Flynn's In (9 page)

“My husband was never
not
with a woman, Inspector Whatever-your-name-is.”

“Ghote.” Flynn smiled. “Ghote-dipped.”

“My husband was a profoundly spoiled man,” Carol Huttenbach announced. “Sexually spoiled. He was boyishly handsome, healthy, rich, powerful, utterly charming, and as sexy as a magazine cover. He didn’t even have to blow that damned trumpet of his to have a parade of women following him.”

Max Harvey sat forward and put a hand on her arm. She waved it off.

He continued to sit forward, holding his own hands.

“Dwight always had everything his own way. He really believed all the attention he got, all those women throwing themselves at him, were his God-given right.”

Often Flynn had seen bereavement express itself as anger at the deceased. Watching Carol Huttenbach, Flynn wondered if he wasn’t seeing just plain anger.

“Why can’t we ask her what happened? Why did he go outside in the middle of the night to clean his gun?”

“Because someone was in his bed,” Max Harvey said with certainty. “Asleep.”

Flynn said: “Who?”

“Oh, come on,” Carol Huttenbach scoffed. “Don’t give me the ho-ho-ho bit. Some of us sweet little things have to put on stupidity publicly, but that doesn’t mean privately we’re stupid.”

“But whom do you think he was with?”

“You tell me.”

“I mean,” said Flynn. “Do you think he was with anyone in particular?”

“Don’t tell me he came to this fabled resort for the cuisine. Of course, with someone in particular. This is pretty far outside his own congressional district, wouldn’t you say?”

“But who?” Flynn persisted gently.

“God! Any one of a dozen, I can think of. That female lawyer from Washington. His cousin, Wendy. They could never keep their hands off each other. That female pilot forever flying in from Wyoming, what’s her name, Sandy—”

“Wilcomb,” said Max Harvey.

“Mark Brandon’s wife, at every dinner party, always all over him. Jenny Clifford.”

“Quite ajar of worms,” intoned Max Harvey, drawing on his king-sized cigarette.

“Jenny Clifford? Does she have a brother?”

“I think so.”

“Her brother,” said Max Harvey, “is Ernest Clifford, who, at a very young age indeed, is a chief news executive at UBC.”

“I see.”

Carol Huttenbach said, “Dwight could have gone straight to the top. Straight to The White House. He had money, looks, friends, important connections. He had a magical way of getting things done, getting what he wanted. No one ever understood how he did it. With no apparent effort, no work. All he had to do was pick up a phone, and
kazam!”
Her tone continued angry. “He was so cocksure of himself, he blew his stupid head off.”

“And you,” Flynn asked. “Would you have gone straight to the top with him?”

“Of course.” She crossed her ankles more tightly. “I have the children to think of.”

“L
ove is not all that’s blind.” In the parking lot of Timberbreak Lodge, Flynn watched his dashboard gauges work. “Needs gasoline,” he said. “Let’s go see if Bellingham has a center.”

As they slowly went downhill on the black-top road, Cocky said, “Didn’t know Ernest Clifford is a news executive at UBC.”

“And has a sister attracted to the recently deceased married man.” Sunlight poured through the breaks in the clouds. The valley and mountainsides to their left now were colorful under the waning fall foliage. “Ach, that’s the way this place is meant to be seen, I’m sure. I told you you might enjoy a few days in the country, Cocky. Peace. Quiet. Dry French toast and bland venison stew. Playful companions. Bodies being dragged about in the small hours.”

“Edward Buckingham,” said Cocky, “is currently out of office as governor of the state whose border is only fifteen hundred kilometers to the northwest of us.”

“Is that so? Thought I’d seen his face in the who-else-is-news columns.”

“Elected twice, the limit for that state in succession. Must wait a term before he can run again. Generally believed still to be running the state through his attorney general, now serving as governor.”

“Good thing it is, too, that one of us reads the newspapers. Frankly, I find the newspapers’ daily announcements of the imminent end of the world seldom right.”

“Philip Arlington is a banker, mostly,” Cocky said. “Currently serving as a White House economic advisor. I think he taught economics once at Yale, or some such place.”

“Unusual for a banker to be so vain.”

“I noticed the chin tucks, too. Cosmetic surgery on his face and more than once, I’d say. Not everyone, Frank, ages as gracefully as I do.” Cocky chuckled.

“Wendell Oland is senior partner in a major law firm,”
Flynn said. “You may think he’s senile. I think he had a genuine regard for his new waterproofs.”

“He must have a high regard for all his wearing apparel. At least he keeps all his clothes put safely away somewhere.”

“And Lauderdale is a judge,” said Flynn. “I’m sure there’s no sexual bias in his court. Can’t matter to him at all whether a defendant is wearing trousers or a skirt.”

“I don’t know who Ashley is. Some kind of a businessman, I guess. In financial hot water.”

“Maybe he counts Timberbreak Lodge among his assets. And Wahler is Rutledge’s lawyer, mind you, not his secretary or driver. And three weeks ago, he strangled a lampshade with his necktie. Indeed, we’re all dialectical.”

Flynn pulled into a one-pump station. “Fill the tank with your best,” he said to the attendant. “Vanilla, if you have it.”

“All out of vanilla,” said the attendant. “You want chocolate or strawberry?”

“Damn,” Flynn muttered to Cocky. “All the wrong people are running the world.”

He followed the attendant to the back of the station wagon. “Nice day.”

“Seen better. Last July fourth was better. Didn’t rain. Next July fourth will be better, too.”

“It won’t rain then, either?”

“Gas station will be closed then, too.” The attendant had a spot of skin cancer on his cheek. Flynn wondered if the man knew what it was he was shaving around every day.

“That always makes for a nice day.”

“Except Christmas. My aunt comes Christmas. Hate my aunt.”

“But the gas station’s closed.”

“Wish it were open. Could avoid my aunt.”

Flynn waved to the high land to the northwest. “Must be real nice up in that area on a day like this.”

“Must be.” The attendant put the nozzle back in the pump.

“Are there roads up there?”

“Probably.”

“Never got up there, eh?” Flynn read the meter and gave the man money.

“Can’t. Some sort of secret government installation.”

“Oh, yes?”

“All fenced off. Always has been. Can’t go nowhere near it.”

“I’m sure some of you young chaps know your way up into that area. Where the holes in the fence are.”

“Can’t even take a wire-cutter to the fence. All electrified. Guards and dogs behind every bush. Probably going to poison us one of these days. Blow us all up or something.”

“Would you mind that much?”

“Not if my aunt goes first. Least I’d die happy.”

“Why don’t you like your aunt?”

“She owns the gas station.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Good thing about the installation is people here have to drive around it to get to the county seat. Adds eight miles on to their trip, each way.”

“What’s so good about that?”

“It means I sell more gas.”

“What do you care how much gas you sell if your aunt owns the station?”

“I cheat.”

Flynn got back into the car. “Cocky, I’m not at all sure the wrong people are running the world after all.”

On their right hand side on their drive back uphill was a rustic tavern. Flynn had notice the sign, “The Three Belles of Bellingham,” when they were driving down. The parking lot was nearly filled with cars and small trucks.

“Might be a place for tea and scones.” Flynn slowed the car.

“It’s a roadhouse, Frank. A gin mill.”

“Is it? Then we won’t embarrass them by asking for scones.”

It took Flynn’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior of The Three Belles of Bellingham, despite the neon lighting hanging from the ceiling. At this hour Sunday afternoon, most stools at the long bar were being squatted on. Customers at the
bar, all men, were drinking whiskey and beer and yelling at a raised television on which a game of football was being played out for them.

There were two women serving bar, both blond, dimpled, comfortably built, and young.

There were also people stuffed into the booths along the outer wall. Most booths had at least two women in them.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” Flynn said.

“Not a day away from the wife,” Cocky commented, “and he’s eyeing the barmaids.”

“Hardly my fault,” said Flynn. “Do you find Judge Lauderdale that attractive yourself?”

They found two stools at the end of the bar farther from the television.

“Who’s winning?” Flynn asked the barmaid.

“The Jets. Six to nothing.”

“The Jets are winning,” Flynn notified Cocky. “Did you bet on the Jets?”

“I bet on the Patriots.”

“The Patriots aren’t playing the Jets.” On the barmaid’s full blouse letters spelled out “Alice.”

“That must be why he bet on them,” Flynn said. “What will you have, Cocky?”

“Jameson’s,” Cocky said. “Water. No ice.”

“And you, sir?”

Flynn considered the question. “I had a drink once. Didn’t like it much.”

Alice laughed, then thought Flynn might be serious. “Nothing for you?”

“You don’t carry herb tea, I suppose?”

“Who’s Herb?”

“I’ll pay for him,” Flynn said. “That will justify my use of the stool.”

When the barmaid brought Cocky his Irish whiskey, Flynn asked her, “Where’s the third?”

“You only asked for one.”

“The third belle of Bellingham.”

“Oh. Home taking care of our kids. Getting dinner.”

“Three sisters, are you?”

“Yup.”

“And how do you come to own such a place as this, as young as you are?”

“Dad died and left it to us. Nice of him, uh?”

“Very nice.”

“Jacques Crepier, the hockey player. Remember him?”

“Died young, I think.”

“You could say that. Old, though, for a squash that had been cracked as often as his head had. Don’t know how he made it to thirty-eight. Sure you don’t want to try another drink, Mister?”

“I’ll contribute to the pollution by smoking.” He showed her he was filling his pipe. “What’s The Rod and Gun Club?” Alice had been about to turn away. “We noticed a little sign on a dirt road as we were coming down.”

“It’s a private club,” Alice said.

“Do they welcome tourists?”

She smiled. “Not even you, handsome.” She began to rinse a few glasses beneath the bar. “It’s a private, rich man’s club. It’s always been there.”

“Pretty big?”

“Takes up a lot of acres.”

“Someone said it’s really a secret government installation.”

“Who said that?”

“The young man at the gas station.”

“Oh, you mean that Herb. He was sent home from school in first grade and never came back. Nobody but idiots believe that. Just ‘cause there’s a fence around it, and guards. Some of the guys get angry, once in a while, when the huntin’ gets slim around here, that they can’t go on the rich men’s private reserve. Say they’re going to take it by storm, or set a fire on it, or something. They never do. That’s all just Saturday night talk.”

Cocky appeared to be enjoying his Jameson’s.

“Must provide lots of local jobs, though. Big place like that.”

“I’ve never known anyone to work there. Guess they get all their help from New York. We never even see anybody from
there. They must have their own stores and bowling alley and everything. Once in a while big cars go through town on the way there. Nope.” She shook water out of a glass. “It just sits there like a big black hole in the landscape.”

A roar went up. The men at the bar all were yelling, beating their fists on the bar. A beer bottle got knocked over. People in the booths were stamping their feet.

“Jets twelve,” Alice said.

Money changed hands on the bar, just dimes and quarters. Everyone quietly watched the point-after kick. Much less of a yell; much less money changed hands.

“Least they made one.” Alice looked uncertainly at Cocky. “You here for the hunting?”

“We are here for hunting,” Flynn said. “Yes.”

“You can stay at Timberbreak Lodge. That also calls itself a rod and gun club. Basking in reflected glory, I guess.”

“We passed it on the way down,” Flynn said. “Is that a good place?”

Alice laughed. “No. People say it’s terrible. Sometimes salesmen escape and come in here for a morning warm-up drink. Get the chill out of their bones. They say they don’t know how it operates as a motel at all. Cold. The wind whistles right through it. No food, no bar. They change the sheets after you arrive. Mister Morris—I had him for science at the high school?—he owns the place. What he don’t know about running a business! The place was built in about a week. He must do some business, though. Every time I drive by it at night the no vacancy sign is lit.”

“Alice!” a man called from up the bar. “You’re forgetting your old friends!”

“Coming,” she said, wiping her hands on a bar rag. “He wasn’t a very good science teacher, either. He gave me a passing grade, and I don’t even know what the Third Law is.”

“Increasing disorder,” Flynn advised, “which we must forcefully resist.”

“Is that it?”

“Alice! Your Cousin Joe wants a drink! So do I, while you’re at it.”
Alone at the end of the bar with Cocky, Flynn said: “It works. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t.”

“Money can buy anything,” Cocky said. “Even privacy.”

“Even secrecy,” Flynn said. “Is there a difference?”

Cocky’s empty glass was on the bar.

“Want another?” Flynn asked.

Cocky shook his head.

“Better get back, then. I need to call Grover and find out all he hasn’t done.”

The rifle shot sounded very close to the car.