Robert B Parker - Spenser 02 - God Save the Child

by God Save the Child(lit)

  "No," I said. "Are you?"

  "NO."

  I opened a copy of Strength and Health. On the inside cover and spilling over onto page 1, there was an ad for high-protein health food and pictures of hugely muscled people who apparently ate it. There were badly laid-out ads for strength-training booklets, weight-lifting equipment, and choker bathing suits; and pictures of weight lifters and Mr. America contestants. On page 39 was a sepia-tone picture of Vic Harroway. He had on a white bikini and was posed on a beach in front of a low shelf of rock that kicked spray up as the sea hit it. His right arm was flexed to show the biceps. His left hand was clamped behind his neck, and he was flexed forward with his right knee bent and the toes of his left leg barely touching the ground. The sun glistened on his features, and his narrowed eyes were fixed on something high and distant and doubtless grand behind the camera. Beauty is its own excuse for being. The caption said, "Vic Harroway, Mr. Northeastern America, Combines Weight Lifting and Yoga." I read the story. It said the same thing in supermasculine prose that made me want to run out and uproot a tree.

  While I read, Dolly Bartlett sat down against the wall with her knees drawn up against her chest and listened to her radio.

  I went through all the strength magazines. They dated back five years, and each of them had a story on Vic Harroway. I learned how Vic trained down for "that polished look." I learned Vic's diet-supplement secrets for gaining "ten to fifteen pounds of solid muscles." I learned Vic's technique for developing sinewy and shapely underpinnings."

  I didn't learn much about Vic's theories on kidnapping and harassment or if he might know where Kevin Bartlett was.

  I looked at the scrapbook. It was what I thought it would be. Clippings of Vic Harroway's triumphs in body-building contests. Ads announcing the opening of a new health spa where Vic Harroway would be the supervisor of physical conditioning. Fifteen-year-old newspaper clippings of Vic Harroway as a high school football hero in Everett.

  Snapshots of Vic and one of Vic and Kevin with Vic's arm around Kevin's shoulder. Harroway was smiling. Kevin looked very serious.

  "Did Kevin lift weights?" I asked Dolly.

  "No. I remember he wanted to buy a set once, but my mother wouldn't let him."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know. She said it would make him big and beefy and stuff, you know?"

  I nodded.

  "They had a big fight about it."

  I nodded again.

  "Would it?"

  "Would it what?"

  "Would it make him big and beefy?"

  "Not if he did it right," I said. I took the publicity shot of Harroway, put the magazines and the scrapbook back in the trunk, and closed it. Dolly and the dog and I went downstairs. The dog edged me out on the way down, and I was last. In the driveway Marge Bartlett was standing looking impatiently into the open barn. She had on a pale violet pants suit with huge cuffed bell-bottoms and blunt-nosed black shoes poking out underneath. A big burlap purse with a crocheted design hung from her shoulder. She wore white lipstick, and her nails were polished in a pale lavender.

  "Come on, Dolly, time to go to Aunt Betty's. Hop in the car."

  "Aw, Ma, I don't want to go over there again."

  "Come on now, no arguing. Hop in the car I've got a lot of shopping to do. The party is tonight, and I don't want you in the way. You know how nervous I get when I'm having a big party. And while I'm at the shopping center I don't want you here alone. It's too dangerous."

  I went to my car and put the photo in the glove compartment.

  "Well, lemme stay with Mr. Spenser."

  Marge Bartlett shook her head firmly. "Not on your life.

  Mr. Spenser is my bodyguard, and he'll have to go with me to the shopping center." She clapped her hands once, sharply. "In the car."

  Dolly climbed into the backseat of the red Mustang.

  Marge Bartlett got in behind the wheel, and I sat beside her.

  The dog stood in front of the car with his ears back and stared at us.

  "Can I bring Punkin?" Dolly asked.

  "Absolutely not. I don't want him getting the car all muddy, and Aunt Betty can't stand dogs anyway."

  "He's not muddy," Dolly said.

  The cop in the Smithfield cruiser poked his head out the side window and said, "Where you going?"

  "It's all right. Mr. Spenser is with me. We'll be gone most of the day, shopping."

  "Whoopee," I said. "All day."

  The cop nodded. "Okay, Mrs. Bartlett. I'm going to take off then. You let us know when you're back, and Chief'll send someone up."

  He started the cruiser and headed down the drive. We followed. He turned left. We turned right.

  Chapter 14

  The north shore shopping center was on high ground north off Route 128 in Peabody. Red brick, symmetrical evergreens, and parking for eight thousand cars. I discovered that Marge Bartlett was a member of the shopping center the way some people belong to a country clubb. Between ten fifteen and one twenty she charged $375 worth of clothes. I spent that time watching her, nodding approval when she asked my opinion, keeping a weather eye out for assailants, and trying not to look like a pervert as I stood around outside a series of ladies' dressing rooms. I was glad I hadn't worn my white raincoat. There were a lot of very well-shaped suburban ladies shopping in the same stores.

  Suburban ladies tended to wear their clothes quite snug, I noticed. I was alert for concealed weapons.

  We got back to Smithfield at about a quarter of two. The house was still. Roger Bartlett worked Saturdays, and Dolly was going to spend the night with Aunt Betty. Punkin lay placidly in a hollow under some bushes to the right of the back door Marge Bartlett held the door for me as I carried in the shopping bags. The dog came in behind us.

  "Put them on the couch in the living room," she said. "I want to call the caterer."

  There was a corpse in the living room. On the floor, face down, with its head at a funny angle. I dropped the shopping bags and went back to the kitchen with my gun out.

  Marge Bartlett was still on the phone with her back to me. No one was in sight. The back door was closed. The dog had settled under the kitchen table. I turned back to the living room and stood in the center, beside the corpse, and held my breath and listened. Except for Marge Bartlett talking with animation about a jellied salad, there was no sound.

  I put the gun back in the hip holster and squatted down beside the corpse and looked at its face. It had been Earl Maguire. That's it for the law practice, Earl. I picked up one hand and bent the forefinger back and forth. He was cold and getting stiff. I put the hand down. All the college and all the law school and all the cramming for the bar, and someone snaps your neck for you when you're not much more than thirty. I looked around the room. A glass-topped rug was bunched toward Maguire's body. A fireplace poker lay maybe two feet beyond Maguire's outflung hand. An abstract oil painting was on the floor beneath a picture hook on the wall as if it had fallen.

  I duck-walked over to the poker and looked at it without touching it. There was no sign of blood on it. I stood up and went to the front door The lock button in the middle of the knob was in. The door was locked. I'd seen Marge Bartlett unlock the back door. I opened the front door No sign of it being jimmied. There'd been no sign of jimmying on the back door I'd have noticed when we came in. There weren't any other doors. I walked across the front hall to the dining room. It was undisturbed except that the door to the liquor cabinet was open. There was a lot of booze inside. It didn't look as if any was missing.

  I heard Marge Bartlett hang up. I headed for the kitchen and cut her off before she got to the door.

  "Stay here," I said.

  "Earl Maguire is dead in your living room."

  "My God, the party's in six hours."

  "Inconsiderate bastard, wasn't he," I said.

  She opened her mouth and then put both hands over it and pressed and didn't say anything. "Sit there," I said and steered her to a kitchen chair. She
kept her hands over her mouth and watched me minutely while I called the cops.

  When she heard me say Maguire's neck was broken, she made a muffled squeak.

  Five minutes later Trask arrived with a bald, fat old geezer who carried a black bag like the ones doctors used to carry when they made house calls. He eased himself down on his knees beside the body and looked at it. He was too fat to squat.

  "When'd he die, Doc?" Trask had a notebook out and held a yellow Bic Banana pen poised over it to record the answer.

  The doctor was strained for breath, kneeling down like that; it didn't help his temperament. "Before we got here," he said.

  Trask got a little redder. "I know that, goddamn it. What I want to know is how long before we got here?"

  "How the hell do I know, George? I don't even know what killed him, yet. His neck looks broken." The doctor picked up Maguire's head and turned it back and forth. A dark bruise ran along his cheek from the earlobe to the corner of his mouth. "Yep, neck's broken."

  "What time you find him, Spenser?" Trask decided to question me. It wasn't going well with the doctor.

  "Quarter of two.".

  "Exactly?"

  "Approximately."

  "Well, goddamn it, can't you be more exact? You're supposed to be some kind of hot stuff. I want to know the exact time of the discovery of the deceased. It could be vital."

  "Only in the movies, Trask."

  Trask looked past me and said, "Hello, Lieutenant." I turned and it was Healy. He had on the same straw hat with the big headband that I'd seen him in before. His jacket was gray tweed with a muted red line forming squares in it. Gray slacks, white shirt with a button-down collar, and a narrow black knit tie. Tan suede desert boots. He had his hands in his hip pockets, and his face was without expression as he looked down at the body.

  "Worse and worse," he said.

  Trask said, "This is Doc Woodson, Lieutenant. He was just saying that Maguire died of a broken neck."

  "No, I didn't, George. I said his neck was broken. I didn't say it killed him."

  "Well, it didn't help him none. That's for damned certain," Trask said.

  Healy said, "When can you give me a report on him, Doctor Woodson?"

  "We'll take him down Union Hospital now, and I can have something for you by, say, suppertime." He looked at me. "Gimme a hand up, young fella; you look strong enough." I helped him up. The effort left him red-faced, and there was sweat on his forehead. "Don't get the exercise I should," he said.

  "Who found the body?" Healy asked.

  Trask said, "Spenser," and jerked his head in my direction. I got the feeling he wished I were the body.

  "Okay, tell me about it." Healy squatted down on his heels beside the corpse and looked at it while I told him.

  "Doors locked when you got here?"

  "Yep, both of them. Mrs. Bartlett opened the back door with a key, and the front door was locked. I checked it."

  "Let's check again," Healy said. We walked to the front door. Healy opened it, went outside, shut it behind him, and tried the knob. Locked. I opened it for him from the inside.

  We went to the back door. Healy did the same thing. Same result. I let him in. We walked around looking at the windows. Most of them were closed and locked. Those that weren't locked were screened. There was no sign they'd been tampered with. The screens were aluminum, part of screen and storm combinations.

  "SOmeone could have gone out, reached back in, released the catches, and lowered the screen," I said, "to make it look like it was inside business."

  Healy nodded absently. "yeah," he said, "but why would someone do that?"

  "Misdirect the cops," I said.

  "Maybe," Healy said.

  "'Course with Chief Trask on the track," I said, "you probably don't need too much misdirection."

  Healy separated a peppermint Life Saver from the roll and popped it into his mouth. He didn't offer me one.

  "Well, he's just a hick cop. Not a high-powered fast gun in from the city. Couldn't even solve a simple missing person squeal." He sucked on the Life Saver "You find the kid yet?"

  "Nope."

  Healy said, "Oh."

  We went back to the living room. The photographs had been taken. The measurements made. The corpse was wrapped in a blanket and lying on a stretcher. Trask looked at Healy. Healy nodded and Trask said, "Okay, let's get him out of here."

  Two Smithfield cops picked up the stretcher and went out the front door.

  "Union Hospital," Trask yelled after them. "And tell 'em it's for Doc Woodson when you get there."

  "Anything missing, Trask?" Healy asked.

  "Mrs. Bartlett says no. She don't see anything gone.

  Liquor cabinet was open but nothing missing."

  Marge Bartlett was sitting with her knees pressed together on the couch. The lines around her mouth seemed to have deepened. She needed to freshen her makeup.

  "What was he doing here, Mrs. Bartlett?" Healy said.

  "Who?"

  "Maguire. What was Maguire doing in your house while you were away?"

  "Oh, Earl has his own key. He's an old and dear friend.

  He often lets himself in. We're having a party tonight, and he said he'd come out early and help me set up the bar and things because Roger wouldn't be able to get home till after supper. Almost time for... My God"--she looked at her watch--"it's after four. My company is coming in three and a half hours. I've got to get ready. Spenser, you're going to have to help me."

  I nodded. Healy said, "Do you have any idea, Mrs. Bartlett, who might have done this?"

  "To Earl? I don't know. He was a lawyer; perhaps he made enemies." She shrugged. "I don't know. Lieutenant, I simply must get ready. I'm having sixty-five people here tonight. And I'm already very late." She was on her feet moving toward the hall as she spoke, Healy looked at her with a puzzled expression. "It's grief, Lieutenant," I said. "She's hiding her grief and carrying on."

  Healy snorted. Trask said, "Well, she is. She's being damned brave."

  "Brave," Healy said.

  "I'll question her later on," Trask said, "when she's gotten herself together more. Ya know."

  "Yeah," Healy said, "you do that."

  Trask said, "Got any theories, Lieutenant?"

  "I'd guess someone was in here expecting no one to be home, and Maguire came in and surprised him. There was a fight, Maguire went for the poker, and whoever it was hit him with something else and broke his neck. Then he got out of here."

  "From the way the rug's bunched up and the body's lying, I figure he came at him from the dining room," I said.

  Healy said, "Maybe."

  Trask said, "How'd he get in?"

  "That's a problem. Maybe one of the screens was unlocked or the door was ajar. Maybe somebody had a key."

  Trask looked shocked. "Wait a minute, who the hell would have a key except the family?"

  Healy shrugged. "Maybe the lock was picked," Trask said.

  "How long you been chief here?" Healy asked.

  "Seven years," Trask said. "Before that I was a sergeant."

  "How many people have you run into out here that can pick that kind of a lock?" I said.

  "There's always a first time."

  "We'll wait and see what the doctor can give us," Healy said. "If I was you, Trask, I'd put a man here."

  "I had one, but when Mrs. Bartlett went off with Spenser, I took him off. She was supposed to call when she came back. I only got twelve goddamned men, Healy."

  "I know. Spenser, you hanging in here?"

  "Yeah. I'm staying in the guest room. If you get a chance, let me know what the doctor says about cause of death."

  "Oh, of course," Healy said. "Want I should iron your shirts for you or anything while I'm here?"

  I let that pass. "Well," I said, "time to dig out the old gold lame tux and freshen up for the party."

  Both Trask and Healy looked very sourly at me. I knew how they felt. I felt the same way.

  Chapte
r 15

  Helping Margery Bartlett overcome her grief involved a lot of housework.

  The caterer arrived about twenty minutes after they'd hauled Maguire away in a blanket. He had two eight-foot tables in his truck and enough food to cover both of them. It was warm and I had my coat off. The caterer's assistant stared covertly at the gun on my hip but made no comment. I helped them set up the tables and carry in the food.