“Hmm. And Waxwell would think it fishy if she made a play. But he does have… a certain interest in her?”
“Avid.”
“What if he found out somehow that she had left her husband and gone off someplace alone to think things out, all alone in some hideaway place, away from people. A place hard to get to. She wouldn’t be there, of course, but it would take him a long time to get there and find out and get back.”
“And when he got back and found out he’d been cleaned out, who would he go after first, Chook? That isn’t a happy thought.”
“See what you mean. But what if she and her husband got all set to take off, so then you could give them some of the money and they’d be gone before he got back?”
“And if I can’t find the money?”
“Then he wouldn’t have much to be sore about, would he?”
“And she could say that she started off and changed her mind and came back to her husband. If he asks. You have a talent for this, Miss Chookie.”
“Thanks a lot. Trav, I don’t see how you can expect to find it, even if you had a whole day.”
“I have an idea about that. Remember the story of Bluebeard?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll tell you if it works.”
“And you have to think of a place she might be likely to go. And some way of getting the word to Boone Waxwell. And you have to talk her into it in the first place.”
“I think she’s desperate. I think she’s ready to try anything. And she would be the logical one to ask about a place she might go. Meanwhile, playing it by ear, we’ve got ourselves located on the wrong square on this board maybe. Maybe not. Hell, I guess not. With the car, and with the little boat at Naples, maybe right on the edge of the board is the best square to occupy.”
“And you’ll use Arthur somehow, dear? Some safe way?”
“I promise.”
She patted my arm. “Thank you very much. Do men’s work. Leave the lady home to give tearful thanks at the safe return.”
“I can’t take him with me tomorrow. Or you. Not for the morning mission.”
“What is it?”
“I want to see if the Bluebeard idea is any good before I take the Viv idea any further.”
Tuesday morning at nine thirty, from a gas station a quarter mile from the junior high school, I phoned the administration office and asked to speak to Cindy Ingerfeldt. A woman with a tart, skeptical voice said, “This is the next to the last day of exams. I can check to see if she is taking an examination or if she is in a study period, but I shall have to know who you are and the purpose of the call.”
“The name is Hooper, ma’m. Field investigator for State Beverage Control. I’ll have to ask you to keep that confidential. The girl could have some useful information. Could you give me a rundown on her, what kind of a kid she is?”
“I… I don’t imagine you’ll find her cooperative. Cindy is quite mature for her age. A very indifferent student. She’s just marking time here, as so many of them are. I take it her home life is not too pleasant. She’s not a popular child. She keeps to herself. She’s tidy about her person, and would be really quite pretty if she lost some weight. Mr. Hooper, if you want to interrogate the child, you could come here and I could turn over a private office to you.”
“I’d rather not do it that way, ma’m. Word could get back to some pretty rough people. I wouldn’t want to cause her that kind of trouble. That’s why I ask you kindly to keep this to yourself.”
“Oh dear. Is the child… involved in anything?”
“Nothing like that, ma’m. You know, if you really want to cooperate, rather than me trying to get anything out of her over the phone, I’d appreciate it if you could just make some reason to send her down the road to the Texaco Station. I won’t take much of her time, and send her right back.”
“Well… let me check her schedule.” About a full minute later, as I stared through the booth glass at the distant building and the ranks of yellow buses behind it, she came back on the line and said in a conspiratorial way, “She’ll finish her History test at ten. I think the most inconspicuous way would be for me to go and see her in person as she comes out, and I will send her along then. Will that be all right?”
“Just fine, and I certainly do appreciate your cooperation.”
At a few minutes before ten, I moved the car, parked it fifty yards closer to the school, aimed in the direction of the gas station. At a few minutes after ten I saw her in the rear vision mirror, trudging along toward me, both arms hugging a stack of books to her bosom. She wore a green striped cotton blouse, salmon-colored pants that ended halfway between knee and ankle, white sneakers. When she was near enough, I reached over and swung the door open, saying, “Good morning, Cindy.”
She stared at me, came slowly toward the car, stopped a few feet away. “Oh. You, huh.” She appraised me with those wise old eyes. “What’s on your mind?”
“Get in.”
“Lissen, if Sunday give you any ideas, forget it. I don’t know you, I’m not in the mood, and I got enough problems, mister.”
“I want to fix ol Boo’s wagon, Cindy. And he’ll never know you were involved in any way. I just want to ask some questions. Get in and we’ll drive around and I’ll drop you off right here in fifteen minutes.”
“What makes you think I should want to mess Boo up someways?”
“Let’s just say you could be doing your father a favor.”
She pursed her small mouth, gave a half shrug and climbed in. She plunked her books on the seat between us and said, “No driving around. Go like I tell you.”
Her directions were terse and lucid. They took us three blocks over, two blocks to the left, and into a sheltered grove with picnic tables and fireplaces, willows thick around a pond. When I turned the engine off she sighed, undid a button of her blouse, poked two fingers into her bra, squirmed slightly, and pulled out a wilted cigarette and a kitchen match. She popped the match aflame with a deft thumbnail, drew deeply, exhaled a long gray plume that bounced off the inside of the windshield.
“How’d you get old Mossbutt to leave me loose?”
“I said it was official. Beverage Control investigation. When you go back she’ll want to know. Tell her Mr. Cooper said not to talk about it to anybody.”
“That your name?”
“No.”
“Is it official?”
“What do you think, Cindy?”
“Prolly not.”
“You’re right. Sunday you gave me the impression you wish Waxwell was out of your life. Was that an act?”
“I don’t know. Guess not. If he wasn’t so damn mean. And not so old. Don’t take me no place. Miami he keeps saying. Sure. I should live so long. The way it goes, shit, I’ve gotta make some kind of move myself, because I hang around, it’s going to be the same, no matter what. A bunch of the kids, they got a chance to bus up and work tobacco in Connecticut this summer. Working hard and being far away I could get over being so hooked, maybe. Goddam mean old man, he is.”
The last drag drew the fire line down close to her thumb. She snapped the butt out the window, holding her breath, then exhaled, openmouthed. She turned toward me and rested her plump cheek on the seat back. “What d’ya wanna know?”
“Do you know Boo murdered a woman out there at his place last year?”
She hooded her eyes, examined a thumb nail, nibbled the corner of it. “Friend a yours?”
“No. Just the opposite. It didn’t seem to surprise you.”
“I guess I had the feeling something happened. She a midget or something?”
“That’s a fanny question.”
“There was some black lace panties I tried to get on. I’m fat but not that fat. I busted them trying. When I asked too many times he popped me on tap of the head with his fist so hard I got sick an heaved up.”