Mudlark (19 page)

Bonnie laughed. "I read
Honey in the Horn
in a Literature of the West course--great satire."

"Yes, it is. It's still in print after fifty some years too."

Jay said, "And it's probably still banned from the town's library."

Tom gave him a rueful smile.

Annie got the point. "I am not a book-burner."

Tom's smile faded. "I didn't think you were, Annie, but you have to allow me my version of our
wonderful high school experience."

I said, "I expect the world is divided into people who loved high school and people who hated it. Jay
slept through his."

Jay said virtuously, "I was driving a pizza wagon nights."

"I made the rally squad," Bonnie volunteered. "It seemed like the acme of my existence for at least five
years afterward. College was terribly deflating."

"Hey," Freddy said from the archway. "Hey, Tom, I did it!" He was carrying a stack of paper.

Tom stood up. "You mean you got it working?"

"Piece of cake. The hard disk's sealed, of course, but I was worried about a short in the motherboard.
It's okay, though." Satisfaction had ruffled Freddy's red hair.

Darla was standing beside him, glowing like a full moon. "He saved your novel, Tom!"

"Christ, don't tell me there's going to be another one," Annie said.

Fortunately for Freddy's self-esteem, Annie spoke half under her breath. I don't think he heard
her.

Tom went over to him at once and took the printout. "You're a miracle-worker, Freddy. I'd slap you on
the back but I don't think I ought to. How'd you do it?" The right response.

Jay and Bonnie clustered around Freddy and Darla, but I spared a glance at the two women before I
joined the throng. Clara was rocking gently and smiling. Annie looked frozen.

I gave Freddy a light pat he probably didn't notice. He was busy laying on the technical explanations.
Darla watched him with shining eyes. Hero worship. Very promising.

I went back and sat on the couch, trying to think of some way I could soothe Annie without
dishonesty.

Clara gave a decisive rock. "I'm so relieved, Lark. Tom has been sweating that book. To lose it after all
that work--"

Annie said, "We really should go."

I couldn't very well say don't rush off. I cleared my throat. "Would you like another cup of coffee?"

"No, I would not." She started to rise.

Clara said, "Sit down, Annie, and don't make an ass of yourself. I can see why
Small Victories
upsets you, but the last thing you ought to do is raise a ruckus."

Annie made a noise that was half gasp, half laugh, and sank back onto the couch.

"That novel is going to make a very large splash. You might as well get used to the idea. Think up a way
of damning it with faint praise, if you have to, but don't let anyone see that Tom got your goat. Least of all
Tom."

"But it's not accurate."

Clara sighed. "So it doesn't reflect your feelings. Why should it? Tom has already established himself as
a writer of the first rank. Even if he's lying through his hat, everyone's going to praise the book for its honesty. You
should be telling your subscribers how clever he is."

"Why do you care?" Tears stood in Annie's eyes.

"I care about Tom," Clara said bluntly. "I'm also fond of the peninsula, though, and I hate feuds. In spite
of your silly prejudices, you do a lot of good work for the community, and you run a good newspaper. You can't
derail Tom's success. He's earned it. But you can take advantage of it. Run a rave review."

Annie sniffed, but she was looking thoughtful.

"Magnanimity," said Clara, whipping out a cigarette and lighting it, "is never a mistake."

"
Is
it a good book?"

"Well, if you haven't read it all the way through, you certainly ought to. What if it does win the Pulitzer
Prize?"

Annie's eyes narrowed.

"The first one took the Western Book Award," I murmured. "Did you review it?"

Annie shook her head.

"Home town boy makes good, huh?"

Annie flushed. "I didn't hear about it until it was out of print."

Clara gave an exasperated cluck. "You could have asked Tom for a copy. Last year you did a front page
story with photos on a local cookbook author. Not to mention running excerpts of Judge Claymore's boring
memoirs. Very small potatoes compared to
Starvation Hill
and
Small Victories
. Do you blame Tom for
feeling hostile? He has a normal writer's ego."

"You could interview him," I suggested.

Clara said, "That's the idea."

Annie made a face.

At that point, the others rejoined us, still chattering in computerese. Jay said, "Do we have any
champagne, Lark?"

"No, but there's a bottle of Cointreau."

"We ought to drink a toast."

I caught Bonnie's eye, and we scooted off in search of liqueur glasses.

I think Freddy enjoyed the limelight, but he had enough diffidence not to be obnoxious. All of us drank
to his achievement except Bob, who slumbered on. Annie toughed it out. I had to admire her. She even took a sip
when Bonnie toasted the new novel's success. I'm not sure Tom noticed. He carried the printout of his manuscript
off to the guest room for safekeeping.

When Annie did announce her departure, there was the small awkwardness of rousing her sodden
husband. She seemed not to know what to do. She shook his shoulder, and he mumbled something, but he didn't sit
up or even open his eyes. In the end, Jay and Tom had to take a hand. Between them, they got Bob upright. He
stumbled along obediently until they reached the front hall. Then he turned belligerent. He took a swing at Jay and
connected with the coat rack. When Tom extricated him, Bob called him a Siwash bastard.

"Oh, Bob--" Annie sounded near tears.

Tom was rather tight-lipped. "All right, Colonel. Time to move out."

Annie choked. "That's not fair--"

"No," Bob said. "Oh, no. Going to be sick."

I opened the front door and held the screen wide. "Get him outside, Jay."

This time Bob didn't resist. He staggered onto the porch under his own power and stood there
swaying.

I stayed in the doorway and let Tom, Jay, and Annie wrestle Bob out to the gleaming Mercedes. He
threw up on Matt's rosebushes.

When he was safely strapped in the car, the two men started back to the porch, and Annie went around
to open the driver's door. She stood in the rain for a moment, then turned and marched back to the porch.

She came straight to me. "I'm sorry we spoiled your dinner."

Tom said, "Dinner was fine."

She ignored him. "I should have left Bob at home. I knew he'd been drinking all afternoon."

I said, "It's okay," though it wasn't.

Her mouth trembled. "I won't apologize for anything I said, but Bob...he's been drinking this way since
last week. I don't know what to do."

Jay said, "Maybe he should see a doctor, if he doesn't drink so much ordinarily."

Annie's face set in bleak lines. "He drinks. He doesn't have enough to do. But he's been much worse the
last few days."

Tom said, "He tried to hit Jay. Has he turned violent?"

"With me?" She looked at him as if he had suggested she vote the socialist ticket. "No. Bob's a
gentleman."

Jay said patiently, "What Tom's saying and what I was trying to suggest is that you're dealing with a
sudden personality change. Sometimes there's a medical reason."

Her eyes widened. "A brain tumor?"

"Or a mild stroke. There are other possibilities."

Her mouth eased. "I hadn't thought of that. Maybe you're right. Thank you."

"It's worth a try. Is there someone to help you get him into the house when you reach home?"

She nodded. "Our son's still here--his school doesn't start for a week. We'll manage. Thanks. I am sorry."
We said good night and she left.

Freddy and Darla were giving Bonnie the low-down on word-processors. When we entered, Darla
broke off an impassioned defense of the Macintosh and said, with the righteousness of twenty-one years, "He was
really disgusting."

Freddy nodded. "Gross."

Bonnie raised her coffee cup. "I'll drink to that."

Clara rocked. "Now, children. Don't be judgmental."

Darla said with spirit, "I don't see why not. I'll bet he makes jokes about drunken Indians."

I said, "He called you a Siwash, Tom. I hesitate to ask, but what does that mean?"

Tom shrugged. "In the Chinook jargon, it was just the way the native people referred to themselves.
They called the white men Bostons."

"When white men use the term, they usually say 'dirty Siwash,'" Darla added. "In English it's a
pejorative."

Tom sat in the chair beside Bonnie. "Actually, he called me a Siwash bastard. My mother decided to
pioneer single parenthood before it was fashionable. The McKays disapproved. You will note that I didn't clean his
clock."

Jay had fetched the coffee from the dining room. "If you'd knocked him out he would have been easier
to get to the car."

Tom grinned. "True. Half a cup, thanks."

Freddy refused a refill. He was looking droopy. "I guess I don't know why having the McKays to dinner
was such a big deal."

Clara rolled her eyes. "They wield a lot of power, my innocent. The family practically owns Kayport. Not
to mention a vast Victorian gothic in the Enclave that's listed with the Historic Trust. Annie's not a bad egg. Robert
McKay is no prize, but he's usually smoother. He's a womanizer."

"No shit." Bonnie took a sip of hot coffee and set her cup down. "I put up with that kind of harassment
when I worked in an office, but I'm getting less tolerant in my old age."

Me, too.

Jay said, "A womanizer. Who, Clara?"

She contrived to look embarrassed. "He was supposed to be having a flaming affair with Cleo
Hagen."

That created a silence that might have been called pregnant. I wondered what Clara's game was. She
hadn't planned to come to the dinner, yet here she was springing revelations on us.

Jay leaned forward.

Tom frowned. "Are you sure? Bob wasn't her usual type."

"I'm not sure. I'm relaying gossip of the lowest sort. His affairs have been notorious for years,
though."

Bonnie said, "What a jerk. Why doesn't Annie divorce him?"

Clara lit a cigarette. "The McKays own the
Gazette
. I imagine she could get a decent divorce
settlement if she hired a good lawyer, but she couldn't stay on as editor of the family newspaper. She'd hate to lose
the paper."

Jay said, "Did Annie know Cleo Hagen?"

"I'm sure they met." Clara flicked an ash. "But probably not socially. Annie's very busy these days, what
with the paper and her committees and causes. She doesn't hang around cocktail lounges. Bob is at loose ends,
though. His brother took over management of McKay Construction last January. Bob does a little investing and sits
on a couple of boards, but he's basically retired. He's at the Blue Oyster almost every night. I've seen him there with
Cleo and the real estate crowd."

"Including Jim Knight?" Jay said.

I gaped.

Clara sighed. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask that. Jim and Cleo had a thing going when she first came
up here, but it didn't last long. Rumor had it that Jean was ready to leave him, but I guess they ironed out their
differences. That was, oh, sometime in the fall. Cleo took up with Bob in January or February, after he retired and
started staying at the house in the Enclave during the week. Before that, he had an office in Olympia."

Jay set the empty coffee pot on the freshly painted hearth. "What about Donald Hagen, did you see him
at the Blue Oyster?"

Clara shook her head. "I've never seen the man at all. In fact, I used to wonder if he existed."

I retrieved the pot. "He exists."

Tom said, "Any other juicy tidbits, Clara?"

"Ungrateful whelp." She stubbed out her cigarette. "Tom said you were thinking of looking into the
murder, Jay. I decided you ought to know about Bob and Cleo, but I wasn't sure how to approach the subject
credibly. Fortunately, Bob made it easy for me. I thought he might."

Jay said, "Dale Nelson will have to know."

She nodded. "Okay. He should interview Kate Dalton. She's the bartender. And the other regulars."

"He did a round of questioning there. He got nothing."

"They're a clannish bunch, and Bob is a regular."

Tom scowled. "So was Cleo."

Freddy said, "You mean that drunk did the murder?"

"Freddy!" Darla sounded genuinely alarmed. She was going to be a great lawyer. Jay was frowning at his
brother too, but Freddy had leapt to the natural conclusion.

"There's one other thing, Jay." Clara pushed herself up and the rocker thumped. "Kate said she thought
Cleo had an assignation with Bob the evening before she was killed. Cleo was gabbling about it with her drinking
buddies."

Jay had stood up when she did. He took a step toward her. "No shit?"

Tom let out a long whistle.

I clutched the empty coffee pot lest I drop it. Bonnie's eyes gleamed behind her glasses. Freddy and
Darla just looked bewildered.

Jay said, "Do you mean the evening before her body was discovered or the night before that?
Cleo Hagen was murdered around 10:00 p.m. Between eight and midnight, the M.E. said, but they
think nine or ten."

It was Clara's turn to stare. "I was assuming Cleo was killed the morning Bonnie and Lark found the
body." She looked rather frightened. "The date was for the evening before Cleo's body was found, the evening she
was killed, if I got the story straight. You ought to ask Kate."

"I will," Jay said. "Dale will, too."

"I'd better go," Clara muttered. "Before I get myself in deeper water. I don't like cops. I beg your pardon,
Jay, but I was a labor organizer in my salad days. And I taught art at San Francisco State during the sixties. I saw a
lot of heads busted." She fiddled with her handbag. "It would be less inflammatory to say I don't always trust the
law. But I thought somebody ought to look into Bob's activities. And Annie's. I don't know that there's anything to
cover up, but the McKays have the power to squelch an investigation."