Bad Moon Rising (13 page)

The Sleepy Time didn't resemble a hot-sheet motel. It sat on a hill overlooking a leg of river and a picnic area on the bank. The colors of the office and the room exteriors were two shades of brown—the paint fresh—and the macadam was new. To the left of the office was a swimming pool where a lone young man practiced diving. It was too hot for tanning or sitting around to talk. The middle-aged woman behind the desk was California, tanned, freckled, pretty, her blonde hair streaked even blonder by the sun. Her energy and good nature were just short of aggressive. In her yellow blouse and long silver earrings she was well worth my attention.

“Let me guess.” Alluring smile. “You don't want a room.”

“You're a fortune teller.”

“No. After twenty years in this business I'm just observant. The way you looked around on the drive and the way you came through the door over there told me that you weren't going to be a guest.”

“Any guess why I'm here?”

“A cop or something like that. Which I think is cool. Breaks up the monotony. We're full up and everybody's behaving so I don't have much to do. My husband's in the hospital with back problems and my son's getting ready for his next swim meet so I'm all alone in here with my soap operas.” Her teeth were luminous against her tanned face. “If you're not a cop you're a private investigator, and if you're a private investigator somebody hired you to find out about somebody cheating.”

“You're doing most of my work for me.”

“We run a respectable place. And a nice place. But we're not above letting our rooms to people who aren't married to each other. We make them pay full price for the privilege. That way we keep a reasonably suitable clientele. Not always, but most of the time.”

“You ever had any trouble?”

“Oh, sure. But fortunately Frank, my husband, he was a marine in Korea and he's kept in good shape except for his back. He's had to handle some angry husbands who've followed their wives here. And once there was a homosexual man whose boyfriend followed him here with a gun. Frank handles everything himself. We don't want any unnecessary bad publicity. I wish he was here now. My husband's the funniest guy I've ever known. It's never boring when he's around.”

I slid Bobby Randall's flier across the desk. She smiled when she saw it. “Oh, yes, Johnny. So his real name's Bobby?”

“Uh-huh. He's been here then?”

“I'd have to say no comment. The way politicians do.”

“What if I told you a man's future depended on what I'm doing. An innocent man.” It wasn't true but it sure sounded good.

That sun-blessed face wrinkled in suspicion. “Who exactly are you?”

I showed her my ID. “A young woman was murdered in Black River Falls last night.”

“Yeah. That was sure a bummer. But they've already said that the guy who killed her committed suicide.”

Time for another somewhat untrue statement. “They're saying that to trap the real killer. Or anyway the man they
think
is the real killer. He's a client of mine. I'm trying to help him. I don't want to see him railroaded into prison. I have a feeling you can help me and nobody ever needs to know. Not even your husband.”

That sand and ocean smile. “Now you sound like some of our customers.”

“So how about it?”

“Well—” She dragged out the word. “If you promise me you'll never use my name.”

I used the three-finger pledge. “Scout's honor.”

A nice surfy laugh. “Well, if you put it that way.”

“So how about Bobby? He's been here?”

“Many times.” A laugh. “Frank has a short list of men he calls ‘living legends' and Johnny's one of them. I like Johnny better than Bobby if you don't mind. I had a bad experience with a Bobby when I was in high school. I hate people named Bobby.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

She laughed again. “Sarcasm. You and my husband would get along. He's always saying things like that. I know it's irrational but that's the way I am.”

“So about Johnny-Bobby.”

“Well, actually, our son Steve probably knows more than we do. He works nights and that's when Johnny usually shows up. He isn't exactly secretive, though. I mean the red Thunderbird.”

“But you've signed him in yourself?”

“Oh, sure. Several times.”

“I'm going to describe a woman. If you've dealt with her I'd appreciate you telling me.”

“Wait a minute here. This is starting to make me very nervous.” The good nature vanished. A surprising harshness was in the voice and blue eyes. “This is our livelihood we're talking about here.”

“I already promised you there won't be any trouble.”

“Uh-huh, that's another thing you have in common with my Frank. You're both bullshit artists.”

“So you're just going to stop here?”

She made a fist of a tanned, freckled hand. The knuckles were bone-white. “Goddammit, I shouldn't have told you anything.”

“Well, you've told me this much. How about just a few more questions?”

“Shit. How do I get into things like this anyway?” Then: “All right, goddammit, go ahead.”

I described Eve Mainwaring in as much detail as I could remember.

“You mean Andrea Cummings.”

“Good old Andrea. So you've dealt with her?”

“Just twice. Both times when she was with Johnny. Johnny should learn not to park so close to the office. I can see in the car windows. Andrea was sitting there waiting for him to come back with the room key. Listen, let me get Steve. I'll be right back.”

She moved from behind the desk to the front door, quick and lithe, very healthy in the way of the middle-aged people you saw in advertisements shot on the beach. While she was gone I stared through the open door behind the desk. A black-and-white set played a soap opera. This one had everything. A man whose face was entirely wrapped in gauze, a weeping middle-aged beauty, and a sullen-looking hippie punk of sixteen or so. The beauty was shrieking at the punk that he had no respect for his parents. The punk just got more sullen and then pointed to the masked man. Then he shouted that she was his mom but the masked man wasn't his father, that his real father was a man she'd had a fling with. The masked man slapped his hand to his heart. A monitor broke into ominous beeping. Take my word for it, the whole thing was one hell of a mess.

Steve had dragged on a red shirt and a pair of jeans. He was still scrubbing his hair with a towel. He had the same freckled, exuberant air of his mother but not her good looks. He handled me with the skill of a politician. “Nice to meet you, Mr. McCain. Mom says you wanted to ask me about Johnny and Andrea Cummings.”

“I also said your dad's not to know anything about this conversation.”

Steve grinned. “You don't have to worry about that. I'd be in trouble with Dad for talking to Mr. McCain, too.”

“The only reason I'm doing this is because McCain here says an innocent man could be accused of a murder.”

“Just like a movie, huh, Mom.”

Mom stood next to him, her proud smile possessive of her boy. “That's right, honey. Now go ahead and answer the man's questions.”

“Your mother said you've checked Johnny and Andrea Cummings in a few times.”

“More than a few times, in fact, Mr. McCain. Sometimes they're with each other and sometimes they're with other people.”

“That's what I'd like to talk about. Andrea Cummings—can you describe some of the other men she's been with?”

“Well, over the past year I'd say there're probably five or six at least.”

“He's got a good memory. He's a straight-A student.”

“Oh, Mom.”

“Well, it's true.”

“She doesn't think that's embarrassing, Mr. McCain. Anyway, I can probably describe three of them because they've been with her a number of times. A couple of them were only out here once with her. Or maybe twice, but no more than that.”

I took out my nickel notebook and wrote down his descriptions. Andrea-Eve was apparently no snob. One of the men was a handsome professorial sort, one was a tennis instructor from a nearby racquet club, and one, the boy felt sure, was some kind of criminal. “He just had that look.”

“He likes crime shows on TV.”

“Could you be a little more specific about the criminal?”

“Well, for one thing, he always wore short-sleeved shirts even in the winter and he had tattoos on both arms. A panther on his right and a tiger on his left. He had real hairy arms. I guess I associate tattoos with criminals.”

“Was there ever any trouble?”

“I guess I don't know what you mean.”

“Did other guests complain about noise—fights or screaming, anything like that?”

“Oh, no. They were always nice. Even the guy with the tattoos. If anybody was going to cause trouble, it was him.”

“Did they ever ask you for any special favors? Like maybe getting them a bottle of liquor or something?”

“I'm not old enough to buy liquor.”

The kid was a Boy Scout. He'd never heard of motel desk clerks who provided customers with bottles or babes. The Sleepy Time was a downright boring place.

“Well, the guy with the tattoos asked me if we had one of those machines where you could buy those things but I said no. It was kind of embarrassing.”

I assumed he meant rubbers.

“When was the last time Andrea Cummings was here?”

“Just last week. With Johnny again. They didn't stay as long as usual and Johnny was in a hurry when he dropped off the key. He usually likes to talk.”

“About what?”

“He usually talks about the Hawkeye football or basketball team, whichever one is in season. But this time he just tossed the keys on the counter and walked right out.”

“I told you he had a good memory. Frank's the same way.”

I closed my notebook and shoved it into my back pocket. I had already concocted a theory in the way of good private investigators everywhere. It was Eve-Andrea who killed Vanessa. Van learned about Eve cheating on Paul and threatened to tell her father if Eve didn't divorce Paul and leave. And since Van had confided in Neil Cameron about Eve, Cameron had to die, too, which Eve-Andrea accomplished by having one of her numerous lovers, probably the one with the tattoos, help her. See how simple things are when you have no idea what you're talking about?

“I appreciate your help very much, both of you.”

As I started for the door, the woman called, “I sure hope the cops don't start hassling your man. I'm used to L.A. cops. They're the worst.”

14

I
was at Wendy's in time for supper. For once. Since it was so hot even with the air conditioning on, we had one of those cold suppers that are often tastier than the hot ones. Slices of fresh watermelon and cantaloupe, a spinach salad with ranch dressing, and slices of wheat bread that Wendy had made during the day. She said it was a beer night rather than a wine night. I didn't disagree. I drank a can and a half of Schlitz but was too full to finish the rest.

Wendy had allowed me to bring my cats from my apartment, the ones I was allegedly still keeping for the old friend of mine who'd gone to L.A. to become an actress. The last I'd heard she was married to a cop and living in the valley with their first child. Tasha, Crystal, and Tess were thus mine. I told Wendy that they were my dowry.

The three of them sat on the far end of the dining room table watching us eat.

“Do you ever wonder what they're thinking about, Sam?”

“I know what they're thinking about.”

“Oh, right.”

“They're thinking how can a woman this gorgeous put up with a loser like McCain.”

“That's funny. That's what
I
thought they were thinking, too. They're very perceptive.”

She sipped her beer. I liked to watch her wrists. They were delicately wrought and charming all by themselves. Of course it would be difficult to date just a pair of wrists. People would talk. “God, you'd think Eve would be more careful.”

“Maybe she's a nympho,” I said.

“Nymphos are only in all those paperbacks you read.”

“Well then she's super horny.”

“Or something. Maybe she's going through the same thing I was when I was running around. I'm sure people called
me
a ‘nympho,' too. But I wasn't married. I was only hurting myself and my mother and sister. She's hurting a husband.”

“I wonder what kind of agreement they have about money. In case of a divorce.”

“She wouldn't be in a position to say much if he just cut her off.”

“Not unless there was some kind of cruelty going on, physical cruelty, and even then the judge would ask her why she hadn't reported it. He'd also tell her that running around was no way to deal with marital problems.”

All three cats looked toward the front of the house when the doorbell rang. Tasha yawned, indicating that she thought whoever had come calling was bound to be boring.

“I'll get it.” She was up before I could offer to do it, giving me a prolonged gape at her smooth tanned legs in white shorts. The red cotton blouse accented her small perfect breasts. She was still talking. “You don't really think Eve killed Vanessa and the Cameron boy, do you?”

“It's worth considering, anyway.”

When she got the door open, she said, “It's Kenny.” She did her best to pack excitement into those two words. She still wished Kenny didn't write soft-core sex books for a living, but he'd won her over with his wife Sue and his daughter Melissa. I think she liked Kenny without quite approving of him.

“Hi, Wendy. I hope I'm not interrupting dinner.”

“No, not at all. We're finished. Come on in and have some coffee.” An afterthought: “Or a beer.”