Breaking Up Is Hard to Do (The Sam McCain Mysteries Book 6) (5 page)

“But he was a gentleman about it, Mr. C. All the time I was carrying those boxes in, he sat in the front seat listening to the radio. And every time I kind of staggered past with a heavy load, you know what he did?”

“I’m afraid to hear.”

“He apologized, Mr. C. Every single time. He said, ‘I’m sorry, babe. If I hadn’t hurt my back playing poker, I’d be helping you right now with those boxes.’ Now that’s a real gentleman.”

What do you say? I’m sure Mrs. Goebbels thought her son was a gentleman, too.

Jamie left soon after coming back from the bathroom. We said good night. I checked the phone answering service. No calls. Then I switched on the radio for the local news. Out here that means farm news, too, which isn’t so bad. I know just enough about farming to understand how the markets are performing in Chicago on cattle, hogs, corn futures and so on. It’s the farming commercials that get me. Most of them are too slick, farmers played by professional actors from back east. They all sound like they taught Latin at Rutgers and moonlighted playing farmers.

There was no news about Ross Murdoch finding a body in his bomb shelter. There was plenty of news about the naval blockade around Cuba. No Russian ships had been sighted yet. Not nearby, anyway. But many many nautical miles away three Russian ships could be seen. If they stayed their course, they would end up right in the center of the blockade. The White House, it was said, had no comment on these ships.

Because there wasn’t anything I could do about Khrushchev and his dangerous and stupid ideas, I concentrated on Ross Murdoch. Why wasn’t the news reporting on the body in his bomb shelter? The story should be all over everywhere. I spent ten minutes dialing around station to station. Nothing. Both the Cedar Rapids and Iowa City stations carried national and international news at this time. Eventually, this story would be carried on the national news segments.

I looked up Ross Murdoch’s home phone number and called him.

A male voice said, “The Murdoch residence.”

“This is Sam McCain. I was out there earlier today. I’d like to speak to Ross if I could.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCain, he’s in a meeting right now.”

“Who’s this, please?”

“This is Jim Gilliam. I’m handling Mr. Murdoch’s press relations.”

“I see. Exactly how long do you think it’ll be before he gets out of that meeting?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. It’s a very important meeting.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“I’ll be happy to take your number if you’d like.”

“No, thanks. I’ll just try later.”

“Well, thanks for calling, Mr. McCain.” And hung up.

Political candidates had a lot of meetings. Ross Murdoch wasn’t any different. But very few political candidates had meetings while dead women decomposed in their bomb shelters. It just isn’t in good taste. Ask Dear Abby if you don’t believe me. It’s in her new book, Chapter 14, “Caring for Corpses.” Abby is very big on spritzing them frequently with perfume.

I went back to work. Every once in a while I’d look up at the lone high window in my office and see the dusk sky begin to glow with those impossible mixtures of salmon-gold-pink-and-fuchsia that not even the best of artists can quite recreate on canvas. A quarter-moon hung exactly on the window line of moisture that would, in a couple of hours, be frost. I suppose it’s a variation of self-pity, that emptiness you feel at dusk, that sense of terrible isolation. Vampires are lucky. They’re just getting up about now and for them the fun is just starting. Lucky bastards.

I was hungry but not hungry. Thinking about seeing Mary sometime soon but not seeing Mary sometime soon because that probably wouldn’t be a good idea for either of us. Knowing I should stop over and see Mom and Dad more often but somehow never doing it—and in a town this size, what could possibly be the excuse? Then I thought about Hastings. Had he somehow put Karen Hastings’s body in the bomb shelter?

I got up and poured out the last of Jamie’s pretty-damned-good coffee and then went back to my desk and wondered some more.

I was laying all this out mentally when the phone rang and a voice said, “Just stay right there.” And with that she hung up.

It took me thirty seconds to play the voice back three or four times in my head. To realize who it was I’d been talking to—well, listening to. None other than the beautiful Pamela Forrest.

I thought of what Mary had said not long ago at the drugstore. It’s like we were starting all over again. And it was. Or could be. Would I fall in love with Pamela all over again? Would Mary fall in love with me all over again?

I was pretty sure that vampires never had to go through stuff like this. Lucky bastards.

I
T WASN’T ANY GRAND
entrance. In fact, she stumbled a bit coming through the door, waving a bottle of Cutty Sark. She hadn’t changed in the long months since I’d seen her. A small-town Grace Kelly but without quite as much reserve. She had a pretty tart sense of humor. Tonight she was all Southern California cool, even though I assumed she’d come from Chicago. Tan suede mid-thigh jacket, white silk blouse, dark brown slacks. The golden hair was cut shorter than usual, styled in the way of TV sitcom wives and the good girls in adventure movies.

She set the scotch bottle down on my desk and said, “No waiting in line at a state liquor store, McCain. I brought it all the way from Chicago just for you.”

“I don’t believe it. The beautiful Pamela Forrest.” She laughed. “I take it you’re still in love with me, then? I was hoping you’d be excited to see me.”

I spoke carefully. “Actually, I’m not, Pamela.” But of course Pamela’s ego couldn’t accept anything so negative.

“Oh bullshit, McCain. You’re not over me and you know it. You should see your face right this instant. You got over the surprise of seeing me. Now you look the same as you did when you used to walk me home from school in sixth grade. All moony and shy and just crazy about me.”

“It must be the light in here, Pamela. But moony and shy, I’m not. The crazy part I’ll admit is open to argument.”

“So you’re saying that if I took all my clothes off and offered myself to you, you wouldn’t make love to me?”

“Well, I guess we could try it and see what happened. I guess that’s about the only way we could find out for sure.”

Before I knew what she was doing, she walked around my desk, shoved my chair back and pointed to my crotch. “Look at that erection, McCain. And you say you’re over me. Bullshit.” She went over and sat in the client chair and said, “God, I talk like a sailor these days, don’t I?”

“Well, you used to be sort of prim, I guess.” And she had been. This was the new but not necessarily improved Pamela.

“I wish I still was prim, McCain. You know, the good Catholic girl.” Then: “I cheated on him.”

“On Stu?”

“Yes. Isn’t it terrible? I sound like a sailor now and I cheated on him. You know, when we were back in Catholic school I never thought I’d turn out this way. I hate myself, McCain. First, I convinced him to leave his wife and family. And then we get married and I go and cheat on him. But it was only once. But it was, unfortunately, with his best friend. But his best friend was so drunk I’m not sure he even remembers it. But I didn’t think guys could, you know,
do
anything after a certain number of drinks. But you see what I mean about talking like a sailor? But I had to say all these things so you’d know why I came back here.”

“Do you know how many times you started a sentence with ‘but’ just then?” Then I remembered again. “You ever watch
The Twilight Zone?”

“That science fiction show on TV?”

“Yeah.”

“No. It scares me too much. Why?”

“It’s my favorite show. And they had a story sort of like this once.”

“Like what?”

“I was talking to Mary Travers this afternoon. Wes is leaving her for another woman.”

“Oh, poor Mary. She’s such a good person. Poor Mary.”

“That isn’t the point. I’m not sure she even cares that much. She told me their marriage had never been all that good anyway.”

“But she has kids.”

“Two.”

“Oh, poor Mary.”

“My point, Pamela, is that Mary said it’s like we’re all starting over again—right back to where you and she and I were in high school.”

“God, Wes was in love with her since fifth grade.”

“Fourth.”

“And then he goes and screws around on her?”

“You were in love with Stu since ninth grade and then you finally get him and you screw around on him.”

“God, isn’t it terrible? It’s worse than terrible. It’s nuts. It’s pathetic. Wes waits all these years to get Mary and I wait all these years to get Stu and you wait all these years to get me and—well, I know you still want me, McCain, despite all that crap about not loving me any more. Face it. You’re just too embarrassed to admit it.” Giggle. “God, am I drunk.” Then: “See how living in the big city has changed me?”

She was right about that. She was self-possessed now in a way you don’t run into much in a town of 25,000. And I mean neither women nor men, unless they’re drunk. She’d never been sweet but she’d always been soft. She wasn’t really hard now but she wasn’t really soft any more, either. This was a day for melancholy.

“So where’re you staying?” I said.

“I thought I might spend a night or two at your place. Sneak up the back steps. I broke up a marriage here, remember? Once people start hearing that I’m back in town, it’s going to be like the Salem Witch Trials.”

“Why don’t you stay with your folks?”

“We don’t exactly get along any more, McCain. I need to warn them first with a phone call. I’m just not up to it right now. C’mon, we can get drunk on this bottle and then go to bed.”

“Why couldn’t you have said this three years ago when I was so damned crazy about you?”

For the first time, she seemed to understand that my feelings for her really weren’t as they’d once been. I suppose I still did love her in some way. But not the old way. But not the good way.

“Because I was still in love with Stu, McCain. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. God, if only I’d known how loud he snores and how bad his feet smell even after he puts foot deodorant on them. Or how he gets this real grody skin rash on his arms.”

“Gee, don’t you think those things are kind of superficial, Pamela? I mean, they seem like they could be solved without you boffing his best friend. I mean, did he treat you badly or anything?”

“No. He was kind and patient and loving. He really was.”

“And you dumped him because he gets a skin rash?”

“Little stuff like that really bugs me, McCain. At least it did on him.”

“You didn’t know he got this skin rash before you married him? All the times you slept together?”

“That’s the funny thing. He didn’t get it till we ran off together. His doctor said it was psychosomatic. Stu would think about how he’d broken his little girl’s heart and then he’d get this rash. And he wouldn’t want to have sex. And then he’d get drunk. He wasn’t doing so well with the law firm he joined there, either. Had a real hard time concentrating. I felt sorry for him, McCain. And I still love him in a certain way. But it all just went to hell. And really, I think it was the same for him. He had this dream about me. About how glamorous I was. But I’m not. I even bite my toenails once in a while like I did when I was a little girl. And I’m selfish and impatient and really kind of a spoiled brat for somebody who grew up in the Hills.”

“Gee, no wonder I fell in love with you. All those qualities you just mentioned.” I stood up, dug in my pocket, brought forth a ring of keys and tossed them to her. “You can let yourself into my apartment.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Business.”

I plucked my topcoat from the wobbly tree rack.

“Don’t I even get a kiss?” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “If you’re good.”

Then I was on my way.

T
HERE ARE TWO HOTELS
and three motels in town here. I spent the next hour looking for Hastings. I had assumed he’d used a different name. But when I got to the second of the motels and described him to the desk clerk, he said, “Oh. That would be Mr. Hastings. In seventeen.”

I thanked him and walked outside. The motel was on the edge of town, adjacent to the highway. Eighteen-wheelers hurtled through the night. Cars looked lonely and vulnerable in the now cold night, the wind up strong. This was the least of the motels. Rusty screen doors. Room numbers either missing or dangling from a single nail. Windows cracked and taped in front of dusty sun-parched drapes.

I knocked several times on the door of Room 17. An elderly couple gave me a skeptical, birdy eye. “I’m trying to break in here,” I said. “But now I’ll have to wait till you’re gone.”

They stared at each other. Their suspicions had been confirmed. I was indeed some kind of Martian. UFOs were in the news again and I was proof that they had landed.

They went over to a dusty green-brown Ford station wagon the color of baby poop and pulled away.

I didn’t break in. Instead I took my penlight and went over to the cars parked near the room. The licenses were mostly from the Midwest, Minnesota and Wisconsin particularly. None from Illinois.

I went back to the registration desk.

“How many nights did Mr. Hastings pay for?”

The worn man with the worn cardigan sweater and the worn blue eyes said, “I’m not sure I should be tellin’ things like that.”

I showed him my license.
The Real McCoys
was on in the background.

“Oh, you’re the fella that works for that judge. She’s sure an owly one. I got four parking tickets and forgot to pay ’em and the way she treated me you’d’a thought I just killed a couple of nuns.”

I laughed. “That’s the Judge.”

“Way I hear it she’s still mad because the Sykes family bought this town out from under her.”

“That’s the way I hear it, too.”

“’Course I don’t have no time for the Sykes family, neither. At least she’s kinda classy. Way she dresses and all. And that car she drives. What’s it called?”

“A Bentley.”

“That’s some car. The Sykeses, though, they’re just a bunch of hillbillies.” He referenced his small black-and-white TV set with a nod of his narrow, angular head. “Like old Walter Brennan on the TV.”