Mudlark (20 page)

Jay said, "In this case, it'll be the McKays versus Donald Hagen and company. I don't envy Dale, trying to
find out the truth with witnesses stonewalling all over the place."

Clara turned to me. "It was a fine dinner, Lark, and the living room looks great with a fire going."

I shifted the coffee pot to my left hand and shook hands. Though my feelings were ambivalent, I said I
was glad she had come.

By the time we saw Clara off it was almost ten. Freddy was yawning, and Darla looked as if her pain
pills had lost their effectiveness.

Bonnie was gathering coffee cups. She set Darla's on the tray. "You ought to be in bed."

"I'm not a child."

Tom said, "I'll drive you home, brat."

Bonnie stacked Freddy's cup on Darla's. "You can use my Escort while I help Lark clean up, Tom. No
need to get the pickup. Just a sec. I'll dig out my keys."

"I can drive her," Freddy protested.

"Not with that medication in you." Jay retrieved Bob's coffee cup from the floor by the fainting couch. It
was half full.

"Aw, Jay."

"He's right, Freddy." Darla rose and gave him a peck on the cheek, wonder of wonders. "I'll call you in
the morning."

Freddy grumbled but raised no further objections. Jay headed straight for the telephone. He left a
message for Dale.

We had cleared away the worst of the debris, Jay and Bonnie were drying wine glasses, and I was
transferring salmon to a storage container by the time Tom returned.

He looked beat. "Where's Freddy?"

I closed the refrigerator. "He went to bed."

"I ought to thank him decently."

"Tomorrow." Jay set the last wine glass in the cupboard. "Want a brandy?"

Tom groaned. "An Alka-Seltzer would be more my speed."

"Well, have a chair."

"I was thinking about turning in."

"Soon," Jay said, "but I need answers to a couple of questions first."

Tom sat on one of the kitchen chairs. "No, I was not holding out on you. I did not know about Clara's
bar-room gossip. I don't hang out at the Blue Oyster."

"That was one of the questions."

He leaned his head against the high chair back, eyes closed. "What else?"

"Did you see the McKay Mercedes the night of the murder?"

"Annie's car? No."

"What does Bob drive?"

"A Blazer, usually."

"I don't suppose you saw it cruising the neighborhood?"

"No, I was writing." He opened one eye. "You could ask Ruth Adams. Or those summer people across the
street."

"Or Matt," I added. "Bob might have used the Shoalwater road."

"I'll talk to Matt and Ruth." Jay joined Tom in the nook.

I began to set up the coffee maker for morning. Bonnie wiped counters around me.

I said, "You called Bob 'colonel,' Tom. Out by the coat rack. What was that about?"

"Ancient history. I owed him a jab."

Bonnie went in to the nook, and I followed. "I minored in ancient history," she said.

Tom looked rather flushed. "It's a long story and doesn't bear on anything important."

I took a seat. "Annie said you weren't being fair."

"I wasn't. Bob is four years older than I am. He was finishing up a business degree at the UW the year
Annie and I graduated from high school. His grades were lousy, so that meant his student deferment would run out,
and he'd done ROTC. He was going to be commissioned a second lieutenant in the army."

Jay said, "Nineteen sixty-eight?"

"Sixty-seven." Tom shifted in his chair. "The half-life of second lieutenants was about a month at that
point in the war, though he might've been sent to Germany or Korea. I was conscious of his little problem because I
didn't have a student deferment. I started working on the boats as soon as I graduated, and I wasn't planning on
going to college. So I decided to see if I could get a transfer to the National Guard when I was called up. I got my
draft notice at the end of August. Right about this time of year."

"What happened?" Bonnie was fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, but her eyes were on
Tom.

"Well, I wrote a really heart-rending plea to the effect that here I was an orphan child and the sole
support of my aging grandparents. There was no truth in it, and my grandfather hit the ceiling when he heard what
I'd done. He didn't raise me to be a goddamn draft dodger, etc. The local draft board agreed. I went off to Fort Lewis
for basic about the time the
Gazette
announced that Second Lieutenant Robert McKay had been posted to
the Washington National Guard."

"That's not right!" I admit I'm naive about government.

Jay said, "String-pulling was pretty common."

"And not popular. One of Darla's uncles was killed in Nam. I had one tour. I spent enough time in
combat to find out that the Great Spirit did not intend me to be a warrior."

"Doesn't take long." Jay was a combat medic.

Tom grimaced. "After Tet, I did nine and a half months typing letters and requisition orders for the
battalion. I typed fast. I was also converted to the idea of higher education."

I said, "What about Bob McKay?"

Tom shrugged. "He stayed with the Guard, made patriotic appearances at Fourth of July picnics. By the
time the Gulf War rolled around he was a company commander. You will recall that units of the Washington
National Guard were activated and shipped to Saudi Arabia. Bob got sick."

"A chicken colonel," Bonnie muttered.

Tom grinned. "Now, now. That was the kind of irresponsible talk that circulated on the docks. Myself, I
think it's a damned good thing Bob stayed at home. He did have an operation."

"Elective surgery?" I muttered.

Jay said, "You're right. It's not relevant, but it is entertaining. I have some other questions, Tom, but
they'll keep. Has Darla been able to come up with an ID on the driver of that pickup?"

Tom got up, yawning. "She's a funny kid. I think she knows something. She's talking like a lawyer,
though. Alleged this and alleged that. She won't name names unless she's sure of herself."

"Unlike Clara," Jay said.

"I think Clara's terrific," Bonnie announced. "G'night, everybody. It was a spectacular evening,
Lark."

"In spite of Bob McKay?"

She grinned. "
Because
of Bob McKay."

Tuesday morning I slept in until almost eight. When I stumbled down to the kitchen, Jay was up,
dressed, and on the phone. He had made coffee.

I poured a cup and sat in the nook, sipping and staring vaguely in the direction of the Cramers' mobile
home. The sky was overcast, but it was not raining. The wind had died. Jay was talking to Dale, that much I
registered without taking in specific content, and the conversation had been going on for a while. My coffee had
cooled enough for me to work up to a real swallow before Jay hung up.

"Think you'll recover?" He retrieved his academic-tweed jacket from the back of his chair, shrugged
into it, and smiled at me.

I gave a dignified nod. I had drunk one and a half glasses of wine and taken two sips of liqueur the
previous evening, but I felt hung over. "Any news?"

He hesitated. "About the murder? Nothing definite yet. They'll be getting more of the technical data in,
now that the holiday's over."

Technical data. I digested that. "Do you have a meeting?"

"Nine o'clock. Bye." He gave me a peck on the cheek and bolted out the door. After another, longer
swallow of coffee, I heard the engine of his Accord starting and the crunch of its tires as he backed down the
driveway.

Classes at the college were not scheduled to begin for another two weeks, an odd legacy of the
agricultural past, but the faculty assembled for meetings, class preparation, and academic advising. Jay was
supposed to present his law enforcement program to them that week. The program was on the books, but there
was resistance to it from the humanities and social sciences. The professors didn't mind training nurses and
accountants, but they weren't eager to educate police officers. That seemed strange to me. I thought educated cops
were less likely to bash heads at random than uneducated cops.

The thought of head-bashing reminded me of Clara Klein's unexpected jab at Jay. I brooded about the
painter's effect on my dinner party. In addition to giving my living room a classier image than I could have
contrived on my own, she had deflected Annie. I hoped I was suitably grateful, but I felt used.

Clara had showed up because she wanted to retail her gossip to receptive ears. Fine. Jay had passed the
word to Dale about Bob's date with Cleo. But why had Clara needed an audience? Why not just tell Jay in private?
And why insult his profession?

I finished off my cold coffee and went for another cup. There was a light on in Matt's kitchen. I meant to
take him some of the cold salmon for dinner and a slice of tart. I yawned and sipped, and decided to catch him
later.

"Morning." Tom poked his head in.

"You look like leftovers zapped in the microwave."

He groaned. "Coffee?"

I got out a mug and poured.

"Thanks. I slept like a log for two hours last night, then woke up and remembered the novel. Naturally I
had to read it." Like me, he was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and he did look underslept. He took a sip and
grimaced at the sting of hot liquid. "I feel hung over."

"Me, too. I wonder why. Bob McKay is probably frisking around like a week-old colt."

"There is no justice."

I went back to the nook and sat. "How is it?"

He followed. "The novel? Awful. Dire. Bulwer-Lytton out of Danielle Steele. With touches of James
Fenimore Cooper."

"Horrors."

He gave me a wry grin over the rim of his mug. "All writers go through a stage when they think what
they've written is dreck. It passes. Tomorrow I'll be a genius again. At 2:00 a.m., though, I was reading the book
through Annie McKay's eyes."

"I thought this one wasn't satire."

"It's not. It's a look at the thirties and forties, my grandparents' era. I'm having trouble with the
language."

"Can't you just listen for your grandfather's voice?"

He sipped, silent. Then he said, "That's shrewd of you. I listen, but I keep hearing my mother making
wise-cracks. She and Grandpa used to snipe at each other." He gave an amused snort. "My mother's voice and
Annie's eyes. I sound like some kind of New Age channeler."

"I imagine writing a novel or a play must be a little schizophrenic--voices in your head."

"Yeah... Jesus, is it nine already?"

"Five of."

He shot to his feet and made for the back door. "I'm supposed to be at the house. The construction crew
is set to show up any minute now."

"See you later," I called after him.

I thought about breakfast and thought not. We had straightened up the obvious mess the night before,
so I didn't need to do much to the house but vacuum. Vacuuming was not my favorite activity. There was laundry.
Also not fun. I went upstairs and tidied the bed.

Freddy was still asleep, so I couldn't bug him about the mess in the spare bedroom where he'd
assembled the computer. I didn't want to bug Freddy anyway. I felt restless, pointless, impatient with nothing to be
impatient about. I didn't want to strip wallpaper, but I wanted to do something.

I stood for a while by the doors to the balcony, looking out at the ocean. Bonnie's house was dark,
drapes drawn. As I watched, Matt backed out of his driveway and turned his old Pontiac toward town. I wondered
how Lottie was getting along. I could visit her. Matt had said she was out of intensive care. I could take her flowers,
some of Tom's flowers. He wouldn't mind.

Feeling more cheerful, I pulled a jacket over my sweats, chose a nice vase, found a pair of shears, and
went out to the Toyota. I drove down the block and pulled over onto the grassy shoulder by Ruth's mobile
home.

She was standing in the doorway talking to a heavy-set man in a plaid shirt and jeans. I gave her a wave
and crossed to Tom's driveway where a white van with Kemmel Construction lettered on the driver's door sat
behind Tom's pickup. There were noises from the house. Tom taking his crew on an inspection tour, probably. I
skirted the vegetable garden, which was edged with marigolds to discourage bugs. The asters and zinnias flared in
brilliant color along the east wall of the garage. I snipped a nice variety, trickled water into the vase from Tom's
hose, and started back toward my car.

Ruth's door slammed and a pickup roared to life in her short driveway. A large pickup with an electric
blue bug shield. I gaped at it as it backed around into the east-bound lane and rumbled off. Mud obscured the
license plate. There was a gun rack.

I watched the pickup mount the crest and disappear over the ridge. Was it the same vehicle? I couldn't
be sure. My pulse beat out a tattoo. I set the flowers on the floor behind the front seat, wedged the vase in with my
squidgy purse, and got into the car, meaning to give chase. Then I hesitated.

I hadn't really looked at the man in the plaid shirt. For that matter, I hadn't had a clear look at the driver
of the side-swiping pickup either. I fastened my seat belt with shaking fingers. Ruth's logger son? I knew ought to
knock on her door, ask her who the man was, but I didn't want to. I didn't want the villain to be Ruth's son.

I drove to town on Highway 101, eyes peeled for pickups, nerves jangling. I did not like my
thoughts.

I was too early for visiting hours, though Matt had been allowed to go on up. I stood in the lobby of the
hospital, irresolute, then spotted the pay phones. I went to the first and dialed the college. Jay was still in his
meeting. If I called Dale Nelson...if I didn't call Dale...if...if...if... I carried my vase back to the car and drove to the
mall. I bought a copy of the
Oregonian
and read it over a cup of coffee at the bakery. The murder of Cleo
Hagen was definitely buried in the back pages. I saw no sign of the short reporter's color story, and I couldn't focus
on world news. My mind kept returning to the pickup. There was a phone outside the bakery. I tried Jay again
without result and gave up. Time to visit Lottie.