I got them, lifted her head the way I would have a sick person’s, and put the aspirin on her tongue.
“You’re giving me communion, Mr.
McCain.” She smiled. She was a good-looking woman.
“I guess I missed my calling.”
I went over, rescued my cigarette from the ashtray, and sat down again.
“What did Muldaur have on him?”
“The way I understand it-and this may not be exactly correct-is that Muldaur and one of his friends were out hunting for snakes one afternoon. There’s a small fishing cabin near where they were. The cabin was owned by an old man who belonged to our church. When he passed on, the widow insisted that John take the key to the cabin and use it whenever he liked. He took Dierdre out there several times-he’d gotten very stupid about her, he told me; he said he hadn’t felt lust like this in years-” The smile again, sweet, self-deprecating. “Which isn’t exactly what a wife wants to hear.”
“I don’t imagine.”
“But I didn’t blame him. All the hell I’d put him through with my drinking-we’d quit being lovers a long time ago. Or he had anyway. I was more like his sister or his daughter than his wife-at least as he saw it-somebody he was obligated to take care of. That’s not uncommon among alcoholic spouses. They stick by the alcoholic but the romance goes and rarely ever comes back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Then, “Could you please tell me a little more about Muldaur?”
“Well, he was a piece of work, wasn’t he? The snakes. And blackmailing people. And sleeping with women in his own congregation.” She caught herself. “I guess except for the snakes, I could be describing my husband, couldn’t I?
That never occurred to me before just now. That my husband and Muldaur were similar in that respect. They were both men of the cloth who’d seriously violated their vows. If Muldaur ever took any vows.”
“Why did your husband have Sara Hall with him that night at Muldaur’s?”
“They were going to talk to Muldaur. We aren’t wealthy. Muldaur was getting $500 a month from my husband and it was breaking us. That’s about what he makes for a monthly income. All our clothes and his fancy cars… they came from a trust fund I inherited. But that’s about gone now. He’d raided our pathetic little savings account to pay Muldaur as it was.”
“What about the sportscar?”
She rolled over on her side, watching me.
“Do you suppose I could have a cigarette?”
“Sure.”
I got a fresh one going the way Robert Ryan would have and carried it, along with an ashtray, over to her. She sat up on an elbow, inhaled deeply.
“He didn’t want me to smoke.”
“It’s not good for you.”
“Yes, I notice you don’t smoke.”
“I’m down to three cartons a day.”
“I’m surprised.”
“About what?”
“Y. I sort of like you. And all the time I thought you were just this grubby little creep that worked for Judge Whitney.”
“I have that right on my business card. Grubby little creep. At your service.”
Another deep inhalation. “What were we talking about?”
“About how your husband could afford a sportscar.”
“A gift from the last church.”
“Ah.”
“They didn’t find out until after we’d left that he’d been seeing three or four of the choir women on the side.”
“I see a pattern here.”
“Oh, it was definitely a pattern. Same as my drinking was-is-a pattern. Life is patterns, Mr. McCain.”
“Yeah, I’ve kinda noticed that.” Then: “You never did tell me what Sara Hall and your husband were doing at Muldaur’s church the night he was killed.”
“They were going to beg him to stop blackmailing my husband. We were running out of money and she was afraid Muldaur would tell somebody about my husband and Dierdre. And then eventually the whole town would know she was pregnant.”
“They really thought Muldaur would back off?”
“Last-ditch effort.” A long trail of smoke. “As I said, we didn’t have much money left. And Sara was terrified of what Muldaur would do.”
“You know a guy named Bill Oates?”
“No. Why?”
“I saw him arguing with his wife the night Muldaur died. And then I saw him in Muldaur’s trailer very early in the morning later on. Made me curious about his relationship with Viola Muldaur.”
“You think he might have killed Muldaur?”
“He looks like a possibility.”
“Anybody else?”
“Y.”
“Are you kidding?”
She sat up. The leather sofa made a lot of noise.
“Afraid not.”
“Why would I kill my husband?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“And did I also kill Muldaur?”
“Probably. But that’s the trouble I’m having with all this.”
“Do you ever read Nero Wolfe?”
“All the time.”
“You know how he always makes those astonishing leaps of deductive logic?”
“I wish I knew how he did it. The question is-who would have a motive to kill both your husband and Muldaur?”
“Are you saying that you’ve eliminated me?”
“Not necessarily.”
“But why would I have killed Muldaur?”
“Look at the time sequence. Maybe you were so sick of Muldaur blackmailing your husband that you killed him with that poison.”
“That makes sense I suppose-may I mooch another cig, by the way?-but if I killed Muldaur why would I turn around and kill my husband?”
I brought her another cigarette. She lit it from the butt of the one she was finishing.
When I was seated again, I said, “You kill Muldaur. Everything looks good for a day or so.
And then your husband tells you he wants a divorce. Or you find that he’s sleeping with another one of the choir ladies again.
You could have a lot of motives. Especially if you were on the bottle again. Alcoholics aren’t very rational when they’re tipping a few.”
“Very neat. Nero would be proud of you.”
She sure did enjoy cigarettes. She smoked with great erotic enthusiasm. My groin was starting to make itself felt again.
“The only thing wrong with it is that it isn’t true, Mr. McCain.”
“So say you.”
“So say I.”
I stood up. Stubbed my Lucky out.
Walked to the door. “I need to go.”
“I could always tell Cliffie you broke into my house.”
“I could always tell Cliffie your husband was a blackmailer.”
She smiled. “I guess that’s a good point.”
Then: “I’m curious.”
“What?”
“A minute or so ago-were you looking at me-sexually?”
“Boy, what a question.”
“Well, were you?”
“Yeah, I guess I was.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s been such a long time since I felt a young man’s eyes on me that way. The proper alcoholic wife of a minister doesn’t get a lot of looks like that. I lost fifteen years when I saw your eyes settle on my breasts and legs.” Tears touched her eyes and voice. “It felt so good.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “You’re a very good-looking woman.”
A teary laugh.
I thought of going over there to give her a reassuring hug. But given the moment, that was probably a very risky move.
I said good-bye and left.
There were two people I wanted to talk to.
Reluctant as I was to go back to Muldaur’s place-my ankle, since you’ve probably been worrying about it, the considerate people you are-hurt only at certain angles. I just wasn’t sure which angles those were. So I’d be moving along just fine and then I’d step down just so and-one of life’s little mysterious games.
The top of Muldaur’s shabby trailer had been painted silver and shone like a mirror in the stabbing rays of the sun. I decided not to take any chances with men with shotguns bursting out the door. I brought my own. 45, which was the gun my dad carried in the war.
I knocked several times. No answer. No dog bark. No human voice. No radio blare. No Tv drone. I took this to mean, in my worldly way, that probably nobody was home or that if somebody was home, he or she didn’t plan to come out.