Rubout (25 page)

If Mark had come up to me at that moment, put his arms around me, and whispered the right words, I might have gotten over my case of the other woman jitters and we could have fallen happily into my grandparents’ big oak bed. But he came up the steps and said the exact wrong—or right—thing.

“Jesus Christ!” he said, and I knew he wasn’t talking about Grandma’s holy picture. “Who’s your decorator? Goodwill? Look at that ancient TV. And those bowling trophies. You still have the original cellophane on those lampshades. Francesca, you dress like a million bucks and you’re living in this dump. Where did you get this crap—a Cherokee Street rummage sale?”

“It was my grandparents’ furniture,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster in my current condition. “They brought me up. When they died, I kept everything the same, I guess so I could keep them. Because I admire them.”

Mark looked stricken. He really was a nice guy. “I am sorry, Francesca. It was a stupid thing to say and I apologize. Will you forgive me?”

I turned my head away. He turned it back. “Look at me,” he said.

So I did. Another mistake. He’d shed his shirt and pants. It was the first time I’d seen Mark without his exquisite clothes. He looked ridiculous in blue boxer shorts, which were ironed, probably by his wife. That
made me feel even more guilty. He had the beginning of a paunch, which his tailoring hid. He was hairy as a hibernating bear. He had black hair on his legs, his chest, his stomach, his back, even his shoulders. The man should shave his shoulders. The man should braid his shoulders. I put my arm around him and my amethyst birthstone ring snagged on his back hair. That was the final straw—or hair. I wasn’t hot for Mark. I was in love with his clothes. When I saw the real Mark, I didn’t want him. I should stick with his wardrobe and his fine mind.

“I really like you, Mayhew,” I said, “but not this way. I can always find a lover. I need a friend.”

He shrugged. “As you wish,” he said. Maybe he was as turned off as I was. I went into the bedroom and put on my full-length black terry robe. I stayed in the room long enough to give Mayhew the chance to put on his clothes. When I came out of the bedroom, I saw that he was dressed and he had gathered my clothes off the stairs. He had my boots in his hand and my jeans and sweater neatly folded over his arm. He handed them to me like a valet, and bowed. We both started laughing nervously, and I gave him a sisterly hug and stepped back pretty quickly. I didn’t want to ignite any lingering sparks. “Good-bye, Mark. Thanks. I’m sorry.”

“Too bad, Francesca, you got a great body,” he said. He kissed me on the nose and left. Mayhew had class.

If someone could do a full-body blush, it was me. I was embarrassed. I’d probably never be able to sleep with another man as long as I lived. I’d probably never be able to walk down the front steps again.
Every time I did, I’d see Mayhew and me groping each other. God, this was mortifying. He’d been so nice about it, too. I couldn’t even hate the man. All I could do was hate myself, for being so weak. And hate Lyle, for pushing me into this life of degradation. If he hadn’t tried to force me to marry him, I wouldn’t have wrapped myself around Mayhew like some cycle slut. I felt my face grow hot again when I thought about this afternoon. I picked up my jeans to put them on and saw the seat was dusty. Those stairs needed to be cleaned. I came from a long line of Scrubby Dutch, people who cleaned house for recreation. To them, steps as dusty as mine were more shameful than sex with a married man. And a lot easier to undo. I got a dustpan and brush and a damp rag and wiped the steps down from the top to the bottom, a South Side penance. But no matter how much dirt I swept up, I couldn’t wipe away my embarrassment. Even house cleaning didn’t make the time pass. It was now a little after six o’clock. I’d managed to mess up my life in three hours. How could I have done that with Mayhew? Why had I done that? Why did I start it? Why did I stop it? My brain kept chasing the same ideas again and again, like a kitten chasing its tail. I needed to think about something else. So I did what I always do when I don’t want to think about my messed up life. I went to work.

I went down the back steps, which had only memories of taking out the garbage and bringing up the groceries, and got in Ralph. Then I drove over to Eric’s apartment in Richmond Heights, the place where Hud Junior was living temporarily. Charlie
had ordered me not to talk to Hudson or his son, but he didn’t say anything about Eric, Hud’s roommate. Maybe he could tell me something useful. Highway 40 had what passed for a traffic jam in St. Louis, which means the cars slowed down for a few exits, and drivers complained as if they were in a Manhattan gridlock. We don’t like to wait, especially not on Highway 40, the road to the rich suburbs. A few years ago that road was renamed Interstate 64, but no true St. Louisan ever called anything by its new name. It was still Highway 40 to us. This makes it tough for outsiders to get around our town, because we don’t give directions. We give history. No matter what the signs said, it would always be Highway 40. We still called one of the main routes through downtown Twelfth Street, even though it became Tucker Boulevard in 1979. Which meant that any tourists who went downtown on local directions wandered around helplessly for days, living on roots and canned beer, until they figured it out.

Eric and Hud lived in a hulking brown brick apartment building right off Highway 40. I could see it from the road. I found a parking place on the street and knocked on the door. Eric came to the door. He could have been a clone of Hud, from his blond hair to his black T-shirt, except he didn’t have the dark circles under his eyes. I asked if Hud was home. “Hud isn’t here right now,” Eric said civilly.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I can talk to you. I’m Francesca Vierling with the
City Gazette.”

“You!” he snarled, as if I’d just announced the IRS would be giving him a free audit. “We’ve both been warned about you. Hud’s not supposed to talk to you
and neither am I. If you don’t get away from my door I’ll . . . I’ll . . . call the police.” Eric slammed the door in my face, and I could hear two locks click and a chain rattle, which I thought was excessive. I wasn’t a mugger, just a mild-mannered reporter.

Well, that trip was a dead end. Hud and Hudson were out as sources. Mayhew could check them out. But Charlie didn’t say anything about staying away from the grandmother, Elizabeth. Maybe she could explain where her grandson was the night her daughter-in-law was killed. Maybe she knew what her son was doing during those missing fifteen minutes at the cigar smokers’ dinner. Maybe she could tell me why Hudson was carrying motor oil in the trunk of a new car. Maybe I could give her a call.

I don’t have a car phone. I know it’s inconvenient, but every jerk in the Western world has a car phone. I refuse to put one in. Which means that the drug dealers and I are constantly driving around, looking for an unvandalized pay phone. I stopped at a supermarket to make my calls and do some shopping. I couldn’t face picking up anything at Mrs. Indelicato’s confectionery for a while after . . . well, you know why.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a St. Louis supermarket, but they are cathedrals of canned goods and produce. The one in my neighborhood plays Vivaldi tapes and has a coffee bar. The produce section is an invitation to an exotic banquet: Asian pears and persimmons. White asparagus and purple potatoes. Passion fruit and pine nuts. Portobello mushrooms, Vidalia onions, and edible flowers. In the seafood section, I could choose from five kinds of
fresh shrimp, frog legs, smoked scallops, shark, squid, turtle meat, periwinkles, oysters, and Cajun crawfish. There were live lobsters in a tank and escargot and green-lipped mussels in the freezer. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I threw an asparagus quiche and two vegetable burritos in my cart. I bypassed the bakery and the liquor department as more temptation that I didn’t need. Then I bought myself some fresh flowers, since no one else would. I loved wandering around St. Louis supermarkets. A New York friend who came here on a visit compared them to the food hall at Harrod’s. If a neighborhood supermarket could sell such exotic fare in St. Louis, you’d think the editors of the
Gazette
would quit feeding readers the same old pabulum.

A guy came over to me with a pack of fresh tuna steaks. “Do you know how to fix these?” he said, and smiled fetchingly. That fishy question was the male pickup ploy. Rather than hit on you at a bar, the smart guys tried to meet women at the supermarket. The subtle ones avoided the produce department. This guy was a cute blond in his thirties, a little on the bland side, with no visible tattoos, scars, or zits. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and polished shoes, so he probably had a job. But helpless men just don’t appeal to me. I picked a three-pack of canned tuna out of my cart and said, “This is probably more your speed. Just open the can and it’s ready.”

He looked hurt and left. Just as well. I didn’t want to tell anyone I’d picked that little something up at the supermarket. After today, I was through with men. I’d probably give them up permanently. Maybe I could spend my weekends doing good works at a
homeless shelter or a children’s home. Heck, their lives were miserable enough without having me around. Maybe I could spend my time alphabetizing my spices and sorting my socks. I checked out my groceries, got two dollars in quarters, and started making calls. I had an idea on how to break the case without talking to Hudson or Hud. This was St. Louis, where everyone knows everyone else. This city is the world’s biggest small town. I was betting that there was some connection between Hudson and the dead biker Jack besides Jack’s affair with Sydney. I was even beginning to wonder about that “chance” meeting Sydney and Jack had in Uncle Bob’s. Suppose it was a setup? Suppose Hudson paid Jack to get rid of his troublesome wife? Suppose Hudson killed off Jack when the biker tried blackmail? That made a whole lot of sense. In fact, it was the only theory that fit all the facts. If I could establish a link between Jack and Hudson before Jack moved in with Sydney, I was on my way to solving this murder. And I had an idea how to do it. First, I needed to know just how far the Vander Venter roots went in this area. Some of the old families also had a country home, farm, or hunting lodge near St. Louis. Did Hudson? I didn’t know, but I knew who did. I called my friend Jinny Peterson. The woman was better than five computer databases. She was intrigued by my question. “I don’t know, either,” she said, “But I can find out. Call me back in five minutes.”

Perfect. That gave me enough time to talk to Elizabeth. I wondered if Hud’s mother would shut me out the way her son did. Cordelia answered the phone. She came back after a short wait and said that Elizabeth
would speak to me. Perhaps Hudson hadn’t called her yet to warn her of my interfering ways. Maybe I better start asking questions now, in case he put the clamps on his mother talking to me, too.

“Thank you for talking to me,” I said, and I meant it. “I know you are a great bargain hunter. Do you know where I can get any bargains in motor oil?”

Okay, it was clumsy. But she went for it. Elizabeth even laughed, a sound like ice cracking. I knew where her son got his warm personality. She said, “My reputation has caught up with me, I see. I’m not really the bargain hunter everyone thinks I am. I just can’t stand to waste money. I was a recycler before it was fashionable. I believe our precious resources must be saved.”

Especially those Vander Venter eagles.

“I don’t know anything about motor oil,” Elizabeth said, “but I did get a good price on Lapsang souchong. Would you like to come for tea tomorrow afternoon? It’s Cordelia’s day off, so we’ll have to rough it, I’m afraid. It will just be you and me.”

I was stunned. Elizabeth was actually inviting me to take tea with her. She was oozing charm for a Vander Venter. Of course, I said yes. “Four o’clock tomorrow afternoon then,” she said, and hung up.

Still awed by my success, I dropped another quarter and called Jinny Peterson back. “The Mister is home from his evening bicycle ride, so I have to go,” she said, “but the Vander Venters have a country place—they call it a farm—near Washington, Missouri.” She hung up, too.

Two hits in a row. I tried for three. Sonny was the third part of my plan. I got the biker’s answering
machine: “This is Sonny and Debbie, gone out to play, we’ll call you later in the day,” his voice chanted.

“Hi, Sonny, it’s Francesca, I wanted to . . .” I heard the sound of someone picking up the phone.

“Francesca, is that you?” Sonny said. “What can I do you for? Debbie and I were heading out the door. We’re getting her cousin from Wisconsin some brains.”

“You’re not going to do that to an innocent stranger.”

“Hey, he says he thinks he’ll like ’em. We’ll find out.” Sonny laughed wickedly. “You called me. What do you need?”

“I want to ask you a couple of questions about Jack.”

“The poor bastard,” Sonny said. “We gave him a real biker’s funeral. About forty of us rode in the funeral procession and then we went to one of his favorite bars. Listen, how soon do you need your questions answered?”

“Uhh,” I said.

“That means right now. Debbie and I really are ready to run out the door with Arnold. Why don’t you meet us there and we can talk? We’re taking the kid to Dieckmeyer’s. I don’t have to tell you where that is. If nothing else, it’s worth the trip to see Arnold’s face.”

I wondered if Arnold knew what he was in for. In St. Louis, going to get some brains didn’t mean you went to school or the bookstore or the library. It meant you went out for deep-fried brain sandwiches. Brains are not beautiful. Slathered with ketchup and
onion, which is the way we eat them, they look like a lab experiment. And if you think looking at a brain is bad, try eating one. It’s a death-defying act. Brain sandwiches have the highest concentration of cholesterol on the planet. A dietitian once gave me these horrifying figures: Brains have 3,392 milligrams of cholesterol, 30 grams of fat, and 500 calories. And that’s if you don’t order the fries.

If you came from a German family, like I did, then you ate brain sandwiches. You didn’t think about what they were, if you’ll pardon the pun. They were dinner. They were lunch. They were cheap—or at least they used to be. Germans never wasted anything, not even organ meats. St. Louis Germans figured if you could fry something or cover it with sugar, you probably could get it down. Brains were fried. My grandma made some dandy ones. Cleaned them and fried them into little patties and put a big slab of Bermuda onion on top of each one and served them on hamburger buns. She made a few hamburgers for the squeamish who wouldn’t try brains, but most everyone ate brains then, except for one Irish relative who didn’t know any better.