“Sounds reasonable.”
She laughed again. “Sarcasm. You and my husband would get along. He’s always saying things like that. I know it’s irrational but that’s the way I am.”
“So about Johnny-Bobby.”
“Well, actually, our son Steve probably knows more than we do. He works nights and that’s when Johnny usually shows up. He isn’t exactly secretive, though. I mean the red Thunderbird.”
“But you’ve signed him in yourself?”
“Oh, sure. Several times.”
“I’m going to describe a woman. If you’ve dealt with her I’d appreciate you telling me.”
“Wait a minute here. This is starting to make me very nervous.” The good nature vanished. A surprising harshness was in the voice and blue eyes. “This is our livelihood we’re talking about here.”
“I already promised you there won’t be any trouble.”
“Uh-huh, that’s another thing you have in common with my Frank. You’re both bullshit artists.”
“So you’re just going to stop here?”
She made a fist of a tanned, freckled hand. The knuckles were bone-white. “Goddammit, I shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“Well, you’ve told me this much. How about just a few more questions?”
“Shit. How do I get into things like this anyway?” Then: “All right, goddammit, go ahead.”
I described Eve Mainwaring in as much detail as I could remember.
“You mean Andrea Cummings.”
“Good old Andrea. So you’ve dealt with her?”
“Just twice. Both times when she was with Johnny. Johnny should learn not to park so close to the office. I can see in the car windows. Andrea was sitting there waiting for him to come back with the room key. Listen, let me get Steve. I’ll be right back.”
She moved from behind the desk to the front door, quick and lithe, very healthy in the way of the middle-aged people you saw in advertisements shot on the beach. While she was gone I stared through the open door behind the desk. A black-and-white set played a soap opera. This one had everything. A man whose face was entirely wrapped in gauze, a weeping middle-aged beauty, and a sullen-looking hippie punk of sixteen or so. The beauty was shrieking at the punk that he had no respect for his parents. The punk just got more sullen and then pointed to the masked man. Then he shouted that she was his mom but the masked man wasn’t his father, that his real father was a man she’d had a fling with. The masked man slapped his hand to his heart. A monitor broke into ominous beeping. Take my word for it, the whole thing was one hell of a mess.
Steve had dragged on a red shirt and a pair of jeans. He was still scrubbing his hair with a towel. He had the same freckled, exuberant air of his mother but not her good looks. He handled me with the skill of a politician. “Nice to meet you, Mr. McCain. Mom says you wanted to ask me about Johnny and Andrea Cummings.”
“I also said your dad’s not to know anything about this conversation.”
Steve grinned. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’d be in trouble with Dad for talking to Mr. McCain, too.”
“The only reason I’m doing this is because McCain here says an innocent man could be accused of a murder.”
“Just like a movie, huh, Mom.”
Mom stood next to him, her proud smile possessive of her boy. “That’s right, honey. Now go ahead and answer the man’s questions.”
“Your mother said you’ve checked Johnny and Andrea Cummings in a few times.”
“More than a few times, in fact, Mr. McCain. Sometimes they’re with each other and sometimes they’re with other people.”
“That’s what I’d like to talk about. Andrea Cummings-can you describe some of the other men she’s been with?”
“Well, over the past year I’d say there’re probably five or six at least.”
“He’s got a good memory. He’s a straight-A student.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“She doesn’t think that’s embarrassing, Mr. McCain. Anyway, I can probably describe three of them because they’ve been with her a number of times. A couple of them were only out here once with her. Or maybe twice, but no more than that.”
I took out my nickel notebook and wrote down his descriptions. Andrea-Eve was apparently no snob. One of the men was a handsome professorial sort, one was a tennis instructor from a nearby racquet club, and one, the boy felt sure, was some kind of criminal. “He just had that look.”
“He likes crime shows on TV.”
“Could you be a little more specific about the criminal?”
“Well, for one thing, he always wore short-sleeved shirts even in the winter and he had tattoos on both arms. A panther on his right and a tiger on his left. He had real hairy arms. I guess I associate tattoos with criminals.”
“Was there ever any trouble?”
“I guess I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did other guests complain about noise-fights or screaming, anything like that?”
“Oh, no. They were always nice. Even the guy with the tattoos. If anybody was going to cause trouble, it was him.”
“Did they ever ask you for any special favors? Like maybe getting them a bottle of liquor or something?”
“I’m not old enough to buy liquor.”
The kid was a Boy Scout. He’d never heard of motel desk clerks who provided customers with bottles or babes. The Sleepy Time was a downright boring place.
“Well, the guy with the tattoos asked me if we had one of those machines where you could buy those things but I said no. It was kind of embarrassing.”
I assumed he meant rubbers.
“When was the last time Andrea Cummings was here?”
“Just last week. With Johnny again. They didn’t stay as long as usual and Johnny was in a hurry when he dropped off the key. He usually likes to talk.”
“About what?”
“He usually talks about the Hawkeye football or basketball team, whichever one is in season. But this time he just tossed the keys on the counter and walked right out.”
“I told you he had a good memory. Frank’s the same way.”
I closed my notebook and shoved it into my back pocket. I had already concocted a theory in the way of good private investigators everywhere. It was Eve-Andrea who killed Vanessa. Van learned about Eve cheating on Paul and threatened to tell her father if Eve didn’t divorce Paul and leave. And since Van had confided in Neil Cameron about Eve, Cameron had to die, too, which Eve-Andrea accomplished by having one of her numerous lovers, probably the one with the tattoos, help her. See how simple things are when you have no idea what you’re talking about?
“I appreciate your help very much, both of you.”
As I started for the door, the woman called, “I sure hope the cops don’t start hassling your man. I’m used to L.A. cops. They’re the worst.”
14
I was at Wendy’s in time for supper. For once. Since it was so hot even with the air conditioning on, we had one of those cold suppers that are often tastier than the hot ones. Slices of fresh watermelon and cantaloupe, a spinach salad with ranch dressing, and slices of wheat bread that Wendy had made during the day. She said it was
