by R. R. Irvine
A tick started up in Tanner’s left eye, a sure sign he was growing agitated, “I haven’t called the debt in, have I?” He rubbed the eye. “Maybe I should, though.”
“If it’s the Chester Building you’re thinking about,” Martin said, “forget it. We’ve already promised Barney we’d help him.”
“It’s a dilemma, but I’m sure you two will see the light.”
“What do you know about the deaths in Bingham?” Traveler said.
“How many favors are you asking? Debts pile up. There’s interest to be paid.” He stopped rubbing his eye, which remained half-closed, giving him a lopsided squint.
“Angel is all that’s left of Claire,” Traveler said.
“She’s the only grandchild I’m ever likely to get,” Martin added.
“ ‘Concern not yourselves about your debts,’ our good book says, ‘for I will give you power to pay them,’ ” Tanner said.
“No you don’t, Willis. You’ve been leading Moroni astray since you were boys.” Martin closed one eye, mimicking Tanner’s squint, “I can quote scripture too. ‘Behold, it is said in my laws, or forbidden, to get in debt to thine enemies.’ ”
Tanner sighed; his left eye closed altogether. “I’m telling you as a friend, your concern is not the Chester Building but Bingham. The medical report bears me out. It was murder.”
35
TRAVELER AND Martin picked up a basket of Chicken in the Rough at the Pilot Cafe, eating dinner on the fly as they broke the speed limit all the way to Bingham. There was no traffic in the tunnel or on Main Street. Only a few houses showed lights on the hillsides. Except for the Pastime Bar and White Elephant Saloon, the business district looked deserted.
After trying the hospital, which was closed for the duration, judging by the looks of it, they tracked down Dr. Jesse Snarr at the Odegaards’ house. The moment he saw them, he ushered them outside to avoid disturbing the children, who were being put to bed. The night air, maybe fifty degrees with a stiff, wind-chilling breeze, forced them back into the Jeep, with Martin and Snarr sitting up front and Traveler perched on the edge of the backseat.
Snarr spoke first. “I’m surrounded by Moronis. Unfortunately, angels, Mormon or otherwise, aren’t what we need right now.”
“We’re here about the murder,” Martin said.
“I should be surprised, since the medical report only reached me an hour ago. But the moment I met you two, I knew you weren’t in Bingham for the picnic.”
“We have a vested interest in this,” Martin told him. “We were sitting at the same table with your parents and the Tempests. We could have been killed too.”
“If I believed in such things,” Snarr said, “I’d say this was the devil’s work, where angels like yourself should fear to tread.”
Traveler waited, expecting clarification. When none came he said, “We’d like to know what was in the report.”
“It told me how it was done, and that’s what makes me so goddamned mad. This is a small town, or maybe I should say was. Everybody knows everybody else here. Before this happened, I thought we were all friends and neighbors. Now I keep asking myself, how could any of them deliberately choose a poison like this? Think about it. Most poison tastes terrible. You couldn’t disguise it if you tried. But not this one.
“It’s not like you see in the movies, you know. Victims don’t drink it, gasp a little, and keel over dead without much fuss. Oh, no. This one makes them suffer like a bitch bastard. It’s called dimethylnitrosamine, and was developed as a solvent but soon dropped from general use because it causes liver cancer. These days it’s only used to make lab animals sick.”
“It sounds like you’d have to be a scientist to know about something like that,” Martin said.
“Most places you would, but not in Bingham. Before they knew about the side effects, dimeth was used around here to clean mining equipment. Anybody who worked in the smelter or at the mine in recent years had access to it. If you’ll switch on the car light, I’ll show you what it looks like.”
A moment later, Traveler saw the doctor holding a small phial of clear liquid between his forefinger and thumb.
“It looks like water, doesn’t it.” His voice sounded flat and emotionless, which Traveler put down to exhaustion. “A few drops in your lemonade and you get cancer, a few more and you die, just like Hannah, my parents, and Marty.”
“What’s the prospect for the others at the table?” Martin asked.
“So far, all their liver functions are normal.”
“How much lemonade are we talking about?” Traveler said.
“Very little. Tommy said he took one sip and it wasn’t sweet enough, so he tossed it away when Hattie wasn’t looking. Angel says the same, but she’s only three so it’s hard to be sure. Garth says he drank a glass with everyone else, though he may have been confused because he was drunk.”
“Will they have to be tested again?”
“We’re doing that now. But the two of them didn’t get so much as a stomach cramp, so my guess is they’re going to be okay. What about you two? Did either of you drink the stuff?”
“No,” Martin said.
Snarr slipped the phial back into his pocket and opened the door.
“Did your parents have any enemies?” Traveler asked him.
“A few days ago I would have said no.”
“Did they say anything unusual before they died?”
“People that sick and in that much pain don’t talk much.”
The doctor stepped out of the car and stared up at the starry night. “If you’re still in town tomorrow, join us at the White Elephant Saloon. Drinks are on the house and afterward we’re going to bulldoze the place ourselves.”
They watched Snarr walk away, then headed for the house. Martin hesitated on the narrow wooden stoop that passed for the Odegaards’ front porch. “Be careful what you say if the children are still up.”
Nodding, Traveler knocked softly. It was enough to bring Almon Odegaard to the door, with his wife right behind him.
“Where’s Dr. Jesse gotten to?” she asked, peering around her husband.
“He said he was going for a walk,” Traveler answered.
She shook her head. “I don’t like him being alone at a time like this.”
“I think he wanted to give us the chance to talk to you in private.”
“Don’t just stand there, then. Come in. Or are you trying to heat up the whole outdoors?”
In the living room, Ida settled Traveler and Martin onto the sofa, her husband into an armchair, while she took a frayed carpet-back rocker for herself.
“Has Dr. Jesse told you about the poison?” she said.
Traveler nodded.
“That boy has too big a load on his shoulders. Imagine having most of your family killed like that and suddenly find yourself with a young child to take care of.”
“Now, mother, Tommy’s kin. The doctor doesn’t have any choice.”
“Do you know what Dr. Jesse offered to do? Take care of Angel too. ‘It’s not right,’ I told him, an unmarried man carrying so great a burden. ‘Find yourself a wife,’ I says, ‘as soon as you can.’ ”
“We’d like to take care of her,” Martin said.
“Mother told me we could expect something like that from you two,” Odegaard said. “You’ve been checked on, you know. We know you’re both named Moroni Traveler. So which one of you is it? Which one is Angel named after?”
“It’s not up to us to ask such things,” Ida interjected, rocking back and forth. “We should be happy the child has friends, though whatever happens from now on is Garth Tempest’s responsibility.”
“The man has to face facts, mother. That poison may kill him sometime down the line. When that happens, what happens to little Angel?”
Sighing, she picked up the pace of her rocking.
Traveler said, “Dr. Snarr told us Angel and Tommy gave up on the lemonade when they came to sit with you at the picnic.”
Ida added, “They sat with us for nearly an hour, minding their manners and waiting for the cake to be cut.”
She stopped rocking to retrieve a tissue from the sleeve of her dress and blow her nose. “We made a kind of a game out of it, taking turns telling stories about past picnics and cakes, things like that. If we’d only known to take Marty to the hospital then and there.” She shivered and hugged herself.
“Did the children say anything unusual?” Traveler asked.
“Like what?” Odegaard said.
“Repeating something they might have heard, anything that would give us a reason for what happened.”
Odegaard looked at his wife. They both shook their heads.
“Think back to the hospital, Mrs. Odegaard. Was anything said there you haven’t told me about?”
“Like I said before, Hannah talked about you, Mr. Traveler. But nothing was said to explain murder.”
“I was there too,” Odegaard said, “visiting Lyman Snarr before he took a turn for the worse. We talked about the football game mostly. I remember him saying he was proud to have played with you, because someone had told him that you played pro ball for Los Angeles.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“As soon as he said it to me, I remembered seeing you on television myself. You were one hell of a linebacker, maybe the best ever to come out of this state. When I said so to Garth later on he got mad as hell. He said you had no business playing if you were a professional, that you could have hurt somebody. If you asked me, he was just feeling foolish, because he tried to take you on during the game. It wasn’t your idea to play, I told him. I was the one who insisted. I’m glad you played with us, though. Beating the crap out of those company men, especially Father Bannon and Frank Murdock, did my heart good.”
“Now, father,” Ida said, “calm down. You don’t want to be up all night with indigestion.”
He grunted. “First thing tomorrow morning I’m meeting that man from the Historical Society—Mr. Pinock—and we’re going to take one last walk through town. He’s going to taperecord my comments as the last mayor of Bingham Canyon.”
“I’d like to be there to hear you,” Martin said.
“You’re welcome to join us.”
“There’s only one way they can do that, father. We’ll have to put them both up on the screen porch.”
36
WHILE MARTIN toured the town with Mayor Odegaard and Wayne Pinock the next morning, Traveler followed Ida’s directions to Frank Murdock’s house, an unpainted wooden shack like all the others backing up against the steep hillside behind Carr Fork. The only sign of life on the street was a new blue Mercedes-Benz, which Ida had told Traveler to watch for. The car’s trunk stood open, as did the shack’s front door.
Traveler knocked on the clapboard to announce himself to the square, heavyset man who was inside on his knees, rolling up a small threadbare rug. He twitched at the sound and swung around, squinting against the light.
“It’s me, Mr. Murdock, Moroni Traveler.”
“Sure, from the football game. I remember.” He lumbered to his feet. “Come on in. I was just taking inventory.”
The small front room was bare of everything but a battered chest of drawers, a small-screen TV with rabbit ears, and the half-rolled rug that was worn to the backing in places.
“You kicked our asses but good in that game,” Murdock said. “You made us look like a bunch of amateurs.”
“I shouldn’t have played.”
“Are you kidding? We’ll all be telling that story for years to come, cadging free drinks by lying about how we knocked Moroni Traveler on his ass. When you think of it that way, you did us a favor.”
“Maybe you can do me one in return?”
“Try me.”
“I’m here about the murders,” Traveler said.
“Jesus Christ! Are you telling me it wasn’t an accident?”
Traveler handed him a business card.
“That does it. Maybe my timing’s lousy, but I can’t help saying good riddance to this place.”
Traveler said nothing, hoping to keep Murdock talking.
“Look around you,” Murdock said to end the silence. “My parents lived in this dump all their lives. I thought the same thing was going to happen to me until Kennecott offered to buy me out. Well, God bless them, that’s what I say.”
“I was sitting with the Snarrs and the Tempests at the picnic,” Traveler said. “I’m alive and here talking to you because I didn’t drink the lemonade.”
Murdock squinted at him. “After playing against you, I wouldn’t want you mad at me, that’s for sure. But you’ve come to the wrong man for answers. I don’t know a damned thing, except maybe a little local gossip. But nothing about the Snarrs or the Tempests that would cause a murder.”
“They tell me you’re one of the biggest landowners here.”
Murdock snorted. “That’s people for you, talking behind your back. Sure, I inherited half a dozen places from my father. All like this one, with nobody willing to rent them anymore. If Kennecott hadn’t wanted to take them off my hands, they wouldn’t be good for anything but kindling.”
He opened the chest’s top drawer and took out a silver-framed wedding photograph that had turned sepia around the edges. “These are my parents, Isaac and Melba. They worked all their lives in Bingham. They never took vacations, never spent a dime extra on themselves. Dad drove a Hudson, the only car I ever remember him having, till the day he died. I asked him once why he’d didn’t buy something better, and those were the days when you could still rent these places and he had some income. Do you know what he said? ‘You don’t give up on something that’s served you well, just because it’s getting old.’ Well, that’s not for me. Did you see that kraut car parked outside? I bought it the day Kennecott put its offer in writing.”
He handed the photograph to Traveler. It looked old-fashioned enough to be a pioneer daguerreotype, though the Murdocks’ wedding couldn’t have been much more than forty years ago, judging by their son’s age.
“You can’t tell it from looking at him,” Murdock said, “but my father had miner’s hands, like sandpaper they were. The grime works its way in under your skin, and you can’t get it out no matter what you do. Try running those over a pretty woman’s skin and see how far it gets you.”
He paused to examine his own callused fingers. “You know where I’m going from here? To Salt Lake. I’m getting myself a condo in one of those big downtown buildings and live like a king. Once a week I’m going to find myself a fancy barbershop and have myself a manicure.”
Kennecott’s warning siren went off, just over the mountain by the sound of it. Traveler handed back the photograph, which Murdock quickly stowed between two lace tablecloths in the chest. The blast came, shaking the house, before he got the drawer closed.
“You know what my mother called this chest?” Murdock said, still holding on to the piece of furniture. “Her hope chest. ‘Monkey Ward’s best,’ she used to tell me. ‘Your father and I bought it the day we were married, to store our treasures.’ There’s a family Bible in here somewhere with a pressed rose from her wedding bouquet between the pages. That, the tablecloths and shawls she crocheted, plus a few keepsakes and my old report cards are all the treasures she ever got.”
He kicked the bottom drawer. “A no hope chest, that’s what I call it. I ought to throw the damned thing out along with everything else.”
Murdock shook his head violently. “I know what they’re saying about me. That’s why you’re here, to see just what kind of a company man I am. Well, all I can say is this. I never want to see this town or another mine in my life. If it wasn’t that I wanted to say good-bye to a few friends, I’d leave right now and take a pass on the farewell party down at the White Elephant tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll see you ther
e,” Traveler said.
“You watch yourself once those miners and smelter men start drinking. A little Dutch courage and they’ll be taking shots at you like we did in the game.”
“Did you know who I was then?”
“Not at first, but someone in the huddle recognized you.”
“Who?”
“I can’t remember. Some of the guys were good and pissed, though. A pro shouldn’t take sides, they said. That’s why they . . . why a few of them took shots at you, I guess.”
“I got clipped a couple of times.”
“I remember. It was Father Bannon. He came back to the huddle and said, ‘Watch out. I think I got him mad that time.’ ” Murdock caught his breath. “Oh, Christ. Is that why you and Garth Tempest got into it?”
Traveler remembered Tempest coming at him like a maniac late in the game.
“It didn’t strike me then,” Murdock said, “that his daughter was named Moroni Traveler Tempest. He had a grudge against you, didn’t he?”
Traveler shrugged. “Is Father Bannon still in town?”
“He was at his church when I drove by a few minutes ago.”
Traveler thanked Murdock and left the house, heading downhill toward the Holy Rosary Catholic Church on Main Street. At the fork in the road, he looked back to see Murdock loading his mother’s “hope chest” into the backseat of his new Mercedes-Benz.
37
THE FLATBED truck carrying a bulldozer chained to its back was parked in front of the Holy Rosary Church. The driver, a darkly tanned man wearing a bright yellow hard hat, stood in front of the church’s open door gesturing to someone inside. By the time Traveler joined the driver, a second workman, also in hard hat, emerged from the clapboard church accompanied by Father Bannon.
“Take a last look, Mr. Traveler,” Bannon said. “There won’t be anything left of this place by dark.” He looked at the driver, who nodded agreement to that statement. “There’s not much to these old places, they tell me. They come down like a house of cards. You’d think a house of worship would be more substantial.”