I said, “This is not a shitty thing to do. It’s a good thing to do.”
“Shove it, Mallory, what does an only child know about it, anyway? And a white one at that.”
“Prejudice rears her not-so-ugly head. Gimme back my beer.”
“I drank it all.”
I got up and went after another Pabst. When I came back she was leaning forward, her long-nailed fingers barely caressing the receiver. She caught me watching her, and jerked back. I filled her glass and sat back down beside her. I leaned back and drained the bottle and several long minutes went by and I said, “Go ahead and call.”
“I been thinking.”
“Great. Fine.”
“You think Harold killed this Janet.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said that this Janet… what was her last name?”
“Taber.”
“That this Janet Taber had her neck broken. That the accident was staged and somebody broke her neck.”
“That’s not the same thing as saying your brother killed her.”
“You implied that my brother could do it.”
“Well he probably could, if he was in the mood. One-handed. With or without eyepatch.”
“You’re such a son of a bitch, Mallory. Don’t you know what this means, what you’re asking?”
“Only you know that, Rita.”
“Mallory. Mal.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t.”
“Rita. Look at it this way. Suppose your brother did kill somebody. Wouldn’t you say something should be done about it?”
“It would depend who he killed, and why.”
“How about a woman. An unhappy young woman.”
“Stop, you’re making me cry. Tell me about the kid with heart trouble again, why don’t you?”
“Okay, all right. No more hard sell.”
“Why do you have to use me? Why can’t you just go up to old man Norman’s place yourself?”
“We went over that.”
“Go over it again.”
“Norman’s property is fenced off. Private property, right? If your brother runs into me up there, a trespasser, after what I did to him the other day, there’s not going to be enough left of me to put in a shoe box. Also, if what was left of me was turned over to Sheriff Brennan, he’d have a fine old time roasting whatever there was left to roast.”
“I’m supposed to be a buffer between you and Harold.”
“I was hoping you would be, yes. And you can get us officially past the gate up the hill.”
“But when I call I’m not to tell Harold I’m bringing you.”
“No. We’ll surprise him and make his day. What do you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn!”
“It’s not an easy thing for me.”
“Well, think it over some more, that’s all I ask. You decide against it, I’ll drive you back up to Rock Island whenever you say.”
She looked at me, her eyes soft under the long lashes. She touched my cheek and I started feeling like the manipulating bastard I was. I slid my arm in around her waist and kissed her neck and said, my lips against her ear, “Look, forget it, forget it. I’ll do it some other way, or maybe I won’t do it at all.” And I meant it.
“But that’s not right, either…. Mal?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you promise me something?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll keep an open mind-you won’t prejudge anything.”
I kissed her ear. “I’ll go farther than that. No matter what it turns out your big black one-eyed brother did, I don’t care if he eats babies and runs down old ladies, no matter what, I’ll check with you and get permission before I make any move.”
“If I say no cops?”
“Then no cops.”
She slipped out of my arms and put her hand on the receiver again and said, “Thanks, Mal.”
“Thank you, Rita.”
She turned back to the phone under her fingertips and it rang and she jumped.
Then it rang again and she smiled and laughed nervously and I did, too. She picked up the receiver and handed it to me.
“Mal?”
It was John’s voice.
I said, “How was Lori’s turkey?”
“I’m in the middle of a slice of it right now,” he said. “I sneaked in here to call you. I been checking off and on all afternoon, to see if you were back from the Cities yet. How’d it go?”
“Not bad. Wait’ll you see what I brought back with me.”
Rita elbowed me, but in a nice way.
John said, “Listen, I got to get back to the table before certain parties get wise. I know you were trying to corner Brennan last night and this morning-well, now’s your chance. He’s stuffing his face right now, and if you hurry over here you’ll be able to catch him.”
“Be right over.” I slammed the receiver into the hook.
Rita’s eyes said, “What?”
I said, “The town sheriff’s finally available.”
“You gonna go talk to him?”
“Yeah. You want to wait here for me?”
She nodded, eyes wide.
“This’ll give you some time to think about that phone call.”
“Okay, Mal.”
“More beer in the fridge. But don’t get bombed, I heard how you people get when you get bombed. Or is that Indians?”
“Mal.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll have the call made by the time you get back. Either that or I’ll be ready to go home.”
I nodded. “Either way, kid,” I said, and stroked her shoulder, got up, grabbed my jacket and headed out to the Rambler.
SEVENTEEN
Brennan choked on a bite of pumpkin pie when he saw me come in. He was the only one left sitting at the table eating; John and Lori’s husband Frank were sitting on the floor in the far left-hand corner of the room watching yet another football game. John looked up as I entered and started to rise, but I motioned at him to stay put. Lori pulled out one of the empty chairs at the table and told me to sit. I did, and she brought me a big slice of pie with a heap of whipped cream on it.
“Hey, this is unnecessary,” I said.
“You better eat it before Brennan does,” she said. “He’s on his third piece.”
“I all of a sudden lost my appetite,” Brennan said, and got up and went out into the kitchen.
I sat and ate my pie. I didn’t hurry. John came over and I told him about Rita and also about Stefan Norman. Then I thanked Lori for the pie and got up and went after Brennan.
He was sitting at the kitchen table smoking. He was wearing a blue sport shirt and tan slacks and seemed insecure out of uniform.
I sat down by him. “Got something against me, Brennan? I get this weird feeling you been trying to duck me.”
“I got a lot against you,” he said, sucking nervously on his cigarette, “not the least of which is you’re a goddamn pain in the ass.”
“I been trying since last night to see you.”
“I didn’t know that, or I’d come running.”
“You going to tell me about Phil Taber, or do we play games?”
“You’re the one playing games, Mallory. You’re the mystery story writer playing private eye. And you’re going to get your butt burned doing it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jesus Christ, Mallory. It’s Thanksgiving, for God’s sake. Can’t a man have some peace Thanksgiving, spend a little time with his relatives and have some peace?”
“Some people get peace imposed on them.”
“They die, you mean. Yeah, that happens to people.”
“Sometimes they get killed.”
“And sometimes they’re in accidents. See? You’re playing games again, Mallory, it’s you who’s playing games.”
“Tell me about Phil Taber.”
“What about him? He came to town because his wife was dead. He left. What about him?”
“You told John no immediate member of the family was available to okay the autopsy, that you got the court’s permission to do it. Obviously it was Taber’s permission you got, not the court’s.”