by Gorman, Ed
6. She'd found three different sets of ladies' shoeprints but had run out of material for casting.
7. She'd found a strange fishing lure — one in the shape and color of a black moon.
8. She'd found a cravat stickpin that was gold-painted.
She was frustrated that none of these things pointed her in any particular direction.
What good was "scientific detection" if it didn't offer you a road map?
Mrs. Goldman, regal in her rustling robe, came down just after midnight and woke Anna from sleeping at the parlor table.
She helped Anna gather up her crime-scene evidence and then assisted her yawning young boarder up the stairs to bed.
Chapter 8
There was somebody in my room.
I walked back to the motel office and went up to the desk, where a fifty-ish woman in a flowered blouse and a beehive hairdo (I think she was doing a one-woman salute to some of the Motown girl groups) read a Janet Dailey novel while occasionally glancing up at Jay Leno through her pinkframed eyeglasses.
"Hi," I said.
She took a long moment to raise her eyes from her book.
"Hi."
"There's somebody in my room."
"Somebody?"
"Umm-hmm. A thief or somebody. I wondered if you'd call the police."
She gave me a good, hard look. She was searching, I think, for evidence that I'd been partaking of the grape.
"Why do you think somebody's in your room, Mr. Payne?"
"I heard them."
"They were talking?"
"No. They were knocking things over."
She hooted, then. That was the only word for it. She threw her head back and made a hooting noise.
"That little pecker!"
"What little pecker?"
"Ralph."
"Who's Ralph?"
She set down her Janet Dailey novel, reached over and turned around a small sign that read Back in a Minute.
"C'mon, hon," she said. "I'll show ya."
Ralph turned out to be a large and not entirely attractive hog who, the motel clerk assured me, was perfectly harmless as long as you didn't leave anything breakable out in your room. Ralph lived in the back, the best friend of the motel owner's eight-year-old daughter. He was an industrious and talented hog, our Ralph. He could climb up on the garbage cans and then shimmy through your window if you'd been silly enough to leave it open. It cost them a lot to replace screens every now and then, but it was worth it for the laugh, and Ralph didn't do it all that often, anyway.
I said goodnight to both Ralph and the lady. The lady was still giggling. Ralph was still grunting.
I did all the things I'd been wanting to do for the past couple hours, including taking a small overdose of aspirin, and then I slipped into bed and slept.
Chapter 9
The knocking on my door seemed to be part of the dream I was having. Two, three times they knocked before I realized it was for real.
I didn't know where I was, not at first. That happens sometimes when I'm on the road. Back in my Bureau days that was a problem. Traveling isn't good for a guy who is a small town boy at heart.
I tugged on my trousers and stumbled to the door, taking my Ruger with me for company.
There was an eye-hole and I used it.
Cindy Rhodes stared back at me. Her fine-boned face looked kempt and pretty even in the middle of the night. Only the dark eyes revealed something wild and frantic. She'd changed shirts. This one was a blue western-style one, and it fitted her most appealingly.
I opened the door and the hot muggy dark leapt inside like a pet who was supposed to stay outside all night.
"Could we go get some coffee?" Cindy asked me, straight out.
"Sure," I said.
"There's a truck stop not far from here."
"All right."
"This is really shitty of me, waking you up this way."
"You wouldn't do it unless it was important." I smiled and yawned. "At least, I hope you wouldn't."
The truck stop was full of cowboy truck drivers in western shirts and Elvis sideburns and an endless hankering for Hank Williams Jr. records. Sleepy-eyed waitresses transported lots and lots of scalding black coffee to tables and booths. Men came and went from the showers in the back. I couldn't imagine their lives. You hear about the hookers and drugs, but most of these men and women are decent, hardworking folks with families and a real sense of responsibility. The loneliness must get pretty bad: you out there somewhere in Utah in the middle of a midnight blizzard, and your wife and daughter back in Texas dreaming of Daddy in their uneasy slumber.
We had some of the scalding coffee.
Cindy said, "He's in trouble."
"David?"
"Right. Bad trouble."
"I'm not sure what that means." I waited for her to explain.
"Neither am I, but he stopped by tonight and wanted to know how much I had in my savings account."
"Did you tell him?"
"Yes." Pause. "I've never seen him like this — not when he was sober, anyway. Really scared, almost to the point of being crazy."
"He give you any idea of what the trouble might be?"
She shook her head. In the light, her sweet smart face showed the late hour and the strain. "I'm going to take out two thousand dollars in the morning and give it to him."
"Is that everything you've got?"
"Yes."
"Must have taken you a while to save it."
"He's my husband."
I thought of the way he'd smirked about her earlier at the casino. She was the nice bright girl in the high-school class who always fell in love with the dashing bad boy. Some of those girls never got over those bad boys. Not ever.
"He owes you an explanation."
Sad quick smile. "David's not much on explanations."
I sighed. "David doesn't seem to be much on anything, does he?"
"You don't like him, huh?"
"Let's say I like you a whole lot more."
"He hasn't had an easy life."
"Neither have you."
"His sister. That's how all this started."
"What about his sister?"
"Kidnapped."
"From the reservation?"
"Yes," Cindy said. "She was three years old, playing out in the back yard. Her mom was a good parent, always kept an eye on her kids. But she had to go to Des Moines one day, and had to get a babysitter. And when she got back, her daughter had disappeared."
"Were there ever any leads?"
"Not any good ones. David was obsessed with her. He was one of those brothers who are really protective of their little sisters. He can be very tender. Honest."
The waitress came with more coffee.
"Well," I said, after the lady left, "I feel sorry for him about his sister but he sure as hell hasn't treated you very well."
"I know that, but I want to help him anyway."
"There were two men tonight. They were beating him up, outside the casino. He tell you anything about that?"
"No. My God, what was that all about?"
"I don't know but it may have something to do with him wanting to leave town."
I thought of telling her about the burned-out Victorian house and the human arm the Border collie had brought me. David Rhodes had been somewhere in that fog. He was likely the person who'd knocked me out. He was probably in a great deal more trouble than Cindy understood.
"Will you go with me to see him?" she asked suddenly.
"Now?" I said.
"Yes. I'd appreciate it. I'm sure he's started drinking and . . . he gets abusive. You know."
Nope, sometimes they never got over the dashing bad boys. Not ever. And almost no matter what those bad boys did to them, either.
"Sure."
"This kind of irritates you, doesn't it?"
"Not at all. I almost never have anything better to do at two forty-five in the morning."
"I'm crazy for still loving him, are
n't I?"
I smiled. "Wasn't that the title of the last song they played on the jukebox? ‘I'm Crazy for Loving the Dirty Sonofabitch’ — or something like that?"
She laughed, a burst of pure pleasure that put some luster back into those beautiful dark eyes of hers.
"C'mon," I said, "let's go see him before somebody puts more money in the jukebox."
What was important to know about the relationship between the red and white man was that the red man was perceived as having only four roles in white society — as the wretched drunk; as the lazy reservation Indian; as the impossibly noble icon the liberals contended; or as one of the mainstays of the American criminal class.
Professor David Cromwell's Indian Journal
June 4, 1903
Rain all day, rain all night. Anna had wanted to play basketball — she was as good at it as most men — but not in rain like this.
Mrs. Goldman had a bad head cold and went right up to her room after dinner.
Anna stayed in the living room with its elegant twelve-light electric fixture suspended from the ceiling, and its comfortable Victorian furnishings, and its abundance of plants and ferns.
She read the paper, starting with News in Brief, which was always her favorite section.
President Theodore Roosevelt declared yesterday that control of the Pacific Ocean must fall under American control in this new century
More than 100 Jews were murdered in St Petersburg on Friday of last week.
Professor Albon W. Small, head of the Department of Sociology at Chicago University, predicted at last weekend's Journalist Society that sooner or later Germany and the United States would go to war. He predicted the war will likely come within three years.
William Thompson, of Kearney, Nebraska, will speak at the Cedar Rapids History Society tonight on the subject of scalping. Mr. Thompson claims to have been scalped as a young man and to have photographic evidence of this. A lively discussion is promised.
Anna was still thinking about the last story when she heard the door buzzer. She got up, left the living room and walked to the front door.
"I was just walking by and thought I'd stop in and say hello."
Trace Wydmore. Soaking wet. She knew better than to believe his 'just walking by' story. Their relationship had taken a sudden, sharp turn the other night and Anna still felt confused and a little frantic.
She had always considered herself to be a good girl. Now she had her doubts.
Trace, a few years older than Anna, handsome, lanky, shy, came in. Anna built a small fire in the fireplace. Trace sat close to the flames, shivering.
"I really appreciate this, Anna."
They spent a pleasant half-hour, Trace giving her a couple of new facts about the great state of Iowa (Did you know that Iowa's hens lay eggs that bring an income larger than that of all oranges in the United States? Did you know that the amount paid for Iowa cattle in the stock-market is more than the receipts of all the tobacco crops in the United States?').
"You don't need to thank me anymore, honest."
She was nervous and he was, too. They were going to talk about anything except what they really needed to talk about, which was what had happened the other night.
Trace stared into the fire. "Kind of lonely lately, with my parents gone and all." He raised his eyes and looked at Anna. "Pop says it's time I settle down and take a wife and start a family."
"Sounds like good advice."
"I told you they were in Europe, didn't I?"
She nodded. There was a time she'd been mistrustful of Cedar Rapids' rich people, but in the course of her job she'd met most of them and found them to be, in pretty much the same proportion as not-rich people, good and bad alike.
She was especially enamored of Trace's family. Even though they were always going off to Europe, and always having social events for their friends, they were nice, decent, unpretentious people with a genuine love for this community and its people.
"Say, Anna, did I show you that new key ring I got to give away at the Visitors' Bureau?"
Trace was what you'd call a Booster. There was no subject he liked espousing more than Cedar Rapids. He could have gone into far more profitable work with one of his father's various businesses, but instead he chose to work at the Visitors' Bureau.
He dug in his pocket and took out a key ring and handed it to Anna.
"Shape of a horseshoe, notice that? Supposed to bring you good luck."
"I see that," Anna said, examining the U-shaped key apparatus that was stamped on the curve of the U with: GOOD LUCK FROM CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA.
Then she noticed the black, moon-shaped fishing lure. Where'd you get this, Trace?"
"The lure?"
"Uh-huh."
"From Doug Shipman back when we started that Semper Fi Fishing and Drinking Club of ours. I guess it was our junior year in college — during the summer, I mean, when we were all back here."
"How many did he give out?"
"Let's see. There were four of us. But what's so interesting about that gosh-darn old lure, anyway? I even forget I have it most of the time."
"Tell me about the others who got them."
He looked at her, frowning. "You sure you feel all right, Anna?"
"I feel fine, Trace. You have a lure and Doug Shipman has a lure — and who are the two others?"
"Uh, Bob Wethcoat. For one."
"Where is he?"
"Los Angeles. Stocks and bonds."
"Was he here last month?"
"Why, no, Bob hasn't been back here for years."
"Who had the fourth lure?"
"Jimmy Daly."
"And where's he?"
"Dead. Influenza. Remember back in '94? Poor kid."
"So you and Doug are the only two with these lures?"
"Far as I know. I sure wish you'd tell me what you're being so mysterious about."
"How about some hot cocoa?"
"Boy, that sounds great. But I don't mean to put you to any trouble."
"No trouble at all."
"Say, how come you're smiling so much, anyway?"
"Scientific detection."
"Huh?"
"Scientific detection."
"Oh, Lord."
"What?"
"I set you off again. You talk about scientific detection almost as much as I talk about Cedar Rapids."
And then they were both silent and knew that they would have to talk about it now. Not even the things she'd learned about the case tonight could misdirect her attention anymore.
She had to face what she'd done the other night.
And the kind of girl she'd become.
"I don't think we should see each other anymore, Trace."
"God, Anna, what're you talking about?" He looked stunned, shocked.
"We shouldn't have done what we did the other night. And I don't ever want to do it again. I'm supposed to be a good Catholic."
"But that's what people do when they're in love."
"I don't want to be a whore."
"A whore? Anna, a whore! You're crazy! You're a very good girl."
"I wasn't a good girl the other night. I shouldn't have let you do that. And it was my fault as much as yours."
"But I love you and you love me, Anna. That makes it all right, loving each other, I mean."
He came to her suddenly on the divan and tried to put his arms around her but she gently pushed him away.
"All I want to do is kiss you, Anna."
"But then you know what'll happen, Trace – what happened the other night."
It was all so confusing. She had enjoyed the other night so much for that wonderful blinding moment – but ever since, there had been this burden of guilt and shame. When she walked down the street, she imagined that people stared at her disapprovingly, as if they could see what she'd done, see into her very heart and soul. Harlot.
"It wasn't a home run, Anna."
"It wasn't what?"
"A home run. That's what th
e fellas call it when – well, when a guy and a gal do the ultimate thing. What we did, well, it wasn't anywhere near a home run."
"It wasn't?"
"No, it wasn't even third base."
"I don't know what that means."
"It's baseball terms, Anna, that's all. First base is a kiss and second base is here," (he pointed to her breasts) "and third base is here," (he pointed vaguely in the direction of her middle) "and a home run is—"
"I see what a home run is. You don't have to say it."
"So all we did was second base. That was all."
Because she was twenty-one years old and because her job forced her to traffic with some very scuzzy lowlifes, some people just automatically assumed that Anna was this really modern type of girl.
But she wasn't.
Not at all.
It had always been Anna's intention to be an absolute virgin on her wedding night.
Oh, a few frivolous kisses with a few frivolous beaux now and then, that was all right.
But not anything else.
"I just don't think we should see each other anymore, Trace."
"Oh God, Anna, don't say that. Please don't. You don't know how that makes me feel. All I'm saying is that if we do things just second base and then maybe third base someday, Anna well, it's our way of proving that we love each other."
But Anna was not persuaded.
"You really do need to go now, Trace. Please."
Trace left.
Chapter 10
Not even the moonlight lent the settlement much beauty. A jumbled collection of ancient mobile homes and shabby little houses, the place spoke of a poverty few white people could understand. The casino's profits hadn't gotten to this section yet.
As Cindy drove slowly through the narrow streets, I saw crumbling cars, rusted lawn furniture and a myriad of windows held together with myriad pieces of tape.
A tiny, dark mobile home next to the creek was where she finally stopped. "Here."