“What’d he do when he saw you?”
“Just kind of ducked down between a couple of cars.”
“What’d you do?”
“I shouted out, “You want some help with somethin’, mister?” I figured that’d chase him away.”
“And did it?”
“Yeah. He took off running.”
“You see him again?”
“Nope. But then I was inside until quittin’ time.”
“You didn’t tell anybody about it?”
“Wasn’t anybody around but me.”
“The other mechanic?”
“He was on dinner break.”
“How about Susan Squires?”
“Oh, she was there, but up front. Decorating the showroom. I didn’t want to bother her.”
“And you haven’t told anybody about this till now?”
“Uh-uh. Like I said, I want to stay away from the cops as much as I can. It’d look funny, me involved in some kind of thing like this. I just got married. My wife wouldn’t like it either. She won’t like this, me talkin’ to you. But it just kept stayin’ on my mind. You know how things get sometimes.”
“Well, I appreciate this.”
“I hope I’ve been helpful.”
“You’ve been very helpful.”
“I’ll put Mr. Keys back on.”
“Thanks again, Merle.”
“Don’t know if that was any help,” Keys said, when he came back on, “but I thought you should know.”
I thanked him and hung up.
So young Dr. Jensen had paid Susan a visit at the Ford dealership Friday night just before she was killed.
I wondered how he’d explain it.
I tried his number twice. Nothing. Then I tried the Illinois number and got no answer there either.
I wanted to go looking for Mary, but in the past two days I’d covered the entire town, talked to a good fifty people, followed up every lead and partial lead that’d been offered me. And nothing.
I spent half an hour trying to rig up the lie detector. It was like a Martian trying to plug in a Venusian appliance, to borrow a phrase from Galactic Adventures, one of the magazines I’d read as a kid.
I was just getting ready to go home for the day when I decided to give the Illinois number another try.
A female voice said, “Carmichael residence.”
“My name’s McCain. I’m a lawyer in
Black River Falls, Iowa.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Ma’am?”
“This is about the taillight, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, ma’am, it is.”
“I told Ronnie he should’ve made her turn it in.”
“Ronnie being-”
“My son. He was over there visiting my sister.”
“I see. And your sister is-?”
“Amy Masters-Squires is her married name.”
“You said, “He should’ve made her turn it in.” She was driving the car?”
“Yes. She was having some kind of trouble with hers so she borrowed his.”
“I see.”
“You know about her ex-husband then?”
“Yes, I do.”
“He was a peach. Any man tried to beat me up, I’d be out of there in two minutes flat.”
“That’s how she should have handled it.”
“It sure is. I expect Ronnie back in an hour or so.”
“I’ll call later.” I didn’t want to tell her that she’d just told me the best part of her story: the ex-wife at the murder scene.
“It may be tomorrow.”
“If you see that sister of mine, tell her I’m thinking about it.”
“I sure will. And thanks for your help.”
“You bet.”
A few minutes later, I was on my way home.
Fourteen
I’ve found that the true gourmet chef learns to mix and blend prime ingredients in new and interesting ways. All you need is a hot plate.
Take Dinty Moore Beef Stew and a small can of creamed corn: a rare delight.
Or a can of Campbell’s Mushroom Soup and a can of Foster’s Small Potatoes: exquisite. Or a can of tuna fish and a can of tomatoes: Voil@a! Two more rules: always serve everything with potato chips, and, if the main dish leaves something to be desired, douse liberally with ketchup. If ketchup can’t kill an offending taste, then you’ve created a gourmet meal that God did not intend to be created.
Such are the ways of bachelorhood.
I was eating a tuna-and-tomato sandwich in the easy chair so I could watch Tv when Tasha, Crystal, and Tess fanned out at my stockinged feet and look up at me with imploring eyes, the effect of the tuna being not unlike that of, apparently, catnip. They rubbed me, they yowled at me, they head-butted me, they tail-switched me. I kept nodding in the direction of the bowls of kitty food I’d just set out for them. I reminded them that they didn’t even technically belong to me (a local girl who’d gone to Hollywood had left them in my care), so any largesse on my part was all the more remarkable. They were unimpressed with my argument.
I had a headful of confusion. Squires was the most likely killer. But what had Todd Jensen and Amy Squires been doing at the murder scene?
I washed up, changed into a work shirt and chinos, and went out the door. Which was when the phone rang, and I had to go back inside.
“McCain?”
“Yeah.” It was Cliffie.
“Guess where I am?”
“Where?”
“The Sixth Street elevator.”
“Good for you.”
“Meet me at the bottom as soon as you can.”
“Any special reason?”
“Yeah. We’re gonna take a ride.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“You won’t be so smart when you get here.”
“So I don’t even get a hint, huh?”
“Just get your ass over here, counselor.”
“See you in a bit.” I’d run out of smart remarks.
The phone rang a moment after I hung up.
