I’d never seen her this happy. In a strange way, she was a bit scary.
“He told me about every one of his slips.”
“His slips?”
“Turns out, this girl he’s seeing now, she wasn’t the first one. You know, on the side.”
“Ah.”
“There’ve been at least five others.”
“At least?”
“He isn’t sure. He said it depends on how you count. A couple of them, he didn’t go all the way, strictly speaking.”
“The considerate devil.”
“And I’ve made mistakes, too,
McCain.”
“Not like he has.”
She thought a moment. “This is where being a Catholic would be nice.”
“Huh?”
“I could just go to confession and I’d feel better.”
“Maybe Jews should have confession.”
“Nah, it wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Jews are so guilty about everything, if we had confession we’d be in there eighteen hours a day.”
I laughed.
She thought some more. She let me tune in in mid-sentence. “But that’s all behind him now. He said to think of him as the new Chad.”
“New and improved.”
“I know you’re cynical about this, McCain.
But don’t Catholics believe in redemption?
People do change, you know.”
“So you really think he’s changed?”
“He’s going into Iowa City today-he’s already left, in fact-and breaking it off with this girl.
Complete break. And then we’re going on a three-day trip together. Maybe get married again in some little chapel up in Door County.”
“That’s the prettiest part of Wisconsin.”
California has the most variegated and spectacular scenery but for sheer beauty, I’ll still take Wisconsin.
She grabbed my hand. Squeezed.
“Thanks for getting me through this, McCain.”
“My pleasure.” And it was.
I had a perky erection just sitting here next to her. It’s always nice when somebody who’s fun, bright, and great company also stirs your groin.
“So when do you leave?”
“Tonight. Soon as he gets back from Iowa City. He’s got a bunch of work he’s got to wrap up there. And I’ve got stuff at the paper. Say, there isn’t anything new on the Muldaur thing, is there?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.”
“It goes without saying that I’ll be the first reporter you tell, right?”
I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
She had thrilling flesh. “You’ll be the first, Toots.”
Seventeen
I was heading out to talk to Pam Oates when I saw her husband’s truck parked at Clymer’s Seed and Feed. Clymer’s sold just about every kind of seed and feed for farm and animal life there was. The Chamber of Commerce always mentioned Clymer’s because it was a good draw for small communities nearby. And when people drove their pickups and panel trucks in to buy things at Clymer’s, they just naturally spent money other places in town, too.
The place was long, narrow, and sunny and contained various scents that combined to form an earthy perfume. The one thing Clymer’s did that some folks objected to was open on Sundays. But the place was crowded, so not everybody took offense.
I saw Bill Oates in the back, talking to a salesman about cattle feed. Special varieties were hard to come by at the co-op, I was told. They sold only the most popular brands and types.
I didn’t want him to see me. He wasn’t going to like what I was about to do.
The salesman was a kid named Bobby Fowler.
This would be a summer job. He’d be a freshman at the university in a few weeks. He looked like 1953: crew cut, high pants, checkered short-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way to the top. He even had a plastic pencil holder jammed into his pocket, with a variety of pens and pencils stuck in it. Still the acne problem. Still the teeth problem. Crooked and unsightly.
I’d always liked him. He used to come by the house on his ancient, clattering Schwinn with the ancient, worn saddlebags and the big light on the handlebars. He had this obvious and tormented crush on my sister, Ruthie. She was way too pretty and cool for him. Never cruel to him, the way the other kids were, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice anything for him, either. The Ruthie McCains of the world just didn’t go out with the Bobby Fowlers.
After talking with Kenny Thibodeau, I realized that one person who had a reason for killing both Muldaur and Courtney was indeed Bill Oates. Muldaur had been sleeping with his wife and Courtney did in fact represent an income source to him. Not inconceivable that he knew about Dierdre and Courtney. Maybe Muldaur had told Pam and Pam had told her husband.
And maybe Oates had poisoned Muldaur, taken care of Courtney, and then planted the rat poison in Sara Hall’s garage.
And if he was going to buy rat poison, Clymer’s would be a good place to do it.
Oates was talkative. They spoke for another five minutes. Bobby kept tapping the feed bags the way he’d seen the more experienced salesmen do, and once he even put a brown oxford on the edge of a bag and shot his trouser cuff. The way the pros did.
Oates didn’t look especially impressed. He was not, apparently, hearing what he wanted to hear, because every few minutes or so he’d shake his head and look unhappy. Not angrily, just stubbornly. You ain’t impressin’ me, kid, and you might as well quit tryin’. Something like that.
Oates finally left and I walked over to Bobby.
“Gee, hi, Sam.”
“Hi, Bobby. You getting ready for college?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “I guess there’re a lot of chicks there.” Those teeth were killers.
“There sure were when I went there.”
The pain came up fast and without warning, luminous in the depths of his eyes like tumors.
“So how’s Ruthie?”
Fitzgerald was always doing that in his stories.
Having some guy think about some girl who’d deserted or betrayed him long, long years ago.
But when he thought of her the pain was still fresh as a knife slash.
“Getting along. She put the kid up for adoption.”
“Yeah. She was too young for a kid, anyway.”
I guess that’s why I’d always liked Bobby.
He had his Ruthie McCain and I had my beautiful Pamela Forrest. All The Sad Young Men, as Fitzgerald titled one of his collections.
