The Woman Who Fell From Grace (18 page)

“Not so crazy. She’s kind of sheltered.”

“She’s kind of impressionable is what she is,” he argued. “She’s also kind of terrific, and I intend to marry her.”

“I’m sure that’s what she has in mind, too, Sheriff. She just wants to kick up her heels a little first. It’ll be for the best,” I assured him. “This way she won’t wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“If she missed out on anything. She’d only end up taking it out on you.”

“What makes you such an expert on the subject?” he demanded testily.

“You want advice on marriage, talk to a man whose own turned to shit.”

“I wasn’t asking for your advice,” he said crossly.

“My mistake. Sorry.”

He crouched back down and patted Lulu’s soft, white underbelly. Out came her tongue again. “Sometimes Mercy … she gives me the feeling she thinks I’m a real clod.”

I left that one alone.

“Has she said anything to you?” he pressed.

“She said she likes you.”

He brightened. “She did?”

I suddenly felt as if I were back in junior high school. I hated junior high school. “Only she feels like you’re being forced on her by her mother. It’s got to be her own choice. Don’t crowd her. Let her come around to it in her own time.”

He mulled this over. “Think I should loosen up on the reins a little, huh?”

“If that’s how you want to put it. But you’ll do better if you start thinking of her as a woman and not an Appaloosa.”

He shook his head at me, disgusted. “I really don’t get you, Mr. Hoag. Bothering her. Bothering my granddad. Pestering everybody in town with your weird ideas about Fern O’Baugh being murdered —”

“She wasn’t the only one, Sheriff. Alma Glaze was murdered, too.” I glanced up at the house. Polk Two was watching us through the window. “Why she was, I’m still not sure. Something to do with Sterling Sloan’s death — which was not caused by any brain aneurysm. That was just a cover-up.”

“Uh-huh. Is there anything else?” Polk Four asked with exaggerated patience.

“Franklin Neene’s suicide.”

“What about it?”

“Maybe it wasn’t. Suicide, I mean.”

Polk Four stayed calm. Dangerously calm. “I have to tell you, Mr. Hoag,” he said very quietly, “I’ve had just about as much of you as I can stand.” He came up close to me now. I felt his breath on my face. It smelled of Tic-Tacs. “I’m not ordinarily one to get tough. You can ask anybody. But I sure do feel like taking off this badge and gun and punching you in the mouth.”

“I’m real sorry to hear you say that, Sheriff. Because if you do, we’ll have to fight, and one of us will end up in the hospital, and it won’t be you.”

“What I
am
going to do,” he promised, “is advise Mavis you’re a public nuisance and ought to be put on a plane back to New York.”

“Mavis happens to need me,” I reminded him. “As long as she does, I’m not going anywhere. Sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

“What is it going to take for you to realize that I’m not doing this for laughs, Sheriff?” I demanded. “You happen to be sitting on one of the biggest scandals in motion picture history. Bigger than Thomas Ince. Bigger than William Desmond Taylor. Bigger than Fatty Arbuckle. Well, maybe not bigger than Fatty Arbuckle, but
big
. People have been
murdered
. I realize these are your folks down here, your family, your friends. Their lives may be ruined. I can’t help that. And neither can you. You have a choice to make. You can put your money where my mouth is or you can stand by and watch. Only, if you do, you’ll be the one who is ruined. Because I will get to the bottom of this, and when I do, it will go very, very public, believe me.”

He took a deep breath. Slowly, he let it out. “Why are you doing this?”

“Fern asked me to. It was her last request. You’re supposed to honor those.”

“Okay, fair enough. You’ve said your piece. Now I’ll say mine: Number one, I think you’re full of crap. I think you smell a buck and you don’t care who gets hurt. Number two, I’ll be watching you. You bother anybody in Augusta County, I’ll be on you. You exceed the speed limit by one-half mile per hour, I’ll be on you. You so much as smile at a girl under the age of eighteen or smoke in a no-smoking —”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Or step on a crack in the damned sidewalk, I’ll be on you! Got it!”

“Got it, pardner.”

“And
don’t
call me pardner!”

Polk Four didn’t wave good-bye when he went tearing off in his big sedan. He didn’t smile or tip his big broad-brimmed trooper’s hat either. I don’t think he liked me anymore.

I drove slowly back through the Mennonite farms toward Route 11, wondering.

Say Sloan
had
died of an overdose — why had Alma been killed? Had she found out about the cover-up? Threatened to expose it? Was Goldwyn possibly behind her death? If not him, who? Why was Fern killed? Whom could she hurt now, all these years later? How much did Polk Two know that he wouldn’t tell me? Did Polk Four know anything, or had he been shielded from all of it?

I was thinking about these things when I got to a stop sign. It was a rural intersection, nothing but farmland in all four directions. A four-wheel-drive Ford pickup came to a stop directly across from me, all styled up with racing stripes and fog lamps and chrome roll bar and tires so huge you’d need a pole vault to reach the seat. I’d seen a lot just like it since I’d arrived in the valley. They seemed to hold great appeal for cretins aged seven to seventy. I didn’t pay too much attention to this one. Not until I noticed the two men riding in it. The driver had a crew cut. The other man had a ponytail. And an over-under shotgun aimed out his window right at me. He pulled the trigger.

I
DOVE DOWN ONTO
Lulu just as the Jag’s windshield exploded, showering me with broken glass. I stayed down, eyes squinched shut, breath sucked in, heart racing. He wasn’t through — one more shot boomed in the country quiet. This one hit nothing. Then they took off for the hills with a screech.

I sat up at once, pellets of broken glass tumbling down the back of my neck. Lulu climbed down onto the floor under the glove box and cowered there, shaking. I assured her I could handle it.

Then I went after them.

I can’t explain why. I had no idea what I’d do if I actually caught up with them. Die, maybe. All I knew was I had to do it. I tend not to be totally rational when I’ve been kicked in the head and shot at.

They were heading toward the Shenandoah Mountains and the West Virginia state line, moving fast but not that fast. Maybe they didn’t know I was after them yet. The narrow farm road dipped and darted through the undulating pastures. No other cars were on it.

Merilee kept the Jag perfectly tuned. It responded at once as I tore my way through the gears, the wind biting at my face through the empty windshield. My eyes started to tear. I fumbled in the glove box for my aviator shades. Lulu glowered up at me, not liking this one bit. She had enough on her plate already.

The road started getting curvy right about when I got close enough for him to spot me in his rearview mirror. I could tell when he did — he speeded up. I did, too. His partner turned around. The cab’s rear window slid open and the muzzle of his shotgun poked out. He took one wild shot at me, then another. Ignore those high-speed gunfights you see on TV — you can’t get off any kind of a shot when you’re bouncing down a country road at sixty miles an hour. Still, it crossed my mind that he might get lucky. So I floored it and cozied in right under the truck’s upraised tail, the Jag’s nose almost touching its
Keep on Truckin’
mud flaps. He was up so high on those stupid tires he couldn’t get a clear shot down at me now even if he tried — the tailgate was shielding me. I was okay there. Unless they decided to hit the brakes.

Lulu let out a low moan. Again, I assured her I could handle it. There was no one to assure me I could handle it.

Faster. Seventy … eighty … veering past a Mennonite horse and buggy on a blind curve. Edging back over just before getting splattered by an oncoming car. Climbing hard into the mountains now, road twisting, narrowing. Signs shooting past … Head Waters — Elev. 2,925 Ft … Bullpasture Mountain — Elev. 3,240 Ft … Climbing up among pines now, swollen spring rivers roaring past. Climbing, curves blind, road a narrow ribbon hugging the side of the mountain. No shoulder. No rail. Only a sheer drop. And down, down, down … Jack Mountain — Elev. 4,378 Ft … The entire Shenandoah Valley laid out far below us now. I had no time to admire the view. I was too busy pushing him on. Faster …

We crested. Briefly, the road flattened out. Then we were descending. Flying down the twisting road, tires screaming, the Jag hugging the pavement like a panther. Twice he fishtailed, but held the big truck in check. We were playing a dangerous game of chicken now. I could stop at any time, turn around. I had his license number. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to make him go faster.

He took his eyes off the road. Must have, because he didn’t ever even try to hit the brakes. One moment he was flying down that twisting road. Next moment he was still flying, only there was no road under him. Only sky, his wheels spinning in the air.

I had just an instant to react. No time to weigh my options, to arrive at a sound, measured plan of action. There was only the Jag and the road that was no longer right in front of me. My brain shut down. My body took over. Feet rammed the brakes and clutch. Hands drove the wheel hard left. I spun out, wildly out of control. Skidded to a stop on the very edge of the road, facing uphill, stalled. I sat there like that for a moment, too dazed to move. Then the thought processes returned, and I jumped out to look.

The truck had touched down at the base of the mountain three thousand feet below, its wheels up, still spinning. A puff of gray smoke wafted lazily up from it, like from a campfire. It looked kind of peaceful. Until it blew. I saw it before I heard it. Saw the tongue of angry orange flame, the hunks of twisted steel flying off in every direction. I heard the explosion a second later. And for many seconds after that. It echoed across the entire valley, like a clap of thunder.

Lulu squirmed in between my feet and nuzzled my leg. I reached down and rubbed her ears. I got the battered silver flask of Macallan from the glove box and drank deeply from it. I stood there for a while taking in the panoramic view of the valley. I had time to admire it now.

And to wonder just whom Polk Two had been on the phone with when I’d gone back inside for my cap.

Pamela, housekeeper nonpareil, was waiting patiently outside the airline terminal in a sweater and skirt of matching bottle-green cashmere and knobby brown oxfords, her raincoat folded over her arm, two old leather suitcases beside her on the pavement. Pam’s in her early sixties, plump and silver haired, and owns the loveliest complexion I’ve ever seen. Also the most unflappable disposition. I got to know her in Surrey a couple of years back when I was ghosting the life story of Tristam Scarr, the British rock star. Maybe you read it. Or about it. It got a little messy.

She smiled cheerily and waved when I pulled up at the curb and hopped out. “Yes, yes, it’s so lovely to see you again, Hoagy.”

I kissed her cheek. “Glad you could make it, Pam.”

“Nonsense, dear. I’m thrilled you called — my life has gotten so appallingly dull of late. All of that new money buying up the country estates and trying so desperately hard to act the part. You simply would not believe how stuffy they are. Poor dears don’t realize that the ruling class are, and always have been, utterly bats.”

I grabbed her bags. “In that case you should find your new employer a refreshing throwback.”

“Excellent.”

“Though something of a challenge,” I cautioned.

“Even better,” she assured me. “Keeps one alert. You will tutor me, of course.”

“Of course. What are friends for?”

One suitcase fit in the trunk, the other behind Pam’s seat. Lulu wriggled around in her lap when she got in, happy to see her. Lulu is generally happy to see someone who has fed her kippers and eggs and will likely do so again.

“And hello to you as well, Miss Lulu,” Pam cooed at her, getting her nose licked. “I see she hasn’t changed her eating habits.”

“No such luck.”

“In the pink otherwise?”

“That,” I replied, “is a long story — and not a particularly pleasant one.” I found a spare pair of Merilee’s sunglasses in the glove box and handed them to her. “You’ll be wanting these.”

Pam figured out why as soon as I eased away from the curb and picked up speed. “My Lord, you’ve lost your windscreen.”

“Call me crazy, but I like the taste of bugs in my mouth.”

She raised an eyebrow at me. “So it has turned into one of those, has it?”

I filled her in as we worked our way through the outskirts of Charlottesville to the highway. She listened intently, Lulu dozing in her lap.

When I was done, she said, “Sterling Sloan. My lord. Such a lovely, lovely man. I saw his
Hamlet
when I was a girl. He was so gifted and handsome. So tragic. I wept when he died. Every schoolgirl in Britain did. To think he was a drug addict. How sad. How very, very sad.”

“I have an ulterior motive in bringing you in on this, Pam.”

“I’m terribly flattered, dear boy. But how many times must I tell you? I’m much too old for you.”

I grinned. I do know how. “Actually, I wondered if you could —”

“Quietly pick up what information I can from the staff and locals?” she inquired. “Of course. I’ll get started first thing in the morning.”

I glanced over at her. “How is it you always know what needs doing before anyone says so?”

“Because, dear boy, unlike so many others who make the claim, I am a professional. You’ve not said a word about Merilee. How is she?”

“Fine. We’ve entered into a state of peaceful non-coexistence.”

“Meaning
you’re
not ready to settle down again.”

“No, we’re equally qualmish about it.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“It failed before. And there’s no reason to think it won’t again.”

“Rubbish. When you fall off a horse you must get back on.”