Sam McCain - 04 - Save the Last Dance for Me (17 page)

Looked completely and unsuspiciously like a personal transaction.

“He wasn’t very fond of either Jews or Catholics,” she said from the doorway. “But then we all have our little failings, don’t we, Mr.

McCain?”

She would have made a good cover model for Manhunt detective magazine just then, a fashionably dressed widow holding a silver-plated .45 in a black-gloved hand, a veil covering the cold, attractive face. A Raymond Chandler wet dream.

The laugh was pained. “When you came right down to it, he wasn’t all that crazy about Protestants, either. But he came from five generations of ministers, so he bowed to family pressure and went to divinity school.”

“He really believes all that stuff about Jews secretly running the world?”

This time the laugh was bitter. “His one true love—the girl he fell in love with his freshman year in college—fell in love with a Jewish graduate student. He hated Jews ever since.”

“You hate a whole group of people because of one guy? Sounds like he had a few mental problems.”

“More than a few—and that’s probably why he was such a good counselor, which he was. He could identify with the people he helped. He genuinely cared about them.”

“Enough to get one of them pregnant,” I said.

I wanted the satisfaction of seeing what was going on behind the veil. All I could hear in response was a tiny, harsh breath. “Did Sara Hall tell you?”

“No. I just put a few stray pieces of information together. Dierdre broke in here looking for something.”

“It would’ve destroyed him. He started to come undone the last six months—ever since he started sleeping with her. And then when she got pregnant —anyway, she’d written him some very foolish letters. That’s why she broke in here. She wanted them back.”

“And you started drinking again.”

I said it without judgment. Merely a statement.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Believe it or not, I still loved

him. He had a difficult life. Spiritually, I mean. Good and evil. It was a constant struggle.

He never learned to forgive himself.”

It’s always instructive to hear somebody else talk about a person you don’t like much. How could you both have the same person in mind? A minister who would take advantage of a teenage girl? A man of God who would pay for hate mail and condemn an entire group of people because he lost a girl? How could this possibly be the same man she was describing in terms of a John Donne-ish torment with his demons?

But you know something, it was quite likely that both portraits were true. We’re heroes or villains depending on who’s talking.

“He had one thing, anyway.”

“What’s that?”

“A good wife,” I said.

The bitter laugh again. “Oh, yes. Such a good wife that I passed out at a dinner party the night the dean of the divinity school gave a party for his best students. And one time—at his first church assignment—I tripped and fell walking down the aisle to the front of the church. Dead drunk.

And a lot of traffic accidents, Mr.

McCain. Thank the Lord I didn’t hurt anybody. I wake up in cold sweats

sometimes, thinking I’ve run over a child—” She was crying now.

I went over and took the gun from her. No bravery on my part. It was pointed at the floor by now anyway. I slipped it into my trouser pocket. She came against me in a rustle of black organdy. She slid her arms around my neck. I eased her hat and veil away and let her weep.

When I felt my groin starting to react automatically to the pressure of her body against mine, I helped her across the floor and eased her down on the couch. I took her pumps off and got a pillow behind her head. There was a bottle of spring water on a small sidebar.

I poured a glass and held it to her lips.

She drank. “Thank you.”

I went over and sat down in one of the leather wing chairs and lit a Lucky.

“I need to ask you some questions.”

“I’ll try to answer them.”

“What was he doing out at Muldaur’s church the night Muldaur died?”

“Muldaur was blackmailing him.”

“What? Are you sure?”

She nodded. Put the back of a hand to her head.

“In my purse outside the door there are some aspirin. I have a terrible headache. Could you get me those, please?”

I got them, lifted her head the way I would have a sick person’s, and put the aspirin on her tongue.

“You’re giving me communion, Mr.

McCain.” She smiled. She was a good-looking woman.

“I guess I missed my calling.”

I went over, rescued my cigarette from the ashtray, and sat down again.

“What did Muldaur have on him?”

“The way I understand it—and this may not be exactly correct—is that Muldaur and one of his friends were out hunting for snakes one afternoon. There’s a small fishing cabin near where they were. The cabin was owned by an old man who belonged to our church. When he passed on, the widow insisted that John take the key to the cabin and use it whenever he liked. He took Dierdre out there several times—he’d gotten very stupid about her, he told me; he said he hadn’t felt lust like this in years—” The smile again, sweet,

self-deprecating. “Which isn’t exactly what a wife wants to hear.”

“I don’t imagine.”

“But I didn’t blame him. All the hell I’d put him through with my drinking—we’d quit being lovers a long time ago. Or he had anyway. I was more like his sister or his daughter than his wife—at least as he saw it—somebody he was obligated to take care of. That’s not uncommon among alcoholic spouses. They stick by the alcoholic but the romance goes and rarely ever comes back.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Then, “Could you please tell me a little more about Muldaur?”

“Well, he was a piece of work, wasn’t he? The snakes. And blackmailing people. And sleeping with women in his own congregation.” She caught herself. “I guess except for the snakes, I could be describing my husband, couldn’t I?

That never occurred to me before just now. That my husband and Muldaur were similar in that respect. They were both men of the cloth who’d seriously violated their vows. If Muldaur ever took any

vows.”

“Why did your husband have Sara Hall with him that night at Muldaur’s?”

“They were going to talk to Muldaur. We aren’t wealthy. Muldaur was getting $500 a month from my husband and it was breaking us. That’s about what he makes for a monthly income. All our clothes and his fancy cars … they came from a trust fund I inherited. But that’s about gone now. He’d raided our pathetic little savings account to pay Muldaur as it was.”

“What about the sportscar?”

She rolled over on her side, watching me.

“Do you suppose I could have a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

I got a fresh one going the way Robert Ryan would have and carried it, along with an ashtray, over to her. She sat up on an elbow, inhaled deeply.

“He didn’t want me to smoke.”

“It’s not good for you.”

“Yes, I notice you don’t smoke.”

“I’m down to three cartons a day.”

“I’m surprised.”

“About what?”

“Y. I sort of like you. And all the time I thought you were just this grubby little creep that worked for Judge Whitney.”

“I have that right on my business card. Grubby little creep. At your service.”

Another deep inhalation. “What were we talking about?”

“About how your husband could afford a sportscar.”

“A gift from the last church.”

“Ah.”

“They didn’t find out until after we’d left that he’d been seeing three or four of the choir women on the side.”

“I see a pattern here.”

“Oh, it was definitely a pattern. Same as my drinking was—is—a pattern. Life is patterns, Mr. McCain.”

“Yeah, I’ve kinda noticed that.” Then: “You never did tell me what Sara Hall and your husband were doing at Muldaur’s church the night he was killed.”

“They were going to beg him to stop blackmailing my husband. We were running out of money and she was afraid Muldaur would tell somebody

about my husband and Dierdre. And then eventually the whole town would know she was pregnant.”

“They really thought Muldaur would back off?”

“Last-ditch effort.” A long trail of smoke. “As I said, we didn’t have much money left. And Sara was terrified of what Muldaur would do.”

“You know a guy named Bill Oates?”

“No. Why?”

“I saw him arguing with his wife the night Muldaur died. And then I saw him in Muldaur’s trailer very early in the morning later on. Made me curious about his relationship with Viola Muldaur.”

“You think he might have killed Muldaur?”

“He looks like a possibility.”

“Anybody else?”

“Y.”

“Are you kidding?”

She sat up. The leather sofa made a lot of noise.

“Afraid not.”

“Why would I kill my husband?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“And did I also kill Muldaur?”

“Probably. But that’s the trouble I’m having with all this.”

“Do you ever read Nero Wolfe?”

“All the time.”

“You know how he always makes those astonishing leaps of deductive logic?”

“I wish I knew how he did it. The question is—who would have a motive to kill both your husband and Muldaur?”

“Are you saying that you’ve eliminated me?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But why would I have killed Muldaur?”

“Look at the time sequence. Maybe you were so sick of Muldaur blackmailing your husband that you killed him with that poison.”

“That makes sense I suppose—may I

mooch another cig, by the way?—but if I killed Muldaur why would I turn around and kill my husband?”

I brought her another cigarette. She lit it from the butt of the one she was finishing.

When I was seated again, I said, “You kill Muldaur. Everything looks good for a day or so.

And then your husband tells you he wants a divorce. Or you find that he’s

sleeping with another one of the choir ladies again.

You could have a lot of motives. Especially if you were on the bottle again. Alcoholics aren’t very rational when they’re tipping a few.”

“Very neat. Nero would be proud of you.”

She sure did enjoy cigarettes. She smoked with great erotic enthusiasm. My groin was starting to make itself felt again.

“The only thing wrong with it is that it isn’t true, Mr. McCain.”

“So say you.”

“So say I.”

I stood up. Stubbed my Lucky out.

Walked to the door. “I need to go.”

“I could always tell Cliffie you broke into my house.”

“I could always tell Cliffie your husband was a blackmailer.”

She smiled. “I guess that’s a good point.”

Then: “I’m curious.”

“What?”

“A minute or so ago—were you looking at me—sexually?”

“Boy, what a question.”

“Well, were you?”

“Yeah, I guess I was.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s been such a long time since I felt a young man’s eyes on me that way. The proper alcoholic wife of a minister doesn’t get a lot of looks like that. I lost fifteen years when I saw your eyes settle on my breasts and legs.” Tears touched her eyes and voice. “It felt so good.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “You’re a very good-looking woman.”

A teary laugh.

I thought of going over there to give her a reassuring hug. But given the moment, that was probably a very risky move.

I said good-bye and left.

There were two people I wanted to talk to.

Reluctant as I was to go back to Muldaur’s place—my ankle, since you’ve probably been worrying about it, the considerate people you are-hurt only at certain angles. I just wasn’t sure which angles those were. So I’d be moving along just fine and then I’d step down just so and—one of life’s little mysterious games.

The top of Muldaur’s shabby

trailer had been painted silver and shone like a mirror in the stabbing rays of the sun. I decided not to take any chances with men with shotguns bursting out the door. I brought my own .45, which was the gun my dad carried in the war.

I knocked several times. No answer. No dog bark. No human voice. No radio

blare. No Tv drone. I took this to mean, in my worldly way, that probably nobody was home or that if somebody was home, he or she didn’t plan to come out.

Then I heard the singing. Sweet and high and mountain-stream pure, no affectation, no straining for effect, a simple, sincere young girl’s voice singing one of those old hillbilly hymns you could catch on “Grand Ole Opry” or “Country Jubilee” every once in a while.

My assumption at first was that it was a record or a radio. But as I turned I realized that it was coming from the church. I let it pull me, eager to hear it more clearly, and moments later I stood in the cooling shadows of the old service garage, listening to Ella Muldaur sing.

Ella stood in the center of the platform, a radiant hill child in a tattered blouse and faded jeans. Viola sat in the chair next to her, dressed in a pair of overalls and a blouse.

“Oh, I have talked to Jesus,

And He said He will show me peace.

Oh, I have talked to Jesus,

And He promised me no more grief.”

Her voice was skilled and knowing enough to convey both the promised peace and the grief of the present time.

No wonder Viola was crying, as she had been that first night I’d seen them here on the altar.

She held Ella’s right hand as the girl sang and swayed in joy and sorrow to the melody. And for that moment I was able to put aside all the hip, modern ways I’d been taught to feel about our quest for purpose and meaning and to simply share in our need to understand our place in the cosmos.

Cave paintings dating back thousand of years illustrated the desperate need mankind had always felt in seeking such an explanation. It almost didn’t matter if you believed in a god-force or not. The need to bring some meaning to the spectacle of human history was primal.

And so gentle and soothing when put

into song by this girl.

They were so caught up in Ella’s singing they didn’t even seem aware of me at first.