“I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you very much for the invitation.”
“See,” Jamie said. “I told you.”
An odd smile broke wide on Wendy’s face. “Tell him your news, Jamie.”
“What news?” The artificial air was beginning to chase the sweat from me.
“You know when I asked you for an advance?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I started thinking about what you said. And then I started thinking about all the money I’ve already given Turk, Mr. C. And you know what I came up with?”
“No. What?”
“I decided to tell him that I wouldn’t loan him any more money because I was broke myself, always borrowing ahead and everything. And even when he started yelling at me, I didn’t change my mind. I did it just the way Mrs. Bennett told me to.”
“Wendy told you to do it?”
“Yes, Mr. C. We just started talking while we were waiting for you, and I was telling her about Turk and everything, and she said that if he really loved me, he’d get a job and not keep asking me for money. A surfer band from Iowa kind’ve confused her, too, I think. Anyway, she told me just what to say and that’s what I did.” She smiled at Wendy. “It was kind of funny, she was coaching me while I was talking. I had a hard time not laughing.”
“I’m very proud of both of you.”
“And, oh yeah, William Hughes called. He said he’d call you back.”
“Didn’t say what he wanted, though?”
“Huh-uh. He said he was in Cedar Rapids and would call when he got back.”
I sat up straight, set the Pepsi bottle on the desk and said, “How long ago did he call?”
“About two hours ago, I guess.”
Two hours would have given him plenty of time to drive back from Cedar Rapids. I reached in the drawer and retrieved the phone book. Lou Bennett wasn’t listed. But then why would he be? All rich men in small cities are, fairly or unfairly, resented by a share of the populace. Having your number listed would be asking for nuisance calls of all kinds.
Then I realized that the heat really had slowed my thought process. Sitting across from me, and looking quite plucky for all the heat, was Linda Raines’s sister-in-law.
“I’m assuming you know the number of the Bennett estate?”
“Sure.”
I wrote it down as she gave it to me, and then I picked up the receiver and dialed.
The voice I heard on the other end was strained, tight. “This is the Bennett residence.”
“Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is the maid.”
“This is Sam McCain. Is Linda there?”
There was a long pause. “She can’t come to the phone right now. I’m sorry, Mr. McCain.”
“Then how about William Hughes? Is he around?”
Even though I didn’t hear another voice, I pictured somebody coaching her, the way Wendy had coached Jamie. “I’m afraid he’s busy, too.” She paused, and then like an actor who’d suddenly remembered her line she said: “They’re working on plans for the funeral.”
“I see.”
The temptation was to ask if everything was all right, but obviously it wasn’t all right; and if I asked it, I’d only be putting her in more difficulty. “Would you please ask one of them to call me at my office?”
“Yes, of course. Good-bye now.”
“Don’t you want my number?”
This time I did hear another voice. An angry director not happy with how his ingenue was performing.
“Oh, yes, Mr. McCain. I’m sorry. Of course I want your number. What is it, please?”
I gave it to her, but I doubted she wrote it down.
“Please have them call me. It’s important.”
“I will. Good-bye, Mr. McCain.”
After I hung up, I sat there sorting through everything I’d just heard. Something was wrong out at the Bennetts’. Maybe it was just an angry family argument. Maybe Linda and Hughes were going at each other. That’s not uncommon following a death. Old grudges are aired and bitterness thrives. I had a client once who wanted me to sue her sister for belting her in the eye. They’d argued over who had really been their dead daddy’s favorite. I finally talked her out of the suit but lost her as a client.
“What’s wrong, Sam?”
“I’m not sure. The maid sounded as if there was some kind of trouble there. I think somebody was telling her what to say.”
“Linda’s probably hysterical with David in jail. She can be hell on wheels when she’s upset.”
“I like that,” Jamie said, “hell on wheels.”
“By the way, Sam, hell on wheels reminds me. Tomorrow night Cartwright is going to try again. He couldn’t get all those Beatles records burned, so now he’s going to stand on that little bluff out at the lake and throw them into the river.”
I wished I had time to enjoy the image of Cartwright firing the Satan-spawned records into the dark waters, but that would have to wait. The Pepsi and the air conditioning had helped revive me, but not enough for the trip I needed to make now.
“I need to go down the hall.” Jamie knew what I meant. She always said “little girls’ room,” so I decided to euphemize my own duties.
Wendy looked confused.
“He means the little boys’ room,” Jamie said.
“Thank you, Jamie.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. C.”
Wendy found this amusing. She looked even better when she was laughing.
In the john, I took off my shirt and proceeded to the tiny sink. I ran cold water, grabbed three paper towels, and started washing my upper body. Then I stuck my head under the faucet and began scooping cold water on my head. Two doors down, I could get a cup of atomic coffee. It didn’t taste very good, but one cup could keep you awake for as long as a month.
I combed my hair, leaving it wet. I reached across to the peg where I kept an extra shirt. This was a short- sleeved blue JCPenney button-down.
When I walked back into my office, Jamie was on the phone. It was a Turk call. She had that look. There was a Turk call expression for happy and a Turk call expression for sad and a Turk call expression for mad. This one was sad. “I told you, Turk. I still love you, but I just can’t give you any more money. You need to get a job. And I shouldn’t be wasting Mr. C’s time by talking about this at the office. Now I need to go.”
After she hung up, she breathed deeply, made fists of her small hands, and said, “Was that all right, Mrs. Bennett?”
“Perfect. And will you please call me Wendy? You’re driving me nuts with that ‘Mrs. Bennett’ business. I feel old enough already.”
“Well, you’re not that old. I’ll bet you’re not even forty yet.”
Now it was my turn to be amused. Wendy was six months younger than I was, which meant she was twenty-eight. Jamie had no concept of peoples’ ages. She once guessed my age and put it at forty-six.
“I’m actually forty-three, Jamie.”
“You are? Well, you’ve held up very well. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. C?”
“Remarkably well.”
Then I needed to fortify myself. I have a drawer gun and a glove compartment gun. I decided on the Smith amp; Wesson. 38 I keep in the office. I can hide it better in my clothes. “Now I have to leave.”
“Am I supposed to pretend I didn’t see you shove a gun in your back pocket?” Wendy did not sound happy.
