“She was only kidding, Esme,” Sara said.
“Nonetheless.”
And Dierdre was off again. To the bathroom.
I was writing some things down in my notebook when Sara said, “I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“I was in the backyard taking laundry down from the line-th was right at dusk-when I noticed this truck down the alley.”
“What kind of truck?”
She described it.
“It looked familiar for some reason,” she said.
“You remember when this was?”
“I’m not sure but I think it was the day after Courtney was killed.”
The truck was duly noted in my notebook.
It belonged to Muldaur. I decided not to say anything for now.
“You see anybody in it?”
“No.”
“Around it?”
“Not that-no, not that I can think of.”
“How long was it there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really think anything of it. I just took the wash and went back inside.”
There was more. Lots more, in fact. But nothing useful. I had another piece of toast and another cup of coffee; Dierdre got sick again; the staff, eager to get back to sleep so they’d catch at least a few hours of blissful rest, began making an awful lot of noise to convey their displeasure with us. The Judge returned their glares but this time of night, they were willing to stand up to her. They weren’t intimidated.
Sara and Dierdre stayed there for the night.
The Judge walked me outside. It was that thrilling time of night, just before dawn as all the mysteries of evening begin to vanish and day, reluctantly, begins to reassert itself.
It was actually chilly and it felt good.
“She didn’t do it,” the Judge said.
“I know.”
“I feel so sorry for her.”
“So do I.”
“And I’d like to strangle that little idiot Dierdre.”
Given the condition my sister had left town in, there wasn’t much I could say.
“People do foolish things, Judge. And you and me.”
“Nice of you to remind me.” She lighted one Gauloise off another, pitched the butt into a hedge. “Get a few hours’ sleep and then get back at it, McCain. Dick will be here late tomorrow afternoon. In a few hours, this place will be hell with all the Secret Service men.
They’ll be stringing phone lines and setting up checkpoints and clearing gawkers out of the way and-but it’ll be worth it to see him again. He’s a very charming man.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“I’m being serious, McCain, and you’re being sarcastic.”
“I guess I’ll have to take your word on the charming part. He’s about the most wooden politician I’ve ever seen. He always wears a suit, no matter what. Does the guy ever relax?”
“Ever relax? When he was out here for the caucus last year, you should’ve seen him playing croquet in my backyard. This year we’re going to play volleyball.”
“Gosh, I sure hope so. Dick Nixon playing volleyball. How lucky could I get to see that?”
“Get out of here, McCain, before I have Cliffie arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
She allowed herself the tiniest of smirks. “For being insufferable, of course. You were born insufferable, McCain, and I’m sorry to say you’ll die insufferable.”
The phone woke me around nine-thirty that morning.
Tasha was sleeping on my chest, where she usually was whenever I slept on my back, Crystal slept near my head, and Tess was at my feet. Biting them.
“Yes?”
“You’re still asleep.”
“I was till you called. Shouldn’t you be writing Lesbo Landscapers or something?”
“That’s not all that bad, McCain. For just waking up.”
“Do I get my National Book Award now or later?”
“Later. After you go see Muldaur’s first wife.”
“You going to tell me something, Kenny?”
“I told you I’m really getting into this private-eye jazz. It’s fun.”
“So who’s his first wife?”
“Bill Oates’ wife, Pam.”
“You’re kidding. How’d you find that out?”
“Guy down the block works out at the quarry where Oates does.”
I eased out of bed, eased a Lucky between my lips, eased a book of paper matches into my right hand. I knew how to strike one with only one hand. Any time I got down on myself for not accomplishing much in my life, I always asked myself how many people could strike a paper match with one hand and then I felt a whole lot better.
“Your neighbor say anything else?”
“Just that one night Muldaur was over there and Oates walked in on them.”
“Walked in on what exactly?”
“He isn’t sure. But he said later that Oates told him he pulled a gun on
Muldaur and ordered him out of the house.”
The cigarette was helping to wake me up. So was the information.
Pam Oates had seemed so open, so forthright.
You always feel betrayed on a personal level when somebody you arrogantly dismissed as a simpleton proves not to be a simpleton at all. Because that makes you the simpleton, doesn’t it?
“The way I see it,” Kenny Thibodeau said. He was wearing his deerstalker hat, no doubt about it. “Oates kills Muldaur over Pam and then kills Courtney when Courtney won’t give him the blackmail money he was giving Muldaur.”
“How did you find out about the blackmail?”
“It’s all over town.”
“Oh, great. Poor Dierdre.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Thanks for the call, Kenny. This is helpful.”
I got some coffee going, took a shower, and got dressed in the lightest clothes I could find.
It was already in the mid-eighties.
It was Sunday morning but I went to the office anyway.
The place had a Sunday feel. Lonely, and making me feel a little like an intruder in my own place. I went through Saturday’s mail. No money, nothing of interest.
I walked over to Monahan’s for my second breakfast in less than ten hours. Scrambled eggs and a piece of toast. I was having my after-meal cigarette and coffee when Kylie came in.
She had a grin that could’ve lit up the Holland Tunnel.
She was dressed in a pink sleeveless blouse, pink pedal pushers, white flats. Her lustrous hair and eyes were set off nicely. She ordered coffee and took out her pack of Cavaliers.
“Well, you still married?”
“Not only still married. More married than ever.”
She sounded like a convert to some cult religion that promised nothing less than perpetual bliss.
“I’m jealous.”
“You’ll find somebody, McCain.”
“That’s what they keep telling me.”
“You could have had me if Chad hadn’t really come through last night.”
I’d never seen her this happy. In a strange way, she was a bit scary.
“He told me about every one of his slips.”
“His slips?”
“Turns out, this girl he’s seeing now, she wasn’t the first one. You know, on the side.”
“Ah.”
“There’ve been at least five others.”
“At least?”
“He isn’t sure. He said it depends on how you count. A couple of them, he didn’t go all the way, strictly speaking.”
“The considerate devil.”
“And I’ve made mistakes, too,
McCain.”
“Not like he has.”
She thought a moment. “This is where being a Catholic would be nice.”
“Huh?”
“I could just go to confession and I’d feel better.”
“Maybe Jews should have confession.”
“Nah, it wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Jews are so guilty about everything, if we had confession we’d be in there eighteen hours a day.”
I laughed.
She thought some more. She let me tune in in mid-sentence. “But that’s all behind him now. He said to think of him as the new Chad.”
“New and improved.”
“I know you’re cynical about this, McCain.
But don’t Catholics believe in redemption?
People do change, you know.”
“So you really think he’s changed?”