“How come you’re telling me?”
She shrugged. “You’re a detective.”
I nodded, I was glad she said that because I was beginning to have my doubts.
“You get along with Kevin?” I asked.
“He’s creepy,” she said, “but he’s okay sometimes.”
She shrugged again. “He’s my brother. I’ve known him all my life.”
“Okay, Dolly, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to break into that trunk. Maybe it won’t have anything that will help, but maybe it will, and the only way to know is to look.
I know it’s not mine, but maybe it will help us find Kevin, all right?”
“Kevin will be mad.”
“I won’t tell him about your being here.”
“Okay.”
I found a pinch bar among the tools on the floor and pried the hasp off the trunk. Inside the cover of the trunk an eight-by-ten glossy was attached with adhesive tape, a publicity still of Vic Harroway in a body-building pose. In the trunk itself was a collection of body-building magazines, a scrapbook, a pair of handsprings that you squeezed to build up your grip, and two thirty-pound dumbbells.
Dolly did an exaggerated shudder. “Gross,” she said.
“What?” I said.
“The guy in the picture. Ugh!”
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“No.”
I sat down in the lawn chair and picked up the first magazine in the pile. Dolly said, “Are you going to read that?” I said, “I’m going to read them all.”
“Sick,” she said.
“They’re clues. That’s what I’m supposed to do—study clues and after studying enough of them I’m supposed to solve a mystery and…”
“Are you going to tell?” she said.
I knew what she meant. Kevin had hidden this stuff from his parents, for whatever reason.
“No,” I said. “Are you?”
“NO.”
I opened a copy of Strength and Health. On the inside cover and spilling over onto page 1, there was an ad for high-protein health food and pictures of hugely muscled people who apparently ate it. There were badly laid-out ads for strength-training booklets, weight-lifting equipment, and choker bathing suits; and pictures of weight lifters and Mr. America contestants. On page 39 was a sepia-tone picture of Vic Harroway. He had on a white bikini and was posed on a beach in front of a low shelf of rock that kicked spray up as the sea hit it. His right arm was flexed to show the biceps. His left hand was clamped behind his neck, and he was flexed forward with his right knee bent and the toes of his left leg barely touching the ground. The sun glistened on his features, and his narrowed eyes were fixed on something high and distant and doubtless grand behind the camera. Beauty is its own excuse for being. The caption said, “Vic Harroway, Mr. Northeastern America, Combines Weight Lifting and Yoga.” I read the story. It said the same thing in supermasculine prose that made me want to run out and uproot a tree.
While I read, Dolly Bartlett sat down against the wall with her knees drawn up against her chest and listened to her radio.
I went through all the strength magazines. They dated back five years, and each of them had a story on Vic Harroway. I learned how Vic trained down for “that polished look.” I learned Vic’s diet-supplement secrets for gaining “ten to fifteen pounds of solid muscles.” I learned Vic’s technique for developing sinewy and shapely underpinnings.“
I didn’t learn much about Vic’s theories on kidnapping and harassment or if he might know where Kevin Bartlett was.
I looked at the scrapbook. It was what I thought it would be. Clippings of Vic Harroway’s triumphs in body-building contests. Ads announcing the opening of a new health spa where Vic Harroway would be the supervisor of physical conditioning. Fifteen-year-old newspaper clippings of Vic Harroway as a high school football hero in Everett.
Snapshots of Vic and one of Vic and Kevin with Vic’s arm around Kevin’s shoulder. Harroway was smiling. Kevin looked very serious.
”Did Kevin lift weights?“ I asked Dolly.
”No. I remember he wanted to buy a set once, but my mother wouldn’t let him.“
”Why not?“
”I don’t know. She said it would make him big and beefy and stuff, you know?“
I nodded.
”They had a big fight about it.“
I nodded again.
”Would it?“
”Would it what?“
”Would it make him big and beefy?“
”Not if he did it right,“ I said. I took the publicity shot of Harroway, put the magazines and the scrapbook back in the trunk, and closed it. Dolly and the dog and I went downstairs. The dog edged me out on the way down, and I was last. In the driveway Marge Bartlett was standing looking impatiently into the open barn. She had on a pale violet pants suit with huge cuffed bell-bottoms and blunt-nosed black shoes poking out underneath. A big burlap purse with a crocheted design hung from her shoulder. She wore white lipstick, and her nails were polished in a pale lavender.
”Come on, Dolly, time to go to Aunt Betty’s. Hop in the car.“
”Aw, Ma, I don’t want to go over there again.“
”Come on now, no arguing. Hop in the car I’ve got a lot of shopping to do. The party is tonight, and I don’t want you in the way. You know how nervous I get when I’m having a big party. And while I’m at the shopping center I don’t want you here alone. It’s too dangerous.“
I went to my car and put the photo in the glove compartment.
”Well, lemme stay with Mr. Spenser.“
Marge Bartlett shook her head firmly. ”Not on your life.
Mr. Spenser is my bodyguard, and he’ll have to go with me to the shopping center.“ She clapped her hands once, sharply. ”In the car.“
Dolly climbed into the backseat of the red Mustang.
Marge Bartlett got in behind the wheel, and I sat beside her.
The dog stood in front of the car with his ears back and stared at us.
”Can I bring Punkin?“ Dolly asked.
”Absolutely not. I don’t want him getting the car all muddy, and Aunt Betty can’t stand dogs anyway.“
”He’s not muddy,“ Dolly said.
The cop in the Smithfield cruiser poked his head out the side window and said, ”Where you going?“
”It’s all right. Mr. Spenser is with me. We’ll be gone most of the day, shopping.“
”Whoopee,“ I said. ”All day.“
The cop nodded. ”Okay, Mrs. Bartlett. I’m going to take off then. You let us know when you’re back, and Chief’ll send someone up.“
He started the cruiser and headed down the drive. We followed. He turned left. We turned right.
Chapter 14
The north shore shopping center was on high ground north off Route 128 in Peabody. Red brick, symmetrical evergreens, and parking for eight thousand cars. I discovered that Marge Bartlett was a member of the shopping center the way some people belong to a country clubb. Between ten fifteen and one twenty she charged $375 worth of clothes. I spent that time watching her, nodding approval when she asked my opinion, keeping a weather eye out for assailants, and trying not to look like a pervert as I stood around outside a series of ladies’ dressing rooms. I was glad I hadn’t worn my white raincoat. There were a lot of very well-shaped suburban ladies shopping in the same stores.
Suburban ladies tended to wear their clothes quite snug, I noticed. I was alert for concealed weapons.
We got back to Smithfield at about a quarter of two. The house was still. Roger Bartlett worked Saturdays, and Dolly was going to spend the night with Aunt Betty. Punkin lay placidly in a hollow under some bushes to the right of the back door Marge Bartlett held the door for me as I carried in the shopping bags. The dog came in behind us.
”Put them on the couch in the living room,“ she said. ”I want to call the caterer.“