The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  ‘Come in,’ he shouts.

  It’s Jackie. ‘Mrs Haney is here to see you.’

  For one heart-stopping moment, Mick imagines a young woman with dark hair and a witty smile, dressed up in a yellow number, rosy lipstick perfectly drawn. Well, hello, Detective. I hear you’ve been looking for me. Hop-a-skip, I’m back . . .

  The woman who enters his office shatters the illusion. She has silver-white hair and wears a purple dress tucked in a little too tight at the waist. Her expression is not unlike that of a boarding school mistress who has just discovered that one of her charges has been impregnated by the stable boy.

  ‘Mrs Lucille Haney,’ Mick says, a little too enthusiastically. ‘Please, what can I do for you?’

  ‘For a start, you can release my son. He’s innocent.’

  ‘Unfortunately I cannot do that until we have made further inquiries.’

  ‘You have nothing against him.’

  ‘Ma’am, I hate to remind you, but there is the not unimportant matter of a skeletal infant in your daughter-in-law’s flowerpot.’

  Lucille Haney scowls. ‘Frank has nothing to do with that. It’s Joyce’s fault. Hers alone.’

  That stops Mick in his tracks. ‘You mean, you knew about this?’

  ‘No.’ She pales a little, and Mick can see that her body is bearing up by sheer will alone. All of a sudden, he feels a pang of sympathy. She has lost a daughter-in-law and may also lose a son, and all over a dead infant, which, if she was unaware, must have been a considerable shock.

  ‘Please, Detective Blanke.’ She clutches her purse. ‘Let me talk to my son. There is something he needs to explain to you, and I think it would be easier for him if I was there.’

  He scans his office, but the second chair he asked for has not materialized. So he simply shrugs and smiles. ‘If there’s anything you need to tell me, I’m all ears.’

  ‘Well.’ She clears her throat. ‘I did know that Joyce was . . . in the family way, back in ’56. After she had Barbara.’

  ‘And you never wondered where the baby went?’

  ‘The circumstances were . . . not favorable. There was marital trouble, you see, and . . .’ She halts.

  Mick unscrews a soda and watches her, patiently. He’s got all the time in the world.

  ‘How confidential is all this?’ she asks at last.

  Mick grins. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sometimes the police leak things to the press.’

  ‘Correct. We’re about as leaky as the SS Lurline after an encounter with a Jappo submarine. But I promise that I won’t pass on anything you tell me, unless it’s to secure a conviction. I won’t even write it down.’

  ‘And in return, you will do your best to find Joyce?’

  There is an insinuation that he isn’t already doing that. But Mick is not going to risk a good source over a bit of vinegar tongue. ‘Her case is my top priority,’ he says. ‘My only priority.’

  Mrs Haney senior sighs. ‘Joyce wasn’t exactly what we had hoped for. A little . . . far across the tracks, if you know what I mean. But Frank loved her and she was a sweet girl. It was a happy marriage – still is, I should add – but after Barbara’s birth there were . . . problems.’ She stares at her purse while her jaws are formulating the next part. ‘It was lack of compliance on Joyce’s side. I believe the medical term is frigidity.’

  So Frank Haney wasn’t getting none. That must have been a right pain in the old ass for Mr All-American Homeboy and his chiseled chin.

  ‘The doctor prescribed medication to . . . increase her willingness to submit to conjugation.’ Lucille Haney kneads her fingers. ‘At first it didn’t seem to work, but then Joyce fell pregnant. Unfortunately, it was a little too soon for her health. Her mental health. It . . . it was not a good time for them.’

  The telephone breaks the spell. Mick picks up the receiver and slams it right down again.

  ‘You mean Joyce didn’t want the kid?’ he says.

  ‘I am not sure. She concealed the pregnancy from Frank. Banned him to the spare room for three months and wore only big sweaters and smocks. It was early summer when he discovered she was more than seven months in. They had a terrible row about it. She threw him out. Frank took Barbara and came to stay with me for a while. He feared it would mean the end of the marriage. I’ve never seen my boy so beaten down. But in the end . . .’ She exhales and steels herself. ‘In the end it solved itself. Six weeks or so after he came to stay with me, she called and said she had lost the child. Frank hurried back to her side. He looked after her, bought her new dresses and took her to the movies. He was very patient. Soon, they were quite in love again. But the sad thing was, of course, that there was no baby.’

  ‘No baby,’ Mick repeats. His fingers, curled around the bottle, are suddenly very cold.

  Mrs Haney senior casts her eyes downward. A tinny sound emerges from her lungs. She cuts it short with a shrug and clicks open her purse. A handkerchief flutters to her eyes. After a lot of prim, little dabs she finds the strength to look at him again.

  ‘It was hard for Frank, very hard. A terrible, terrible burden to bear. He felt guilty, and he grieved for a long time.’

  ‘And how did she take it?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Joyce. How did she react?’

  ‘Oh, with medication she soon became her lovely old self. The doctors said that she needed sunlight, so her and Frank decided to move. It was a good idea. Sunnylakes is good against . . . against the dark clouds in the mind.’

  Mrs Haney senior’s eyes look right through him and for one moment Mick wonders what dark clouds linger in her mind. But she continues on before he can ask.

  ‘Then Lily was born,’ she says, ‘and even though it was a disappointment that they had another girl, Frank was delighted. He said they’d try for a third.’

  The phone rings again. Mick yanks the plug out of the wall. ‘Go on,’ he says.

  ‘With Lily, Joyce had no problems. She was on Miltown throughout most of the pregnancy. It evened her moods quite splendidly.’

  ‘Sounds like the perfect little family,’ Mick says.

  Mrs Haney senior frowns at him. ‘Frank always assumed the baby’s body had been taken away in the hospital and buried somewhere proper.’

  ‘Only it wasn’t.’

  Her face is white and immobile. ‘I guess not.’

  They are silent. Mick contemplates his next move while Mrs Haney senior dabs at her eyes again. There is something in her posture, something concealed by layers and layers of primness, that suggests fear. But he is not sure what she is afraid of. Losing her son, perhaps, or maybe it’s concern for Joyce. Or something else. Fear of the truth.

  ‘You said she lost the baby in the summer?’

  ‘In August ’56.’

  And exactly three years later, she disappears. Mick licks his lips. ‘And you swear your son wanted this baby?’

  Just the slightest hint of hesitation. ‘Yes.’

  Mick takes two steps toward her and lowers his voice. ‘Mrs Haney, believe me, if he had anything to do with the death of this baby, we will find out. If you cooperate, on the other hand, we can help him. Call it a spontaneous act, if you will, brought on by the stress and the fear for his family. A judge would be very lenient toward that.’

  Mrs Haney senior purses her lips. The old look is back in her eyes, harsh and cool and superior. ‘He would have loved a son,’ she says. ‘Detective, Frank would never kill a child.’

  Yes, Mick thinks. But neither did he bother to check whether it had lived or died.

  *

  He wastes half an hour or more collating witness statements and doodling in his notebook. He should really get home. Fran will be stuck choosing an outfit for Prissie’s game. She’ll need him there, so she can pick exactly the opposite of what he recommends. The game is at 2 p.m. He’ll see Sandy, which will be nice, and Brad, which will require the exchange of sports analysis and manly quips. And then it will be two hours of excruciatingly
boring college football, only lightened up by Prissie cavorting across the pitch like a Greek athlete on ketamines.

  No, the afternoon’s prospect holds no enticement. What he really wants to do, he has to admit, is talk to Genevieve Crane. Maybe she’d take him out in her Pontiac again.

  The specter of Fran forbids any further ruminations. The brokenness in her face after the thing with Beverly came out. He shudders. He’d explained the whole debacle a thousand times to his chief and the boys and the rep from the governor’s office. But the hardest thing was going home afterward and explaining it to her.

  Something in him wonders if he’s running the risk of making a fool of himself again. There’s not much similarity between Beverly Gallagher and Genevieve Crane, except for the auburn hair, but still . . . a woman in distress is a woman in need of a hero. He ought to be Fran’s hero, of course, and he possibly still is, but with her being so damn capable and level-headed, his attempts at heroism tend to go somewhat unnoted.

  He allows himself to wonder what it would be like to take a woman like Mrs Crane for lunch, once he’s solved the case, in some place with books and salads and single malt whiskey. The evening sun would set her pearl earrings on fire, and they’d talk about the Democrats and the deployment in Vietnam and whether the Hawaiian statehood bill is really such a good idea.

  His ruminations are violently brought to an end by Murphy, who barges through the door with a bang.

  ‘Blanke,’ he bellows. ‘Why’s your phone not working?’

  ‘Because I unplugged it.’

  ‘Why the fuck would you do that?’

  ‘Why the fuck would I want to answer it right in the middle of questioning a witness?’

  Murphy’s belly heaves. ‘Because we’ve got a dead woman.’

  ‘Yep,’ says Mick. ‘And I’m trying to find out who—’ His heart falls through the floor. ‘She’s dead? For sure?’

  ‘She’s been shot. A neighbor called the police. Hodge is waiting at the scene, so you better beat it, pronto.’

  ‘Who called?’ Mick jumps to his feet and grabs his notebook. ‘Was it Mrs Ingram from Roseview Drive?’

  ‘Dunno what the heck you’re talking about. You’re not going to Roseview Drive. This stiff is waiting for you in glorious Crankton. Hope your rabies shot is up to date.’

  ‘So, it’s not Joyce Haney?’

  ‘Jesus, Blanke.’ Murphy rolls his eyes. ‘It’s a Deena. Deena Klinke, or something. Get a move on before I screw some skates to your ass and push you down the hill myself.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mick

  T

  he heat isn’t doing Deena Klintz any favors. Fortunately, Mick was smart enough to stop by the drugstore for a purse-sized tub of Vicks. He dabs a little under his nostrils and opens the door to the trailer.

  All the windows are shut and the curtains are drawn. The place is suffused with the sweet, sickening smell of death, not unlike roses scattered over rancid meat. There are not as many flies as he expected, but there is a lot of blood.

  Deena is lying on the floor right next to the couch. She is on her belly, but her skirt is down and seems undisturbed, which is a small comfort. Her hair has fallen over her face, obscuring the worst of the mess, but through the greasy threads he can clearly make out the entry wound on her temple. More hair and blood are splattered across the couch and the small table, along with little, yellow-gray clumps. Brain tissue. She’s been shot right there on the couch. Likely she fell off it in her final convulsions.

  He scans the rest of the place. On the table are soda glasses, one half-full, the other empty. A plate covered in cookie crumbs stands between them, a half-empty box of Nabisco marshmallow sandwiches on the counter. There are dirty pans in the sink and laundry piled up in a corner. A half dozen beer bottles wait in two neat rows by the front door. Beer bottles. He makes a mental note to have them all fingerprinted. Another door, half-open, leads into the bedroom. The bed is ruffled and several sheets of paper have been spread out over it. Mick picks one up.

  It’s a painting of a windmill squatting on a hill, outlined by a greenish sun that cannot decide which way it should throw a shadow. It’s an amateur work, just like the others on the pile. Mick flicks through inexpert still lifes, windows with flowerpots and bridges in the mist. Trite subjects for a trite hobby that probably did little to ease a trite and hard existence.

  He unearths Deena’s watercolors in a cupboard. They are cheap, like those Fran used to buy for the children’s school projects. Here, phthalo blue has become navy, and cadmium lemon is simply yellow.

  Engrossed in thought, he steps outside. The air of Crankton tastes like dust and motor oil, but it is sweet ambrosia to him. Hodge, who is standing guard by the door, watches him inhale. Mick expects a sneer, because he’s just a Yankee wimp who can’t take a bit of decomposition on the chin. But Hodge’s face is that of a man whose mind is fully absorbed with the question of how much longer his stomach contents will stay down.

  ‘Found anything, sir?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Mick replies. ‘You said a neighbor discovered her?’

  ‘A Mrs Ethel Bibberson. Said she nipped round this morning to borrow a cup of flour and called the police when no one answered and she noticed the smell.’

  Mick looks toward Mrs Bibberson’s trailer and remembers the beer bottles by Deena’s door. Flour? Unlikely.

  ‘Any witnesses to the crime?’

  ‘None whatsoever. But Mrs Bibberson said there was a silver car parked up on this road yesterday afternoon. She heard the exhaust bang. Soon after, the car drove off.’

  ‘She could have heard the shot. Did she recognize the car? Did she get the make and number?’

  ‘Naw. She wasn’t even sure it was someone gone to Deena’s place.’

  As if on cue, another silver car appears on the road; a dust cloud announces its progress long before the glint of metal is visible through the trees. It’s Wilson, the medical examiner.

  In the house, Wilson circles Deena like a vulture deciding where to take his first pick. He flips back her hair. The insides of Deena’s head are visible, gray sponge flecked with reddish veins. Mick looks away, then feels bad about it. He composes himself and turns to Wilson in a manner he hopes is worthy of a Brooklyn cop.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Shot in the temple.’

  ‘Well done, Detective.’ Wilson roots about in Deena’s head. ‘Side shot,’ he says. ‘Split the skull right open. Quite nasty. Could have been a bad aim, someone who doesn’t know how to handle a gun. But then again, could have been deliberate.’

  Mick snorts. ‘Anything I can’t see for myself?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like there’s been sexual violence, at least nothing recent. A couple of marks on her arm, but they are older. A week, perhaps.’ Wilson scrutinizes the bruises. ‘Someone manhandled her, that’s for sure. You can see the thumb imprints here and here. But, like I said, I don’t think it was the killer. I think the shot came as quite the surprise.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The angle. I won’t be certain until after the autopsy, of course, but I think that whoever killed her must have been sitting right next to her on the couch. Check out those glasses. They had a nice little refresher and then – bam!’

  Mick pinches his nose and tries to look as if he’s thinking hard, but really he’s just trying to get a good sniff of Vicks. ‘Any defensive wounds?’

  Wilson smiles. ‘Nope.’

  ‘She must have known the killer, then. But why on Earth would they sit down for a chat before he does the deed?’

  ‘Perhaps her and her murderer got into a fight. Could have started quite friendly, and then somehow the little tea party turns bad.’

  ‘I don’t think so . . .’ Mick forces himself to look at Deena, the whole sorry remainder of her, and something odd tugs at his belly. ‘I’ve met her a few times alive. She wouldn’t have opened the
door to someone she was scared of. There would have been . . . She’d have fought back. But I don’t see any sign of that. No broken glass, nothing flung.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Wilson crumples his nose. ‘You’re the detective, sir. My job’s just to look at the meat.’

  ‘She’s not . . . Ah, forget it.’ He holds back. Never piss off the medical examiners. They know all your weakest points and how to get there fast with scalpels. ‘I’m just saying it’s weird. The killer must have come armed and ready. Why did he sit down first for a soda? Why bring cookies?’

  Wilson shrugs. ‘Sadism? Perhaps our man enjoyed coddling his victim in safety before whipping out the gun. Some of them like that sort of stuff. You make ’em feel secure, so their fear is all the sweeter when you finally turn the tables.’

  Sure, Mick thinks. That’s one explanation, but there’s another reason to hang around for a chat. To get information.

  *

  The purring of another car jolts him from his thoughts. He looks through the window and spots Mrs Crane’s Pontiac. From it emerges the lady herself, dressed in vivid green, with white gloves on her hands.

  Mick leaves Wilson to his work and closes the door with such haste it slams. Mrs Crane turns around, and the look on her face startles him. Her mouth is a thin red gash and her eyes are glazed with worry.

  He hurries toward her and blocks her view of the trailer with his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. This is not a good time.’

  ‘Deena.’ She tries to look past him. ‘My God. What happened?’

  ‘I am not able to divulge that right now. You go back home. I’ll stop by in a couple of hours and—’

  ‘How did she die?’

  The question catches him off guard. Nothing’s yet been issued to the press.

  ‘Mrs Crane,’ he says, ‘I understand you must be very upset.’

  ‘Who did it? What happened to her? Was it one of the bastards from that diner? Please, Detective. I want to know what happened.’

  ‘And I want to know what you’re doing here,’ he says, with as much conviction as he can muster.