'I really like you, Michael.'
'Once all this gets resolved-' I started to say.
She sighed. 'I just wish it would get over with. I-asked Clay about it.'
'You accused him of it?'
'As I said, I think he knew about Denny and me and I think he killed him. I don't flatter myself that Clay has any special feeling for me. It's just his pride.' The snowflakes continued to melt and run down the window in rivulets made golden from the parking-lot light below. 'Of course,' she said, 'I'm not positive it was Clay. Actually, it could have been Merle Wickes.'
'Merle? Why would he kill Denny? Denny was his idol.'
She exhaled smoke. 'One night they all came back to our house very late at night. There was Clay and Denny and Ron Gettig and Merle Wickes. They'd all been drinking and there was a lot of noise. They woke me up and kept me up. Finally, I went downstairs to ask them to quiet down. In the den I saw Merle trying to lunge at Denny and take a bag from him. It was a black bag, like a doctor's bag. Denny was drunk and very mean. He kept laughing at Merle, holding the bag out to him, then pulling it back, like a kid's game. Merle kept screaming, 'If I tell what you three have been up to, you're all done.' It should have sounded ominous. The only person who looked upset about Merle was Clay. Clay finally grabbed him and pushed him against the wall and said, 'You're a part of this, Merle, don't forget that. You're a part of this.' Then Clay saw me standing outside the door and really blew up. He told me to get back upstairs.'
'But you never found out exactly what was going on?'
'No. Clay closed the downstairs doors. And they kept their voices down. But I wouldn't consider Merle and Denny the best of friends.'
'Good. That's what we need.'
'What?'
'One more suspect.' She laughed.
'You mind if I turn on the light?' I asked.
'You really want to see me in the nude? I'm not twenty years old, you know.'
'Neither am I. If you're self-conscious, cover up.'
I turned on the light. She had opted for covering up. I was disappointed.
From my sports jacket draped over a chair I took the newspaper clipping and handed it to her. It was a brief story:
QUARTER MILLION IN GEMS REPORTED STOLEN
Police report that Mrs. Bradford Amis, wife of financier Bradford Amis, was robbed of more than a quarter million dollars in gems during her recent house party for the March of Dimes.
Police officials were quoted today as saying that Mrs. Amis did not want any publicity on the matter, which is why the three-week-old robbery is only now reaching the press.
Those close to Mrs. Bradford say that the theft occurred even though a private guard had been hired to protect the gems. The guard's name has not been released.
The story went on with more details, none of them seeming to be particularly relevant.
As she read the clipping, Cindy's face looked confused. Then at some point a beautiful clarity came over her face and she smiled. Obviously she had gotten the same idea I had.
'That night downstairs,' she said.
'The argument. The doctor's bag,' I said.
'But why-?'
'That's the part we don't know exactly-why.'
'But we're not even sure they took the gems.'
'No, not yet we're not. But I have the feeling if we spend a day or two looking into this thing, we will be.'
The confusion was back on her face. 'But why would they become thieves-Clay and Denny especially? They had very good salaries. I mean, thieves…'
I turned out the light
Any more speculation tonight would be useless. For now, there were other things to occupy our time. 'I've got to go home in a while,' Cindy said, as I leaned toward her in the darkness.
'A while can be a long time,' I said.
SEVENTEEN
Even though there was one more funeral to attend-Ron Gettig's-you could tell the shop was getting back to normal by the tone of the arguments I had with several copywriters, art directors, and media directors. Good, hard arguments about the craft of advertising, everything from the tone of copy to the style of illustrations, and whether country-western radio stations were worth the cost-per-thousand they were currently charging. My feeling was, they weren't. There are a lot of guys out there who drive pickup trucks with gun racks in the back, but how many of them do you really want to talk to unless you're selling chewing tobacco or beer?
I even managed to get some writing done on the Traynor account, which, despite everything that had happened, still paid the majority of salaries and bills around here.
Each time I typed the name Traynor I thought not of chain saws but of Cindy. I felt giddy in a way I hadn't in a long time. I'd picked a damned strange time to fall in love- but so be it. The taste of Cindy remained in my pores. It tasted great.
I didn't even think any more about checking out the newspaper clipping with Mrs. Bradford, the one who'd been robbed. All I could think of was Cindy…
That changed when Sarah Anders knocked on my door to tell me Detective Bonnell was in the reception area. Sarah saw the expression on my face and frowned. 'It isn't over yet, is it?'
'No,' I said, not sure what she meant.
She closed the door by leaning against it. This morning she looked the suburban matron. There was a mellowness in her mood I hadn't seen for a long time. 'I had a long talk with my husband last night.'
'You told him about Ron?'
'No. Not exactly. What I did tell him was how much I loved him, and how sorry I was that sometimes I acted so distant. I'm not sure he knew exactly what I was talking about but by the time we finished talking both of us felt better-I could tell.'
A measure of how paranoid the murders had made me was that I began picturing Sarah's husband as a suspect. It is not a good way to live…
'I'm happy for you,' I said.
'I just wish you looked better.'
'Tired?'
'More than tired, Michael. The strain…' Apparently my air of puppy love wasn't reflected on a face with dark rings under the eyes and the paleness that comes from too much alcohol and too little sleep.
'I'll be all right,' I said.
The way she looked at me, I thought maybe she knew something terrible about my health that I didn't. 'I hope so,' she said.
When she opened the door, Bonnell was standing there, still looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. He came in with an earnest but enigmatic expression on his hard face. He put out his hand and I shook it. He sat down. Before my bottom reached my own chair, he said, 'I wanted to tell you that I'm about to make an arrest in both murder cases.'
'What?' My surprise was genuine.
He smiled. 'Most murder cases aren't nearly as complicated as the press makes them out to be. Especially once you've established a motive.'
