Cliff's Photography was strictly a photo studio, and advertised all the usual, from family portraits to passport photos in their ad. I called and Cliff assured me that he could have the print ready by tomorrow if I dropped the negatives off before noon today.
When I arrived, the sign on the door was turned to "OPEN." A bell rang someplace in back when I walked in and the door on the far wall soon opened. A tall lanky man emerged, wiping his hands on a paper towel, which he wadded up and tossed into the trash can across the room.
"Two points, maybe three," he said. "Hi, I'm Cliff. Are you the guy who called about the reprints?"
I said I was that guy and showed him the three negatives. He took them behind the counter and laid them on a small light box where he perused them at close range through a magnifier.
"These look identical. Somebody took pictures of a photograph to make a new negative, right?"
"Right. But now I've misplaced the original photo and I need some more made. Are you sure they're all exactly the same?"
"If you want, just to be sure, I'll make one from each neg, but I'm pretty sure it's the same picture."
I told him that it was very important and I'd like one of each. He was probably right, though. Charlie had taken only one picture from his parent's album and this was probably just several shots of the same picture. I asked for eight-by-ten glossies and Cliff said I could pick them up after ten the following day.
I got home in time to see a blue pickup truck pulling away from my front door. I laid on the horn and followed it down Main Street, waving my arm out the window. From the back, the driver appeared to be a woman. She pulled off the road a few blocks away and got out of the truck, smiling. It was Melanie Goodwin. I pulled over and leaned across the seat to look up at her.
"Were you just at my place?"
"I sure was. I had to come up to Iowa City for an appointment and I decided to look you up. I figured I owed you at least a cup of coffee after the trouble you went to for me last week."
I said I'd be happy to join her for a drink and didn't mention that I was glad it would be coffee this time. I didn't want to have to drive that truck back to Keokuk for her. We circled the block and parked back at my place to walk over to the cafe. It wasn't as cold as it had been earlier and the wind was down to about five miles an hour, so the walk was pleasant.
The cafe was almost full at this time of the morning, with the late breakfast crowd and the "one more coffee for the road" folks still filling the tables and booths. I spotted an empty booth along the side wall and guided Melanie over to it. We hung our coats and gear on the hook provided at the end of the booth and slid in, feeling the coldness of the orange vinyl seats. I loved this place.
Nancy, the older of the two regular waitresses, was soon there to say hello and take our orders. She reappeared with two heavy white mugs filled with fresh coffee. In a few minutes, she was back, carrying one plate with my oversized cinnamon roll hanging over the edge and a second that held Melanie's two slices of wheat toast. We told her that was it and she moved off to greet some new arrivals at the booth behind us. Melanie and I sipped the coffee.
"So what brings you up to my neck of the woods?" I asked.
"Oh, just checking on a class at the University. No big deal, but my car died yesterday, so I had to borrow my uncle's tank of a truck. If I don't tear my shoulder loose steering it, I'll be fine."
"How did you know where I lived?"
"Phone book," she said, slurping her coffee.
"Right. This isn't exactly New York City, is it?"
She asked how the investigation into Charlie Wilson's life was going and I filled her in with some vague responses. We chatted about this and that for a few minutes before I broached the subject I was really interested in.
"You know, one thing I was wondering about was that cabin you mentioned that Charlie may have burned down. I'd kind of like to take a look at that spot, maybe get a feel for what made Charlie tick. There may be other things up there that he was interested in besides the hunting. Maybe he had a woman stashed up there, a little love nest in the wild." If she fell for that one, I was in.
Melanie laughed, the same smooth sound I remembered from that infamous night in Keokuk. "Love nest? In the wild? I hardly think that would be Charlie's cup of tea. I have a pretty good idea where that place was, though. If you want me to, I could take you up there some time. It would be a nice ride and a good place for a picnic" Her smile indicated she wasn't averse to picnicking with me. We were about finished with our coffee and Nancy quickly refilled both mugs.
Although a summer picnic wasn't exactly what I'd hoped for, it was a start. "Sure, that would be great. Maybe you'd better not mention it to your uncle, though. It might just upset him all over again about the whole incident. And some hunters get pretty possessive about their campsites. I guess they don't want some other guy shooting their game."
"Oh, I'd never mention anything about it to him. You're right. It sets him off if anybody even talks about it. I know he still goes up to his hunting camp, but he always goes alone. There's not even a phone up there. No, I certainly won't tell him we are going up to look at his friend's old place. Besides, he doesn't have to know everything I do. When do you want to go?"
"Are you busy this afternoon? I could pick you up and we can take my car. Are you working today?"
"Today? In this freezing weather? You're either crazy or you have no life at all," she laughed. "No, I don't have to work today. It's my day off." She looked across the booth at me, a twinkle in her eyes that matched the smirk on her lips. "You know, actually the place is on this side of Keokuk, so if you really want to look at it today, you could just follow me as far as the turn off and we can leave your car and go up in the truck. You're kind of a quirky guy, but interesting. And I have to drive back that way anyway." She set the mug down on the tabletop with a decisive thunk. "Sure, let's do it.
"Excellent. We'll check it out for a future picnic site." I told her I wanted to go back to my place to change to hiking shoes, so I let her pay the tab and we walked back up the street. The sun was warming up the sidewalks by now and the old snow was finally starting to melt off.
While Melanie sat in one of the wicker chairs soaking up some rays, I went back to my bedroom. The long underwear was in my second drawer, still wrapped in birthday paper, and I cracked open a package and donned a full set, tops and bottoms. It wasn't as heavy as I'd expected it to be but I knew that the newer materials didn't need to be heavy to insulate and the snug fit probably added to the fabric's warming ability. I put on two pair of socks and made a mental note to get some of the heavy duty kind. When I'd changed my shoes, I went to the top dresser drawer and removed my .38 Special from its niche between sweat shirts and socks. I spun the cylinder and saw that all five chambers were filled before I slid it into the holster. The rubber handle felt odd in my fist after all the months I hadn't carried it, but it would be a comfortable fit in an emergency. After making sure I had the holster located at the right place in the small of my back, I dropped a handful of extra cartridges in my jacket pocket and was set to go. I'd decided to carry Woody's advice a bit further and be extra careful.
I followed Melanie and the blue Ford truck for an hour and a half, until she took a right onto Route 2, several miles north of Keokuk. The intersection wasn't all that tricky and I realized my mind must have really been wandering the night I took the wrong turn. If I hadn't, I thought, my battery would have died at the Eagle Motel and that may have presented more of a problem for me. While I pondered another of those little quirks of fate, Melanie had signaled again and pulled off into the parking lot of a mini gas station and store. I slowed and pulled in behind her. It was the same convenience store where I'd been stranded a few nights before. Motioning out the driver's window, she indicated that I should park at the far right of the lot where several other vehicles were located. Melanie maneuvered the truck into place beside the gas pumps and got out to meet me as I walked over.
"Can you drive a stick?" she asked.
"Yeah, but are you sure we can't just take my car?"
"Are you kidding? We'd rip the gas tank right off that little thing on the first bump. This will be fine. Come on, get in. You drive and I'll look for the turnoff." We got in. She popped the Coke cans and set one in the cup rack that hung from her door and handed me the other to set in mine. Peeling the candy wrapper back from one bar, she handed it to me and I munched it as I drove. We decided this was a mini mart picnic. At least there were no ants.
Locating the place was easier than I thought it would be. The first turnoff was marked with a name that Melanie knew and the next one, three miles up the rutted dirt road, looked familiar to her. The next two miles were mostly uphill through the trees, devoid of leaves now, but packed tightly enough together to allow minimal sunlight through. The 'road' was more of a path between the trees, a pair of frozen ruts with the occasional rock to break the monotony. The truck did its job getting us up there and soon we were stopped in a cleared area where the burned cabin had once stood. The underbrush had grown back in the two or three years since the fire, but I could see the remnants of a few sturdy posts that had once supported the floor.
"Man. This is really remote, “I said as I got down out of the cab. “I can see why your uncle would like to come up here to hunt and get away from civilization."
"He must love it. He's here a lot, even in the winter." She stepped out and pointed farther along the rutted track. "His place is about a half mile farther up, if I remember right. It's the only other cabin on this road. He's kind of private, though, so I can't take you up there. I know he wouldn't like anyone to be around there without his permission."
I walked around the area, taking it all in and looked off behind the burned out camp. I'd told Melanie I wanted to look for clues up here, so I'd better make it good. A few hundred feet behind the cabin site, the level area ended in a deep gorge. I could hear the faint sound of water trickling by, so there was probably a small stream at the bottom of the gorge.
"Do you see anything besides dirt and trees?" she called across the clearing.
"No, I was just looking. I can see that you were right about this place, though. I don't think that Charlie had any reason to come up here other than to hunt or fish. I can't imagine any woman sitting anywhere near here in a cabin waiting for her lover to arrive. And if there ever were any clues about the burned cabin, they're under the snow and two years of growth by now."
"I'm freezing,” Melanie said, shivering. "Are you ready to go?"
I said I'd be right there and told her to get in and start the truck to get warm. I walked a hundred feet or so farther up the path, staring at the frozen leaves and snow covered rocks that filled the ruts. To the right of the road was a smaller cleft, more of a gully, that paralleled the tire tracks as they continued up to Frank's cabin. This one was only about six or seven feet deep and about half that wide. From the point where I was standing, it curved away from the part of the road we'd come up. The gully followed the natural contour of the hillside and sloped down the ridge, probably ending up somewhere near the main road. During the rainy season, it would keep this old road from being washed away. Someone driving farther up from here would have to be careful not to drop a wheel down over the rim of the ditch.
As I was turning to head back to the truck, I saw a glimmer of something sticking out of the snow near the road. Its yellow color reflected what little sunlight was slanting through the cover of trees. Crossing the path, I knelt and pried it loose from its icy bed. Before climbing up into the truck, I shoved the cold plastic fragment down into the side pocket of my jeans. I managed to get the truck turned around and headed back down the road. The ground was so frozen I doubted that we'd even left a mark on it. I planned to come back later, alone, and follow the ruts up to Frank Goodwin's cabin.
At the gas station, after saying goodbye to Melanie and promising to give her a call sometime, I retrieved my Grand Am and filled the gas tank for the return trip. I was glad to be out of that truck. The gears were rough to shift and besides, the ashtray was overflowing with old cigarette butts.
Chapter 15
By eight thirty Tuesday morning, I was at The West Side Barber Shop, awaiting my turn for a trim. Maxine was right about my needing a haircut. Besides, I was meeting Caroline for lunch in a few hours and there was no point in looking sloppy.
I'd walked the three blocks into the wind on Pine Street and another block and a half south on Church Street. I figured that maybe the fitness gremlins would give me credit for a thirty minute walk, taking into account the wind resistance and the chill I endured. The West Side Shop sat alone on a small triangle of land near the railroad tracks. There was another fellow ahead of me, so I took a seat and eavesdropped on their conversation. The barber, Joe, according to the stitching on his white jacket, was a crusty old guy whose lingering accent made me think he'd left Brooklyn as a young man. He always seemed pissed off about something, which added to my impression that he was from back east. Today it was the government and how they were robbing him blind to give money to scientists so they could study the "size of rat turds." It was always interesting to get a haircut at Joe's.
When it was my turn. I managed to change the subject to sports and the Hawkeye Basketball season, which was starting off well this year. Joe wasn't much for basketball, but he was sure that the games were sometimes fixed to make certain players look good. He was nothing if not opinionated. Unfortunately, he was from the old school of barbering and always used a straight razor to trim around the ears of his captive customer. That made it difficult to take exception to any of his comments. No one wanted to leave there with less than a full set of ears.
By the time I walked back home and had some breakfast, it was past ten o'clock and time to pick up my photographs. There were no other cars in front of Cliff's Photography and the store looked dark inside. I'd been sure they opened at nine. A light snow had begun to fall as I was driving to Coralville and it was already starting to cover the surface of Cliff's lot. Mine were the first tire tracks to break the surface. There was a handwritten sign on the door, taped to the inside of the glass. "CLOSED TODAY. NEW DAUGHTER ARRIVING EARLY. WILL OPEN WEDNESDAY AT 9 AM. It was signed "Papa Cliff." I wasn't sure that the arrival of a new soul in this random world was cause for celebration. Ordinarily, though, I'd have at least understood Cliff's happiness. Today I was just mad. Damn. I needed that picture and now it would be another day before I could get it. Thoughts of breaking into the back of the building and finding my photograph in the darkroom flashed though my head. Then I had a vision of my sister and her annoying husband having to make my bail if I got caught, and the plan dissolved from view.
Returning to my car, I made stomping footprints on the snow covered asphalt, sending sprays of the fluffy stuff into the air. Shit.
With time to kill before meeting Caroline, I went back home. I still needed to go through the pile of stuff I'd picked up after the break-in and find the little note that had Charlie Wilson's parents' phone number on it. When I finally had the photograph in my hands, I'd surely want to talk to them and see what they could tell me about the images I'd be looking at.
An hour later, I'd sifted through all the piles of papers and had looked under all the furniture and through the wastebaskets. The little square of paper was gone. Either the burglar had taken it or it had blown off somewhere into some other part of the house. It would be simpler to call Iris and get the information again. She wasn't at home, but I left a message and asked her to call me back.
I'd decided to change from jeans and a flannel shirt to a cl
ean pair of chinos and a denim shirt for my luncheon date with Caroline. I pulled on a fairly new pair of high top leather boots and checked myself out in the mirror on my dresser. Pushing the front of my hair over into place, I smiled at my image. This was about as good as I was going to look. I noticed the pile of items I'd laid on top of the dresser when I'd emptied my pockets last night. Under the pile of loose change and car keys, I saw the piece of yellow plastic I'd found up in the woods yesterday and now picked it up to examine it more closely.
It was almost a half-circle of thick plastic, like a lens cover from a car, only smaller. The size was right to be a turn signal cover for a bicycle or maybe a motorcycle. A clump of dried dirt obliterated most of one side of the fragment and I reached for my pocket knife to scrape it clean. The side pocket of the chinos was empty. Moving to my bed, where I'd dropped the jeans, I checked all the pockets of those also. No knife. Now where could I have left it? I went through the pile on the dresser again. Next I opened the drawer where I'd put my gun and the extra cartridges, in case I'd dropped it in with them. It wasn't there, either. I always left it in my pocket or put it with my keys. This time, though, I seemed to have lost it.
My first feeling was of one of remorse. The knife had been my dad's. I remembered seeing him use it to scrape a battery terminal on his old Pontiac when I was just four years old. It was one of my earliest memories. His name was engraved on a piece of scrolled brass that was riveted onto the side. The knife had been a gift to him from my mother, and was one of my most prized possessions.
The second thing that occurred to me made me feel even worse. I might have dropped it in the truck yesterday. I hesitated to think what it would mean if Frank Goodwin found the knife with 'Murdock' engraved on it, somewhere in his truck. Melanie would surely tell him about our excursion then and the pot would be stirred up before I could slam a lid on it. After being in Goodwin's truck, I'd been fairly certain that he'd been the guy who had none too gently warned me off my investigation. Given his hostile attitude, the rough shifting truck, and the overflowing ashtray, I was beginning to put two and two together, without a calculator. The aroma of cat piss that had lingered on his clothing when he was hollering into my face, touched off another trigger in my mind and I was already forming a plan to nail the final fact into place. I thought I knew why he wanted me to stop digging into Charlie's life, but until I was sure, I didn't want him on my ass.
Breaking Point Page 11
