by Thomas King
“Okay.”
“Again with the okay.”
“You look great.”
“Of course I look great.”
Thumps checked the bookstore. There were several people wandering the stacks. Several more were lounging in the chairs that Archie had brought in so folks could relax and read. Cynthia Broadbent was manning the register.
Thumps lowered his voice a little. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“You want to talk?” Archie tried to look shocked. “Wait. Let me call the media.”
“Archie . . .”
Archie’s face turned serious. “Is this about Claire?”
“No, it’s not about Claire.”
“Your car? Your cat?”
Thumps tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “How do you know about my cat?”
“That reality show,” said Archie. “They hired you, didn’t they?”
“No, they didn’t hire me.” Thumps realized that several of the customers were looking at them. “Could we go someplace private and talk?”
“Private,” said Archie, as though he had never heard of the concept.
“Like your office.”
“Sure,” said Archie. “But I can tell you right now, show business is a slippery slope.”
The last time Thumps had been in Archie’s office, the place had been awash in books. Books on shelves. Books on the floor. Books stacked up on chairs and strung out along the windowsills. Today it was a 1940s movie set. Green metal filing cabinets with brass handles, a wood veneer desk with a matching wood swivel chair, and a black Bakelite phone. On the wall were recruitment posters for World War II and movie posters for Sergeant York, The Best Years of Our Lives, Going My Way, and For Whom the Bell Tolls. He had actually seen Sergeant York with Claire at one of Archie’s movie nights at the Aegean.
Gary Cooper had been the lead.
That was all Thumps could remember about the film.
“Okay.” Archie plopped himself down in his chair and put his hands on the desk. “So now you have private.”
Thumps sighed. There was little point in trying to dance around the question. “What do you remember about Trudy Samuels?”
“Trudy?”
“And Tobias Rattler.”
“I was right.” Archie gave Thumps a scolding look. “The reality show.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“Jesus.” Archie made another face. “Thought you were a photographer.”
Archie had never been stingy with information. This was the first time Thumps had ever seen the little Greek attempt anything that resembled restraint.
Thumps took a step towards the door. “Look, forget I asked.”
“Sit.” Archie gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “You talk to someone else, they’ll just get it all wrong.”
Thumps guessed that the wood and metal chair was from the 1950s. Whatever the era, the chair was uncomfortable as hell.
“The Samuels family started Big Sky Oil around the turn of the century,” Archie began. “By the time Buck Samuels took over as patriarch and CEO, the family was filthy rich. He built a big estate out past Randall. Black Stag. Married Mary Scofield, and they had a daughter.”
“Trudy.”
Archie nodded. “Trudy was about six when her mother died. Then Adele Price showed up. Swept Buck off his feet, if you believe the romantics.” Archie took a breath. “Or saw an opportunity and took it, if you side with the cynics.”
Thumps wondered which camp Archie was in.
“Not that Buck was any winner. He was cold and aloof. His only passion was for making money. Adele was beautiful and smart, and I’m guessing that Buck was pleased to have found himself a pliant trophy wife and a surrogate mother for his child. But if he thought that, he was wrong. Adele was all spurs and no saddle. Made it her duty to tell people how to live their lives.”
“Didn’t get along with the daughter?”
“Cinderella had it easy.” Archie rubbed his head. “Absent father. Demanding stepmother.”
“Sounds like a bad soap opera.”
“Without the annoying commercials.” Archie paused for a moment. “Trudy had all the problems that wealth can afford. Alcohol. Drugs. Anger management.”
“And Rattler?”
Archie cleared his throat. “Our Toby was a loner. Smart and good-looking, but an outsider. No parents, no money. A boy without prospects.”
“A rather Victorian concept.”
“Alive and well today,” said Archie.
Thumps could see it, could see why a girl like Trudy might run to a boy like Toby. He would have been everything her world wasn’t. Mysterious, exciting, dangerous. And Thumps also knew just how welcome a kid from the reservation would have been in the world of dinner parties and country clubs.
“They met in high school.”
“And got together?”
“Who’s telling the story?” Archie went to one of the shelves and took down a book. “This is Trudy.”
The picture showed a young woman with light hair and dark eyes. From her expression, you couldn’t tell if she was happy or in pain.
“Here’s Toby.”
Toby’s photo was eerily similar to Trudy’s. No smile. The same long-distance stare, as though he saw something farther out and away.
“Toby was a foster-home orphan. Trudy was the poor little rich girl. Neither one of them fit in. Except with each other. After they got together, word was that Trudy stopped the drinking and drugs, stopped trying to hurt herself.”
Thumps ran through the scenario. “Even so, her parents couldn’t have been too happy about Rattler.”
“Buck was dead by then, and yes, Adele was furious that her stepdaughter was spending time with a heathen.” Archie couldn’t help the smile. “She actually used that word. ‘Heathen.’”
Thumps let Archie run.
“There was an incident,” said Archie. “Happened after a football game. Trudy was attacked. Rattler rescued her and took her home. Adele called the sheriff’s office and claimed Toby had tried to rape Trudy.”
“Can’t imagine Trudy was happy about that.”
Archie nodded. “In the end, Trudy moved into town and got an apartment.”
The two men sat in Archie’s office and listened to the sounds of the town float through the bookstore. Finally Archie stood and put the yearbook back on the shelf.
“With Rattler?”
“Nope,” said Archie. “By herself.”
Thumps tried to hold his skepticism in check.
“Sure, everyone thought they were lovers, but I think they were just good friends, maybe the only friends either one of them had. Trudy and Toby. Around town, they were known as T & T.”
“How old was Trudy when she died?”
“Eighteen and a bit,” said Archie.
“So Adele inherited the Samuels fortune?”
“Buck’s will was complicated,” said Archie. “Last I heard, the case was still in court.”
“The devil’s in the details.”
“Details, my ass,” said Archie. “The devil’s always in the money.”
Thumps remembered someone saying that a good lawyer makes a case drag on for years, while a great lawyer makes it last even longer.
“There was a son. From Adele’s first marriage.” Archie picked at his sweater vest. “Adele expected to bring the boy with her when she married Buck, but Buck wouldn’t budge.”
“He wouldn’t take the son?”
“Adele had to leave him with a sister,” said Archie. “Don’t think she ever forgave Buck.”
“Shakespeare.”
Archie nodded. “All that’s missing is a ghost.”
“And Rattler?”
“He left,” said Archie. “As soon as the coroner’s jury came back with their decision, he was gone.”
Thumps’s butt was beginning to ache. “Malice Aforethought wants me to look at the case again. Review the evidence. They’re hoping th
at I can prove that Toby killed Trudy.”
“Thought you were a photographer.”
“Guy who totalled my car didn’t have insurance.”
Archie nodded. “So, you going to take the job?”
Thumps shifted in his seat. “I’m still thinking about it.”
“Here’s something you don’t have to think about.” Archie held out a flyer. “Halloween party tomorrow night. Everyone is going to dress up as people who scare them.”
Thumps looked at the flyer.
“You could come as George Armstrong Custer.”
“Custer doesn’t scare me.”
“Okay,” said Archie. “What about Alfredo Balli Trevino?”
Thumps drew a complete blank.
“He was the Mexican doctor who was the inspiration for Thomas Harris’s Hannibal Lecter.”
“Charming.”
“Or Bela Lugosi. I have a vintage tux and a cape that I could let you rent.” Archie stood up and fixed his cuffs. “And you should buy that suit. Jobs in television are a dime a dozen, but opportunities this good don’t come along every day.”
Nine
Thumps hoped he would find Freeway curled up with Pops on his neighbour’s porch, but neither the cat nor the large, farty Komondor was anywhere to be seen.
Nor were there any signs of life at Dixie’s place.
Virgil Kane’s parents hadn’t named their son after the Robbie Robertson song, but when Joan Baez made it famous, everyone started calling him “Dixie” and the nickname stuck. Virgil didn’t seem to care one way or the other, but Thumps found it a little disconcerting to have to guess whether to call the man by his given name or the one he had acquired through no fault of his own.
Thumps sat in the truck and let it idle. He could hide away in the house with the doors locked and the phone turned off and go through the mail that had accumulated while he had been in Seattle. Maybe there was something in the jumble of letters and flyers and coupons that would cheer him and take his mind off the stumble of modern existence.
He could always organize his refrigerator. Any form of structure usually raised his spirits. Except there was nothing to organize. He’d have to go shopping first before he could hope to impose his will on groceries.
At some point he would have to read the file that Nina Maslow had given him. He didn’t expect to find anything, but Malice Aforethought was clearly working on the assumption that Trudy Samuels’s death was neither an accident nor suicide. It wasn’t likely, but maybe Maslow had discovered something that the initial investigation had missed.
Or he could go car shopping. The perfect way to waste what was left of the day.
Thumps took one more look to make sure he hadn’t missed his cat hiding in the shadows or laid out with Pops the dog on his neighbour’s porch.
Nope.
He pulled the truck into gear and touched the accelerator.
Aside from a beat-to-shit Ford sedan, the Volvo was the only car he had ever owned. The Ford had been second-hand. He had bought the Volvo new. Maybe it was time for another new car. He didn’t have the money to make that happen, but there was nothing to say he couldn’t look.
He could always lease a car as a way to keep the monthly payments down. Ora Mae Foreman, who owned Wild Rose Realty, leased her BMW from the dealership in Great Falls, and Ora Mae was a woman who knew what she was doing.
SALGADO MOTORS WAS owned by Freddy Salgado. The Salgado family had been in Chinook since before the town first appeared on maps. Freddy’s great-grandfather had ranched the Ironstone Valley, and his grandfather and father had been in banking, with branches throughout Montana, until they had sold out to Wells Fargo.
Freddy hadn’t cared for ranching or banking. He liked cars.
“Dad wanted me to be a doctor, but who wants to spend a life cutting people open when you can work on cars? You got to do what makes you happy.”
Thumps had never thought of Freddy as a photography enthusiast, but the man had showed up at Thumps’s last show and bought three prints.
“You know Sebastião Salgado?” Freddy had asked him at the reception.
Thumps had several of Salgado’s books. “Terrific photographer.”
“According to Dad,” Freddy told him, “we’re distant cousins, so I got to have a couple of photographs on the wall in case someone asks.”
“What about Sebastião’s photographs?”
“I bought one of his already,” said Freddy. “Last time I was in New York. They’re expensive. Yours aren’t so bad. Besides, it’s always good to buy local.”
There were five cars on the showroom floor. Thumps wandered through the maze of colours and chrome. Sitting in a corner by itself, roped off from the rest of the cars, was an old Corvette.
“Hey, Mr. DreadfulWater.” Freddy Salgado strolled out of his office. “How goes the photography?”
Freddy was a big Elvis fan. A few years back, he had entered an Elvis impersonator contest in Missoula and placed second. There was talk that he was going to try his hand at the big Elvis Festival in Las Vegas, but Thumps didn’t know if Freddy had actually gone.
“Heard about your car.” Freddy made a sympathetic sound with his lips. “Hell of a thing to lose a classic like that.”
“May be able to fix it.”
“Sure,” said Freddy, “but they’re never the same.”
Thumps looked at the Corvette.
Freddy gently lay a hand on the roof. “1963 Corvette Sting Ray coupe. First fixed roof Chevrolet ever made. Split rear window. Independent suspension with transverse leaf springs. 360 horsepower L84 327-cubic-inch small-block V8. Rochester mechanical fuel injection. Even has air.”
Thumps nodded, even though he didn’t understand half of what Freddy had just said.
“Know how many 360s Chevrolet made?” Freddy didn’t wait for an answer. “Fewer than three thousand. You a car man, Mr. DreadfulWater?”
“Sure.”
“Bought it about eight years back. One of the happiest days of my life. Elvis drove one of these in Viva Las Vegas. Not many people know that. And there was a black ’63 coupe in The Dead Pool with Clint Eastwood, but it was a toy, a remote-control car rigged with a bomb.”
“No kidding.”
“Only time I drive this baby is during the summer. Rest of the year it stays put, safe and sound here in the showroom.”
“Bet it brings in a lot of business.”
“Hey,” said Freddy, “you ever photograph cars? Not product shots. More art stuff. Black and white. Cars doing things. Cars in unexpected places. Parts of cars.”
Thumps knew what to do with a river or a mountain. He couldn’t imagine what he would do with a car.
“And nothing with naked women,” said Freddy. “That’s calendar shlock. I’m talking fine art photography.”
“Hadn’t thought about it.”
“Think about it. I got cars you could use.” Freddy opened his arms as though he were expecting a hug. “So, here it is.”
“What?”
“The Outback. It’s our crossover. The comfort of a sedan, but the carrying capacity of an SUV.”
Freddy opened the door and let Thumps slide in behind the wheel.
“What do you think?”
The seat was surprisingly comfortable. There was a power adjustment that moved it forward and back and up and down. The back reclined as well, and there was a button for lumbar support.
“So, am I right in thinking you two are getting married?”
“Married?”
“If it’s a secret,” said Freddy, “I’m your man.”
“Me and Claire?”
“She was in the other day,” said Freddy. “Sat right where you’re sitting. Figured she sent you in for a second opinion. The Outback is a great choice for a family car.”
The interior was two-tone leather, saddle brown and black. Thumps had forgotten how nice a new car smelled.
“Claire was looking at cars?”
“Real concer
ned about the safety features. Wanted to know about the tethers for the child seats.”
“Child seats?”
“I blew it, didn’t I?” Freddy looked apologetic. “Look, don’t tell her I let it slip.”
“When was she in?”
Freddy thought for a moment. “Yesterday. Just so you know, she liked the 2.5 Touring model with the technology package, in Tungsten Metallic. Said she was going to stop by when she got back.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“I asked her if she was looking to trade in her truck.”
“Did she mention Seattle?”
“I don’t have a Tungsten on the lot,” said Freddy. “But there’s one in Helena I can bring over, once I have a deposit.”
Thumps got out of the car and shut the door. “You ever make it to Vegas?”
“The Elvis thing?” Freddy struck a pose and belted out the opening lines of “All Shook Up.” “Naw. It was fun for a while. Get all dressed up like the King. Take the ’Vette for a spin. But I have more fun being me. You know what I mean?”
“Absolutely,” said Thumps.
“But there’s always time for a comeback.” Freddy rolled his shoulders, swivelled his hips, and hit the chorus running. “I still got all the moves.”
Thumps watched Freddy do a couple of spins and a groin bump. He liked the man, but now he was going to spend the rest of the day trying to get the damn song out of his head.
Ten
Thumps had planned to work his way through the other dealerships, see all the new cars, lose himself in the enthusiasms of retail therapy, but talking with Freddy had changed all that. Claire had a perfectly good truck. No more than four years old. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a reason she would want to swap it out for a crossover whatnot. Pickups were the vehicle of choice on the reservation. The unpaved roads and dirt tracks were a mouthful of bad teeth that ate up everything else.
And child restraints? Thumps was sure that Claire wasn’t pregnant. She was what? Thirty-nine? Forty? At what age did women stop having babies? They had never talked about children. He couldn’t imagine her wanting another. Stanley Merchant, her one and only son, had been a big enough pain in the ass to deter any mother from trying again.