure will.”
Hesitation. “I’m kind’ve embarrassed about somethin’, McCain.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I’ve got this employee, Merle
Ramsdale? He served a little time for taking a car a few years ago, but I hired him here as a mechanic and he’s been a real good employee.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” What was he getting at?
“He was here Friday night, too, and he saw somethin’, and he shoulda stepped up to the plate before this. But you know how it is when you’re out on parole.
You don’t want to get involved in anything you don’t have to.”
“What’d he see?”
“I’ll let him tell you. He’s standin’ right here.” Then he said, “Just tell him what you told me, Merle, and everything’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that killing, Mr. Keys.”
“I know you didn’t, Merle.”
“People think just because you’ve been in prison—”
“Just talk to Mr. McCain, Merle. He’s a nice young lawyer.”
The phone was handed off and Merle Ramsdale said, “Hi, Mr. McCain.”
“Hi, Merle. I really appreciate you doing this.”
“I just don’t want the parole office to think I had anything to do with the murder.”
“I’m sure they won’t, Merle. Just relax and tell me what you saw.”
“Well, I stepped outside to have a
cigarette. It was a nice night and I’d been puttin’ in a lot of hours and I just thought some fresh air would do me good. And that’s when I saw him, when I was outside having a smoke.”
“Saw who?”
“The big guy.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Well, as I said, a big guy. Like a basketball player. But heavier. Stronger.”
“You notice anything else about him? Kind of clothes he was wearing?”
“Dark jacket of some kind. Zipper, I think. And dark pants. Nothing that really stood out.”
“Anything else?”
“His hair. There was a whole lot of it.
Curly.”
“The color?”
“I think it was red. It was dark. He was over in the shadows. Back by the used cars.”
“What’d he do when he saw you?”
“Just kind of ducked down between a couple of cars.”
“What’d you do?”
“I shouted out, “You want some help with somethin’, mister?” I figured that’d chase him away.”
“And did it?”
“Yeah. He took off running.”
“You see him again?”
“Nope. But then I was inside until
quittin’ time.”
“You didn’t tell anybody about it?”
“Wasn’t anybody around but me.”
“The other mechanic?”
“He was on dinner break.”
“How about Susan Squires?”
“Oh, she was there, but up front. Decorating the showroom. I didn’t want to bother her.”
“And you haven’t told anybody about this till now?”
“Uh-uh. Like I said, I want to stay away from the cops as much as I can. It’d look funny, me involved in some kind of thing like this. I just got married. My wife wouldn’t like it either. She won’t like this, me talkin’ to you. But it just kept stayin’ on my mind. You know how things get sometimes.”
“Well, I appreciate this.”
“I hope I’ve been helpful.”
“You’ve been very helpful.”
“I’ll put Mr. Keys back on.”
“Thanks again, Merle.”
“Don’t know if that was any help,” Keys said, when he came back on, “but I thought you should know.”
I thanked him and hung up.
So young Dr. Jensen had paid Susan a visit at the Ford dealership Friday night just before she was killed.
I wondered how he’d explain it.
I tried his number twice. Nothing. Then I tried the Illinois number and got no answer there either.
I wanted to go looking for Mary, but in the past two days I’d covered the entire town, talked to a good fifty people, followed up every lead and partial lead that’d been offered me. And nothing.
I spent half an hour trying to rig up the lie detector. It was like a Martian trying to plug in a Venusian appliance, to borrow a phrase from Galactic Adventures, one of the magazines I’d read as a kid.
I was just getting ready to go home for the day when I decided to give the Illinois number another try.
A female voice said, “Carmichael
residence.”
“My name’s McCain. I’m a lawyer in
Black River Falls, Iowa.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Ma’am?”
“This is about the taillight, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, ma’am, it is.”
“I told Ronnie he should’ve made her turn it in.”
“Ronnie being—”
“My son. He was over there visiting my sister.”
“I see. And your sister is—?”
“Amy Masters-Squires is her married name.”
“You said, “He should’ve made her turn it in.” She was driving the car?”
“Yes. She was having some kind of trouble with hers so she borrowed his.”
“I see.”
“You know about her ex-husband then?”
“Yes, I do.”
“He was a peach. Any man tried to beat me up, I’d be out of there in two minutes flat.”
“That’s how she should have handled it.”
“It sure is. I expect Ronnie back
in an hour or so.”
“I’ll call later.” I didn’t want
to tell her that she’d just told me the best part of her story: the ex-wife at the murder scene.
“It may be tomorrow.”
“If you see that sister of mine, tell her I’m thinking about it.”
“I sure will. And thanks for your help.”
“You bet.”
A few minutes later, I was on my way home.
Fourteen
I’ve found that the true gourmet chef learns to mix and blend prime ingredients in new and interesting ways. All you need is a hot plate.
Take Dinty Moore Beef Stew and a
small can of c
reamed corn: a rare delight.
Or a can of Campbell’s Mushroom Soup and a can of Foster’s Small Potatoes:
exquisite. Or a can of tuna fish and a can of tomatoes: Voil@a! Two more rules: always serve everything with potato chips, and, if the main dish leaves something to be desired, douse liberally with ketchup. If ketchup can’t kill an offending taste, then you’ve created a gourmet meal that God did not intend to be created.
Such are the ways of bachelorhood.
I was eating a tuna-and-tomato
sandwich in the easy chair so I could watch Tv when Tasha, Crystal, and Tess fanned out at my stockinged feet and look up at me with imploring eyes, the effect of the tuna being not unlike that of, apparently, catnip. They rubbed me, they yowled at me, they head-butted me, they tail-switched me. I kept nodding in the direction of the bowls of kitty food I’d just set out for them. I reminded them that they didn’t even technically belong to me (a local girl who’d gone to Hollywood had left them in my care), so any largesse on my part was all the more remarkable. They were unimpressed with my argument.
I had a headful of confusion. Squires was the most likely killer. But what had Todd Jensen and Amy Squires been doing at the murder scene?
I washed up, changed into a work shirt and chinos, and went out the door. Which was when the phone rang, and I had to go back inside.
“McCain?”
“Yeah.” It was Cliffie.
“Guess where I am?”
“Where?”
“The Sixth Street elevator.”
“Good for you.”
“Meet me at the bottom as soon as you can.”
“Any special reason?”
“Yeah. We’re gonna take a ride.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“You won’t be so smart when you get here.”
“So I don’t even get a hint, huh?”
“Just get your ass over here, counselor.”
“See you in a bit.” I’d run out of smart remarks.
The phone rang a moment after I hung up.
“One of my spies tells me that something’s going on near the Sixth Street elevator.”
“So I’m told by Cliffie.”
“He’s going to beat us, McCain.”
“No, Judge, he’s not.”
“He’d bloody better not, McCain.”
Whenever she used the word bloody, I knew she was mad. She’d seen The Bridge on the River Kwai and had been using it for emphasis ever since.
The Sixth Street elevator is an inclined cable car that rises to the top of a four-hundred-foot hill. Seems
sixty-seventy years ago, the then mayor had a brother-in-law who’d rigged up a similar elevator in Dubuque. Why not in Black River Falls? reasoned the mayor. The elevator is operational about sixty days a year. That’s not because of the weather but because the damned thing doesn’t work any more often than that.
There were three police cars and an ambulance sitting at the base of the hill. The cable car was parked at the bottom end of the tracks.
Cliffie hooked his thumbs in his Sam Browne and swaggered over to me. “I’d sure like to listen in on that conversation when you call the Judge.”
“And why will I call the Judge?”
He just grinned. “C’mon, we’ll take a ride.”
The hill was thick forest except for the cable tracks. In the moonlight, the burnished autumn trees looked wan. A crowd was just now forming. I saw the town’s most famous radio newsman, E.K.W. Horner—and don’t ask me what E.K.W. stands for, nobody knows—with his bow tie and hand mike interviewing a young lawyer from the Da’s office. It was a warm night and there were a lot of hand-holding couples. I wanted to be one of them. And I wanted the hand I was holding to be Mary’s, sitting out at the AandWill root beer stand, eating hot dogs, and watching the carhops show off on their skates. Some of them were pretty damned good. The girls appreciated them as much as the boys.
Cliffie escorted me to the cable car. You could see the various layers of paint the car had received over the years to cover up the dirty words kids put on there. The words got progressively dirtier. Back in the 1930’s Hot
Damn! was a bold expression. We’d now worked our way up to Shove It! God only knew what the future would bring.
The tiny car smelled of oil (from the cable overhead), cigarettes, cigars, perfume, and simple age. The wooden sides had been rained on one-too-many times, and now there was a creeping odor of mortality about them.
Cliffie took a childish delight in
operating the elevator. He closed the door, took off the brake, and slammed the car into motion.
I was knocked back against the wall.
“You know he didn’t finish high
school,” Cliffie said, as we started crawling up the steep incline. All we could see, side to side, were the branches of fir trees that covered the hill.
“Who didn’t?”
“Your client.”
“I have a lot of clients.”
“But only one killer, I’ll bet.”
I sighed. “Aw, shit. Is this about Chalmers?”
“It sure is, counselor.”
“He didn’t kill anybody.”
“He didn’t, huh? You know what I said about him not finishing high school?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that don’t mean he’s dumb.”
“No, of course it doesn’t.”
“He managed to fool you.” The lazy, mean, hillbilly smirk. “And foolin’ a counselor like you—well, you’d have to be a mighty smart man.”
I still had no idea what he was talking about.
As long as it wasn’t about Mary. It terrified me that it was going to be about Mary.
The car continued to inch its way up the slope, slowly now that the incline was steep. I wanted to get out and push.
“I still don’t get a clue?”
“You just keep your britches on, counselor.”
He pulled out a flashlight and beamed it through the window. He was looking for something next to the cable tracks. “Should be comin’ up any time now.”
I started watching the hillside outside the car and saw nothing remarkable. Ground covered with needles of fir and spruce. An occasional beer can, empty red package of Pall Malls, potato-chip bag, all pitched out by cable car passengers.
Cliffie was getting excited. He started smirking to himself, which was always a bad sign, and then he brought the car to a jerky halt.
“We’re not there yet,” I said.
“Oh, yes, we are.”
“We’re only halfway to the top.”
“That’s where your man put it.”
“My man?”
“Chalmers.”
“Ah.”
“I hate that. That “Ah” thing you say.”
“I’ll have to try and say it more often.”
“Let’s see you play smart-ass now,
counselor.”
He threw the doors open and stepped outside.
The pine scent was powerful. The silver half-moon was vivid. It was a beautiful night. Cliffie led the way around the front of the car. Then I saw why he’d stopped. A big white X had been made on the dark ground with some sort of flour or powder.
“Who put that there?” I said.
“Guy who found it.”
“Guy who found what?”
“You’ll see, counselor. Don’t worry.”
He led us into the trees then, but not far. We didn’t need to go far. The body of David Squires was waiting alongside the forest trail, sprawled on its back between two trees. The bark on one tree ran with a sickly looking sap.
Cliffie started to move forward but I grabbed him.
“What the hell you think you’re doin’, counselor? I’m the law around here.”
“The crime scene. We could destroy
evidence.”
“That more of the stuff them Commies taught you at Iowa?”
A few years ago, a professor of
economics had written a mildly left-wing book about the poverty of migrant workers. Ever since then, the local McCarthyites had accused everyone on the faculty of being a Commie.
“Crime scene. You’ve never heard that expression before?”
“I just wanted you to see and then apologize.”
“For what?”
“For accusing this fine man of being a murderer.”
“A, he wasn’t a fine man, and, B,
I still think he had something to do with the murder of his wife.”
I don’t know what kind of reaction Cliffie’d expected from me—probably some kind of swooning admission that I’d been wrong about Squires—but I wasn’t giving it to him.
I sighed. “I’m sorry he’s dead.”
There was a small hole on the right side of his forehead. I assumed this was the shot that killed him.
His tan suit was grass-stained on the knees and elbows. His right cheek was bruised badly.
“You are, huh?”
“He was a human being.”
“Not much of one, according to you.”
“He beat his wives pretty badly. That isn’t exactly an admirable trait.”
“Some people just think their shit don’t stink. That’s what sticks in my craw.”
“Meaning me?”
The smirk. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“So what’s the connection to Chalmers?”
“Two people seen him get on the cable car with Squires here.”
“When was this?”
“About two hours ago.”
“You going to tell me who they are?”
“The witnesses?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Oh, sure. I’ll even let you interview them so you can twist their stories.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“You sure of that?”
“I’m sure.”
“What I’m sure of is, you’re full of shit. You and the Judge.”
“Gosh, and here I was going to invite you to my birthday party.”
“C’mon, McCain, the bastard’s nailed and you know it. He’s an ex-con.”
I had a lot of things to do.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I need to get
back.”
He looked at the body and then smirked at me. “Nailed good and tight.”
I was just walking back to my car when the block-long Lincoln Continental swept up.
Jeeves was driving. I called him Jeeves because of my fondness for P. G. Wodehouse. I also called him Jeeves because I had no idea what his name was. He was Judge Whitney’s driver, that’s all I knew. He rolled down the window. He was in livery. He looked proper and tough at the same time, not unlike the Judge herself. He nodded to the backseat.
