by R. R. Irvine
Traveler smiled with satisfaction at the brass plaque—The Villa. An overhead light protected by wire mesh cast just enough of a glow to illuminate the names on a row of brass mailboxes. There were listings for two Dixons: R. Dixon, Apt. 12, and V. Dixon, Apt. 3. If The Villa ran true to form, number twelve would be on the top floor.
The catch on the downstairs door was clogged with snow, so Traveler walked right in. He avoided the old-fashioned elevator because it was sure to make a racket, and followed a trail of slushy footprints up the carpeted stairs.
The slush ran out at the second floor. But wet footprints went all the way to the top.
As Traveler climbed, the building’s odor intensified. By the time he reached the top floor the smell was strong enough to taste, like an old meal partially regurgitated.
Scuff marks on the carpet at the head of the stairs indicated that whoever left the tracks had stopped to wipe his shoes. After that, Traveler had no footprints to follow, though when he touched the carpet directly outside number twelve the nap felt slightly damp.
He rang the bell. In the still of the night it sounded loud enough to wake the dead.
After a moment he heard a crash, as if something had been knocked over. “Shit,” a man muttered. Footsteps clopped. The door opened.
In a bathrobe Dixon looked a hundred pounds lighter than he had earlier in the evening. His feet were in galoshes instead of slippers. One look at Traveler and he said, “Shit,” again, immediately adding, “do you know what time it is, for God’s sake? It’s the middle of the night.” Dixon’s breath smelled of whiskey. “What happened? Did John Varney send you here to scare the goodies out of me?”
Traveler smiled, hoping to keep the man talking. Without being asked, he stepped across the threshold and into a small, dimly lit hallway. Straight ahead stood a closed door, probably the bathroom. On his right was an open archway. He followed Dixon through it.
Obviously Dixon used his living room as an office. Along one wall was a cluster of tan metal filing cabinets, their top forming a counter of sorts on which folders were heaped. Next to the cabinets stood a rolltop desk from whose open mouth papers spilled like an unruly tongue. A brass goosenecked lamp curved out from the wall, its bright bulb throwing a pool of light on the disgorged papers.
Dixon turned abruptly, his hands up as if to fend off attack. “If you’re here to hit me again, I’m going to start screaming bloody murder. My neighbors have orders to call the police if I call for help.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re drinking,” Traveler said, indicating a lone, two-drawer filing cabinet that was being used as a makeshift bar.
Smiling slyly, Dixon poured bourbon into two glasses, added ice and a dash of diet 7-Up. “Let me see you drink it,” he said, handing the glass to Traveler.
Traveler obliged, swallowing half the contents in a gulp.
“That’s all right, then,” Dixon said. “Varney wouldn’t send a Jack Mormon to do his dirty work.”
Traveler smiled. Originally Jack Mormon had referred to gentiles who befriended members of the church. More recently the term had become a designation for Mormons who’d strayed from Joe Smith’s Word of Wisdom.
“Why are you here?” Dixon said.
Traveler saw no harm in telling the truth. “I thought you might be able to help me locate Martha Varney.”
“So that’s what you were doing at the house.”
“Yes.”
“Let me tell you something. I wouldn’t raise a fuckin’ finger to help John Varney. I went to him in good faith, gave him a fair price, and what did he do? Turned me down flat.” Dixon added whiskey to his own drink, ignoring Traveler’s half-empty glass. “Doesn’t he realize what my document could do to that beloved church of his?”
Dixon peered intently at Traveler, blinking like a man having trouble focusing. After a moment his free hand made a circling motion to show he was waiting for some kind of answer.
Traveler said, “I imagine that means you’re not a member of the church yourself.”
“Damn right I am. How else would I get access to records for my research?”
“What if I told you it’s not John Varney I’m working for?”
“I’d say you were smarter than you look, then. Varney’s a loser, for Christ’s sake. He should have paid me my money. It’s not coming out of his pocket. No, indeed. The church is loaded. Ten percent tithe from the faithful. And what do I ask? Peanuts. Anyone with brains would pay through the nose to keep a murder quiet.”
The moment the last words were out Dixon pounded himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. “Reuben, you’re a dummy. The man’s looking for Martha Varney, not religion.”
Traveler finished his drink and put the glass down. “You’re going to have to tell me about the murder, one way or another.”
“I told you before. That’s my secret. It’s money in the bank. If John Varney won’t pay, someone else will.”
Traveler grabbed the man’s bathrobe so hard seams ripped under the arms.
“For Christ’s sake, you’re as bad as Varney. This has nothing to do with Martha. The murder I’m talking about is a hundred years old, more. Ancient history.”
Traveler balled his fist under Dixon’s nose. His only reaction was to sigh, as if resigning himself to take whatever punishment was coming.
“All right,” Traveler said after a moment. “We’ll stick to Martha Varney.”
“You can go ahead and beat me up for that, too. I don’t know anything. If I did, I would have told Penny a long time ago.”
“How do you know her?”
“Like me, she’s another of the faithful who’s gone astray.”
“Your number was in her book.”
“Maybe it was my wife’s number. She used to live here, too, you know.”
“And now?”
He snorted. “She has her own phone downstairs. Unlisted so I won’t call her in the middle of the night when I’m drinking.”
10
APARTMENT NUMBER three was on the ground floor. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning when Traveler rang the bell, with Reuben Dixon hovering just behind him.
“That’s no way to do it,” the man said, his voice slurring. He punched the bell, holding it down until Traveler pried his finger away.
“It’ll do her good,” Dixon said. “Put a little adrenaline in her blood for once.”
“I’d better take you back upstairs. I can talk to your wife another time.”
From behind the door a woman’s voice said, “Is that you, Reuben?”
“Who else, for Christ’s sake?”
“Have you been drinking again?”
“You’re damn right.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dixon,” Traveler said. “I’ll try to put him to bed.”
The door opened, though with a night chain in place.
Even viewed through such a small opening she appeared to be an elegant woman, with that special kind of pale-skinned beauty some achieve about forty. In contrast to her ivory complexion, her black hair and dark eyes looked all the more intense.
Smile wrinkles around her eyes and lips refused to go away when she frowned at him. “Who are you and what are you doing with my husband?”
Traveler showed her a photostat of his license.
She squinted at it. “Are you the police?”
“I’m a private detective, Mrs. Dixon.” Then he stretched the point to add, “I’m working for the church.”
The moment her eyes widened, she had that vague look the nearsighted get when caught without their glasses. “I knew it, Reuben. I always said you’d go too far and get yourself into real trouble.”
“It’s not me who’s got the trouble.”
“Go to bed and let me talk to the man.”
When he started to argue, Traveler took hold of his shoulder and squeezed.
“All right,” Dixon said, his voice rising with pain. “Sleep with her if you want. But you’ll freeze your balls
off.” With that, he careened down the hallway. A moment later they could hear him bumping his way upstairs.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m the one who should apologize, Mrs. Dixon.”
“What’s this about?”
“I’m trying to find Martha Varney.”
She sighed. “You’d better come in then. We don’t want to wake up the neighbors.”
Her apartment, a duplicate floor plan of her husband’s, was furnished thoughtfully. A large Oriental rug of gold and deep blue went nearly wall-to-wall in the living room, while powder-blue drapes masked all the windows. The same powder-blue was picked up in an overstuffed sofa covered in corduroy. There were also two matching wing chairs done in rose velvet, a Victorian needlepoint love seat, and a reclining lounger facing the television set.
But it was a straight-backed rocker in one corner that attracted Mrs. Dixon. Once settled into it, she immediately folded her hands in her lap. But she didn’t rock. Instead, she kept her feet planted firmly on the floor.
“That poor child,” she said. Her face changed. Tension pulled the skin tight around her eyes, erasing the wrinkles. Without them she looked old and forlorn. “She’s still grieving for her mother.”
“You mean Penny?”
“The Varneys are my cousins. Thanks to them, a little church work used to come my husband’s way when times were hard.”
“And now?”
The wrinkles around her eyes came and went. “My husband bought this building. He owns others, too. It’s no longer money with him. It’s . . .”
Traveler waited, hoping she’d continue. When she didn’t he said, “Are you saying Martha Varney was an in-law?”
“More than that. We were friends once. But I’ve never forgiven her for leaving Penny. That child’s never been the same.”
“I’m told she was fifteen at the time.”
Mrs. Dixon studied him thoughtfully. “Penny is years behind her real age. Because of it, people take advantage of her. I hope you’re not one of them, Mr. . . .”
“Moroni Traveler.”
“You’re not LDS, are you?”
“Does it show?”
“As far as I’m concerned it does. I knew Reuben wasn’t one of us the moment I saw him. But did I walk away?” She answered her own question with a shake of her head. “He thought it was funny when Penny lost her faith. I think he may have encouraged her. For that, I can’t forgive him. Who else could have put such ideas in the girl’s head? She actually went to the prophet, to Elton Woolley, behind her father’s back and asked for Martha’s baptism for the dead. Do you know what that means?”
He nodded.
“The family once considered getting professional help for that child.”
“A psychiatrist?”
“It never went that far, Mr. Traveler. We Mormons like to do our own healing.”
She looked down at her own hands as if they had the power to cure.
“When did you last see Penny’s mother?”
“A long time ago.” She made a show of counting on her fingers. “Three years at least.”
“I was told that she left John Varney five years ago.”
“That sounds right.” Her eyes narrowed as though concentrating on a distant memory. “Martha came back to Salt Lake about three years after she left. She wanted to see Penny, but John wouldn’t allow a reconciliation, or so Martha said when she came to see me after he turned her away. She’d been drinking by then and smelled like a saloon. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, though, especially when she told me that she’d gotten down on her knees and begged John to forgive her. He’s a hard man. Of course, I’m not saying he wasn’t justified. But he should have left Martha’s judgment to God and thought about his daughter a little more.”
Mrs. Dixon’s head tilted to one side and then the other as if she were listening for echoes from the past. “Martha used to talk about living in big cities like New York and Los Angeles. I hope she did. I hope she didn’t get stuck like me.” Her eyes went wide, giving her a startled look as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard herself say.
Traveler wanted to reach out to her. Instead, he asked, “Do you know why she left John Varney in the first place?”
“I knew Martha back in high school. Even then she was different from the rest of us. Of course, that was twenty years ago. Things have changed since then. Salt Lake has become much more cosmopolitan. In those days there weren’t many black or brown skins in this town. Heavens. There weren’t many Catholics either. Martha was one of the few gentiles I knew. Yet somehow she became part of our group. She even came to Mutual with me a few times, though we both knew she did it to meet boys. That’s where my cousin John fell in love with her.”
Mutual, Traveler recalled from his own youth, stood for Mutual Improvement Association. In the early days it had provided theological studies for young people, but was now in the business of furnishing them with wholesome recreation, usually on Wednesday evenings. In Mormon country, where the word was “be fruitful and multiply,” that often translated into premarital sex.
“John must have been attracted to her because they were such opposites,” Mrs. Dixon went on. “Marrying a Catholic twenty years ago was like marrying the devil.”
She shuddered. “Maybe it still is. Maybe I should have known better, too. But Reuben joined the church for me. At least, he said it was for me.”
Traveler nodded to keep her talking.
“If Martha had stayed on, John probably wouldn’t have risen so high in the church. Certainly not to the Council of Seventy. He’s lucky to have escaped the taint of Rome.”
As she spoke Traveler kept wondering how an attractive, apparently intelligent woman could live forty or so years and still be fighting the religious battles that he had abandoned right along with puberty.
“If you ask me, it was John who drove her away. But to this day I don’t know why. There was a time when I would have gladly traded places with her.”
“Her husband for yours?”
“I was thinking about Penny,” she said quickly, her eyes looking away, her cheeks flushing. “I never had any children of my own.”
“Why do you and your husband live in separate apartments?”
“That’s none of your business. But I’ll tell you anyway, just to spite him. Once he started to make money selling documents, he changed. He chased women, the kind who are attracted to wealth. I could forgive him the women, but not the girl, not what he’s done to Penny.”
“Your niece has your husband’s telephone number in her address book,” Traveler said. “He claims that it was you she usually called.”
“I only wish that were true, Mr. Traveler. Then perhaps I’d be able to forgive him.”
11
TRAVELER AWOKE after an hour’s sleep. It was still very early. When he stepped to the bedroom window, the white world outside looked silent and free of sin.
His eyes stung from lack of sleep. Rubbing them brought no relief, only tears.
“Don’t eat yellow snow,” his father shouted from the hallway.
“Are those your words of wisdom for the day?” Traveler’s speech slurred and his tongue felt like a salted slug.
“Joseph Smith had his Word of Wisdom,” Martin said, entering the room. “So do I. Stay away from the church. It’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than yellow snow.”
With an exaggerated groan, Traveler went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
His father trailed partway, poking his head around the door frame. “The last time I went to church I married your mother.”
Traveler gargled.
“Speaking of women,” his father went on, “Claire called again.”
“I didn’t hear the phone.”
“I thought that’s what woke you. It did me. But that’s women for you, always picking the wrong time and place. So I told her you spent the night out. You should have heard her then. In my day women didn’t use that kin
d of language.”
“Anything else?”
“Only that she wanted to be saved.” The old man winked. “Don’t we all.”
“What the hell would I do without you, Dad?”
His father rubbed a thumb and forefinger together as if trying to get hold of just the right word. “For one thing, you probably wouldn’t be a detective. I seem to remember your mother wanted bigger things for you.”
“She had plans for me, all right.”
Martin grimaced. “Big plans for a big man, she always said. That was one of the ways she took delight in pointing out the differences in our size.”
Without thinking about it, Traveler found himself breathing shallowly, wondering if this would be the time when his father finally brought the question of paternity out into the open.
“Like father, like son, I used to tell her. God, it drove her crazy.”
Traveler laughed out loud. It cleared his head; it reminded him just how lucky he was to have Martin as a father, genes or no genes.
Yet he could still hear his mother’s answer to something like that. “Don’t listen to your father,” she’d say, the words your father pronounced reluctantly, as if somehow tainted. “Listen to me and you’ll make something out of yourself. A big man has an edge in this life. People look up to him. Remember that and one day you’ll thank me for steering you in the right direction.”
Whenever Traveler tried to argue she’d only talk louder. “Add a profession to your size and you’ll be something your father never was. Important. Why, if you were a doctor, or even a lawyer, there would be no stopping you.”
Traveler had once asked Martin what he thought of such grandiose plans. His father had stood on tiptoe measuring himself against a mark he pretended to have inked on his son’s chest and said, “What counts in life is being yourself. If there’s a doctor inside there, he’ll come out.”
“And if it’s a lawyer?”
“Then God help us all.”
