by Joan Hess
Which is what I was afraid he might do, the very minute I was beside him. I shook my head. “Thanks, anyway, but I think I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself, Senator,” he said, sprawling across the seat once again to claw at the elusive door handle.
I risked it all to cross the sidewalk and push the door closed for him. He gave me a grin, touched the visor of his cap, and glanced in the rearview mirror to see if any police cars were going in or out of the station parking lot. As he started to pull away, a flicker of an earlier statement came back to me.
“Arnie! Stop, please,” I called, trotting a few steps in pursuit.
He stopped and leaned out the window. “Change your mind, Senator? You ole Washingtonians never seem to know what all you want to do.”
“I’d appreciate a ride to the theater. Is it possible that we can drive very slowly so that we can talk?”
“Whatever makes you happy.” He waited until I was settled beside him, then slammed the truck into first gear. We peeled away from the police station in a haze of burning oil and a shower of gravel.
I waited to hear a siren come to life behind us, but apparently all the good little cops were home asleep and the big bad ones inside the station bullying innocent witnesses. Once I could pry my cold white lips apart, I said, “I wanted to ask you about the parade, Arnie. Did you tell the state policeman who found you that you’d been given instructions?”
“Lordy, lordy, I get instructions all the time. My brother-in-law sez don’t drive the boat so gosh darn fast or you’ll rip off the bottom on a stump. My boss sez hose down the trucks until they glitter like Christmas balls. My counselor at AA sez all sorts of things, but you may be able to tell I don’t pay a whole lot of attention to him.”
“I’m curious about the parade. What were the instructions concerning the convertible?”
He took both hands off the steering wheel and began to count on his fingers. “First, be there at two-thirty or else. Go to the parking lot and do whatever they say through those megaphones. Don’t drive too fast, and don’t drive too slow. Don’t say anything nasty in front of the passengers. Don’t discuss politics with the Senator.”
I grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the side, thus saving a suicidal squirrel and an impassive fire hydrant. “Would you mind … ?”
“Sure, Senator. Hey, you don’t mind if we talk politics just a little, do you? This uniform capitalization is making me crazy. I got to admit I can’t figure out how to calculate my taxes this year. I thought you old boys was going to simplify it for us ignorant fellows.”
Having had some success steering the truck, I attempted to do the same with the conversation. “You’re not ignorant, Arnie. We both know you’re as sly as they come. After all, you followed instructions, didn’t you?”
“To the best of my God-given talents,” he said, watching me out of the corner of his eye. He pulled over to the curb and cut off the engine. “Back in a jiffy, Senator. Can I bring you anything?”
I shook my head. He bounced into a yellow brick building, and emerged a few minutes later with a white paper sack. “Day-old doughnuts,” he announced as he got back into the truck. “Help yourself, if you’re feeling a little hungry after a night in the slammer. I’m always ravenous, myself.” He crammed one in his mouth, started up the truck, and blithely pulled back into the blessedly empty street.
“Now about these instructions,” he said, reaching into the sack between us. “You could say I did, and you could say I didn’t, depending on your where you stand on the issues. Now, I’ll be the first to say I didn’t drive the convertible like the parade chairwomanperson said I was supposed to, although we might not have been shot at if I’d been at the helm. Then again, I did fetch the convertible after the parade like I was supposed to.”
“And head for the Dew Drop Inn?”
“I don’t recall it was specified where I was supposed to go. All I was told—instructed, if you prefer—was to get the car and then get it and yours truly out of town for a couple of days. I was limited by my choice of destinations; I lacked the ready capital to make it to Florida, or even the racetrack in Hot Springs. So I said to myself, I said, Arnie, why don’t you run out to the Dew Drop and see if anybody’s interested in a friendly game of eight-ball? Worked out nicely, until old smoky showed up.”
“Were these instructions given with any financial remuneration?”
“Why, Senator, do I look like the sort of man who’d accept a bribe?” He gulped down a mouthful and gave me an indignant scowl.
“Heavens no,” I said hastily. “I’m terribly curious to know who gave you the instructions to snatch the car after the parade.”
“Do I look like the sort of man who’d accept a bribe?”
“Yes, now that I look at you more closely, I see that you do.” I opened my purse and took out my billfold, which was in no way bulging with bribes. “How about an easy ten, Arnie?”
“I’ve been eating day-old doughnuts so long I’ve forgotten what fresh ones taste like.”
“Twenty will buy a lot of fresh doughnuts, Arnie,” I said with more mildness than I felt. “Dozens and dozens of them. More than anyone could eat in one day. If you buy too many, you’ll end up with day-old doughnuts, anyway.”
“Ain’t life ironic?” Chuckling, he stopped in front of the theater and offered the sack to me. “Last chance, Senator.”
Thirty-one dollars and eleven cents bought me the right to take three guesses. I handed over the cash, then leaned back and considered the most likely instructors. In the interim, Arnie ate doughnuts and discussed his favorite game shows. He seemed confident he could take all their money and shiny new cars, given the opportunity, but it was too expensive to get out to LA to take a test, and besides, everybody knew they were more interested in minority contestants. Now if he were a black Chicano woman …
McWethy had fired the shot, I decided, and therefore might have wanted the evidence whisked away until everyone calmed down. “A tall, gangly man with a beard?” I suggested.
He beeped the horn and shouted, “Who was the sixteenth President of the United States?”
Rain began to splatter on the windshield in the ensuing silence. “Ah, sorry, Senator,” Arnie murmured. “No, it wasn’t any tall, ganglious type.”
While he hummed tunelessly and drummed his fingers on the top of the steering wheel, I tried to envision Cyndi in a conversation with Arnie. I reminded myself that she had blackmailed Mac into abetting her. She certainly wouldn’t want the bullet examined before her round of television interviews and press conferences.
I gave Arnie a stern look, then said, “Was it the girl who rode in the back of the convertible? Pretty, with dark hair and long, thick eyelashes?”
His hand jerked toward the horn, but stopped with centimeters to spare. “No, it wasn’t the beauty queen who kept yelling someone was trying to kill her. I’d remember that. That’s two, Senator.”
The rain increased, until it battered the roof of the truck and trickled through a crack in the windshield. The gutters along the street filled with bubbling brown water. Raindrops hurled down from the marquee and splattered on the sidewalk like ping-pong balls. I felt like the mendacious maiden in Rumpelstiltskin, which is to say I didn’t have a clue to the unknown name. I wasn’t sure it mattered, but at some level it seemed important. Vital. True to the fairy-tale premise, I ran through all the names of anyone remotely connected with the pageant, from the contestants and judges to Sally Fromberger. I was on the verge of admitting defeat and offering Arnie a check, when he abruptly switched on the engine.
“I’ve got to run along, Senator. I want to get home in time to watch ‘Meet the Press, ’ just like you do. Really nice to have seen you; maybe we can have lunch some time. I hear the bean soup at the capitol dining room is wowsy.”
“I have one guess left,” I reminded him. “We agreed on the rules before I gave you every last cent in my purse. We are going to sit here until I make my third guess, an
d it may not be until ‘Sixty Minutes’ comes on tonight.”
“You politicians know how to drive a hard bargain, don’t you? You’ve got me over the old porkbarrel, Senator. I don’t know the lady’s name, but she was attractive. Dark hair. No older than you. Nice manners. Better heeled than some. That’s about all I can tell you. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I would like to get home in time to whip up an omelette before my show comes on. You ever tried mushrooms and ricotta cheese, with just a pinch of oregano? Ciao.”
He leaned across me and opened the door. I was eased off the seat with a gentle, unrelenting hand. The door slammed shut and the truck drove down Thurber Street. I realized I was standing in the rain, gawking, and moved under the marquee to gawk.
Sally Fromberger was a blonde. Feminist considerations aside, the pageant contestants were girls, not women. Eunice was not unappetizing, but I doubted she would be described as “attractive,” and she certainly was older than I. I could think of two women who fit Arnie’s criteria. I realized my shoes were filling with water and my nose was dripping in rhythm with the falling rain.
Cursing the desk sergeant for his lack of concern, I dashed down the sidewalk beside the building and around the corner to the alley. My car was gone. My comments were drowned out by the rain. I ran back to the protection of the marquee, clutched my purse to my chest for warmth, and gazed at the empty street. Taxis relentlessly cruise the streets of Manhattan, but they do not cruise anywhere in Farberville unless requested to do so. As I mentally reviewed the route to my apartment, the rain began to pour down hard enough to pockmark the concrete. Lightning snaked across the sky, and three seconds later thunder boomed. A gust of wind threw rain across my face—cold, cold rain.
There were pay telephones in front of the copy shop across the street. There were several valid reasons why they were of no damn help whatsoever. One involved whom to call, and another how to operate the machine without so much as a penny, Arnie having fleeced me with the adroitness of an Australian sheep shearer.
A second flash of lightning sent me to the glass door of the theater. I peered into the lobby, which was dark, deserted, and dry. Police seals were plastered along the edges of the doors, and a cardboard notice promised all sorts of official retribution to anyone who entered the premises. I took out my key and entered the premises. After all, the current situation was Peter’s fault. I was cold and wet; one small telephone call and I would be out of there. Surely he would understand. Ho, ho.
THIRTEEN
It might have seemed expedient to make the call and get the hell out of the theater, but once I was in the office, I went to the bathroom and grabbed a handful of paper towels to dry my face. I took off my shoes, held them over the sink, and watched brown water dribble down the drain.
Despite a gloomy prescience, I went to the desk and dialed Luanne’s telephone number. She did not answer. For a gimp, she was out quite often, I told myself as I slumped back in the chair and studied the ceiling. She was having an affair with Mr. Whoozit of tomato-growing repute, she worked for the CIA in her spare time, or she was involved in something she certainly didn’t want me to know about. And doing an exceptionally competent job of it.
I noticed two broken pencil pieces on the desk. I decided it would not be tactful to call Peter, tell him someone had stolen my car, and ask him to give me a ride home from the same theater I’d illicitly broken into minutes ago. If I’d known Arnie’s last name, I might have called him; an omelette sounded pretty damn good. The sociology professor who lived below me rode a bicycle. Caron was twelve months away from driving her mother anywhere except up the wall.
The light flickered as thunder echoed outside. I took my ever-ready flashlight from my purse and toyed with it while I contemplated my next move, which I was confident would prove to be brilliant. Things did not seem brilliant at the moment, however. I was stranded in a dark building which had housed two murder victims and had sheltered at least one murderer. If I stuck one toe outside, I would be struck by lightning, washed down the gutter with the litter, and arrested posthumously for trespassing.
On a more optimistic note, the office was reasonably warm and dry. I was the only inhabitant, and the police were not likely to drop by any time soon. The storm would end. I would then walk home, fix myself a hot cup of tea, and fall into my bed for six or eight hours. Eight or ten hours. Ten or twelve hours. The fantasy was so appealing that I went over to the couch and lay down, telling myself I would under no circumstances close my eyes for more than one second.
A jab in the rear woke me up a few minutes later. I felt the crack where the cushions met and found the perpetrator, a stiff corner of paper. I pulled it free and held it above my face. A sealed envelope, fresh and white rather than faded and yellow. It was thick enough to indicate it contained several sheets of paper. As I debated the delicate social dilemma of ripping open someone’s mail to read the contents, I heard the front door open with a tiny click. Stealthy footsteps came across the lobby.
I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my flashlight from the desk, and hurried across the office to turn off the light. I used my flashlight to illuminate a path to the bathroom. I left the door open an inch and cowered behind the commode, feeling both inordinately silly and thoroughly alarmed. Police officers never sneak across anything. The first course at the academy is in striding, plodding, and stomping. At the moment, my heart was doing all three.
The office door opened and the light came on. Footsteps continued across the room. The chair squeaked. After a metallic click, a drawer was pulled open with a grating noise. Papers rustled.
My ears were right on top of the situation, but I couldn’t see anything except the dusty plastic plant and one end of the couch. I suddenly realized I had the envelope in my hand; I folded it several times, and stuffed it down the front of my shirt in true heroine fashion. Then, frustrated to the point of recklessness, I inched around the commode so that I could see the desk.
Luanne, dressed in a raincoat and scarf, was taking something from the drawer. She let out a yelp of surprise as I stomped out of the bathroom. “Claire? What in heaven‘s—what are you—you doing here? Why are you hiding in there?” she said amid stutters and gasps.
I put my hands on my hips and glowered down at her. “My presence is a long and marginally entertaining story. What are you doing here—and more to the point, what are you taking out of the drawer?”
She closed the drawer with a bang. “Nothing of any significance. Just a few personal things I left here several days ago. I thought Mac was our resident phantom; I still can’t believe you were hiding in the bathroom at seven o’clock in the morning.”
“I am fed up with these evasions and digressions,” I snapped. “If what’s in the drawer is so darn insignificant, why did you risk the wrath of the police to come into the theater at—as you so accurately pointed out—seven o’clock in the morning? Why are the drawers always locked and what are you keeping in there?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said in a low voice. She looked down at her purse in her lap and sighed. “You’ll have to trust me, Claire. I have a problem and I’m not ready to tell anyone about it. But it has nothing to do with the two murders and blackmail and all that crazy stuff. It’s personal.”
I went to the couch and sat down. Hating myself, I said, “How do you know there’s been a second murder?”
“Peter called last night to tell me what happened. I’m supposed to go to the station and make a statement this afternoon.”
“I called you last night right after Steve was killed, and you didn’t answer the telephone.”
Luanne covered her face with her hands, then jerked them away and gazed steadily across the desk at me. “I was home all night. You must have called while I was in the shower. Listen, Claire, I know my behavior has been pretty flaky this last week, but I didn’t hurt anyone, much less decide to cut short the pageant by murdering Miss Thurberfest and the emcee.”
“But you came here at an ungodl
y hour to get something from the desk drawer. Did Peter tell you to leave the drawer key at the police station when you went there?”
She nodded. “He wants to look through the contestants’ applications, although I can’t imagine what he’s hoping to find—beyond whimsically creative bust measurements and inflated grade-point averages.”
“Or a starchy white envelope?”
“I have no idea, Claire. He told me what happened, mentioning something sarcastic about Miss Marple-Malloy along the way. I said I’d appear at the station and drop off the key. That was the gist of it,” she said with a look of bewilderment.
I slumped down and rested my head on the back of the couch. If the envelope wasn’t Luanne’s, then it was someone else’s ( Miss Marple-Malloy was again beginning to feel potential brilliance in the offing) . It occurred to me that Steve’s explanation for being in the theater involved some misplaced papers. The explanation hadn’t held as much water as my shoes, but he certainly might have been looking for something. Something so vital that it warranted prowling around an inky theater.
Perhaps I’d disparaged Cyndi Jay too readily. She might have had enough sense to realize the inherent peril of chatting with her blackmail victim. The time-honored tradition was to keep the damning evidence in a safe place, and sneeringly inform the victim that he’d better not do anything rash. In fact, she’d been carrying an envelope before the parade. She’d been alone in the office afterward, and might have hidden it between the cushions of the couch.
Which led to the obvious conclusion that the envelope contained a detailed description of the affair. I could have ripped it open to confirm this, but, then again, it was still raining. Luanne didn’t seem particularly comfortable behind the desk, but the couch was surprisingly devoid of springs poking through the plastic upholstery. And Super Cop might fail to be amused with torn evidence, which he would interpret as evidence of felonious interference on someone’s part.
