The Mortal Groove (21 page)

Mouse, who was lying on Jane's bed, lifted his head and barked at the door.

“Speaking of eating,” said Cordelia, taking out her pocketbook, “I think our pizza delivery is here. That was a nice segue, didn't you think?”

“Very smooth,” said Jane.

Cordelia paid the delivery guy in cash. She was about to come back into the motel room when her attention was drawn outside.

“Something wrong?” asked Jane, sitting up.

Cordelia stood with the door open another few seconds, then ducked her head and came back inside. She locked the door behind her, then rushed around snapping off all the lights.

“What's going on?” said Jane. She felt Cordelia plunk down next to her in the darkness.

“Remember that truck we saw outside Melanie's apartment? It was brown and white with a topper on the back.”

“Yeah.”

“It's parked out there, just a few spaces down from us.”

Jane's immediate response was to dismiss it. “There have to be lots of trucks like that, Cordelia.”

“But this one is
exact.
Rust across the hood. Chevy insignia on that wide front grill. It's even got Minnesota plates, and those big-ass tires that make it sit up real high. You remember? I'll bet you anything it's Larry Wilton's truck. Maybe he even followed us down here.”

“Jesus,” said Jane under her breath, her eyes drawn to the open window. One similarity might mean nothing. But this did seem like a lot.

“What should we do?” whispered Cordelia.

“I doubt he knows we're here.”

“Unless he saw us.”

“Well, let's hope he didn't. In this instance, getting the hell out of Dodge is probably the better part of valor.”

“My feelings exactly.”

They repacked their suitcases by flashlight and carried them out to the trunk. “I'll get Mouse,” whispered Jane. “You grab the pizza.”

“We're headed home, right?” She glanced at the light in the window of Room 14, Larry's room.

“Nope. Not yet. We'll spend the night in Conner's Mills.”

“Oh, goodie. Why can't we just leave?”

“Remember why we're doing this?”

“For Melanie and your father. But Melanie won't be attracted to me anymore if I get my head blown off. I think having a head is, well, sort of a minimum requirement for a committed relationship, don't you?”

“One more day and night should do it, and then we're out of here.”

“Unless Lethal Larry finds us first.”

“I know it may not seem like a good omen,” said Jane, buckling her seat belt, “but knowing he's down here sniffing around makes me realize we're on to something important.”

Cordelia backed the car slowly out of the parking space. She rolled to the edge of the lot, looked both ways down the silent highway, then let out a whoop, pressed the pedal to the metal, and sped off.

 

 

A
fter checking in to the Trail's End Motor Court in Conner's Mills, Jane and Cordelia attempted to wind down by staying up late, watching an old Charlie Chan movie, and eating their cold Bjorn's Special, an extralarge potato sausage, lingonberry, and Havarti pizza. The new motel believed in televisions, but no refrigerators. The logic behind these decisions would forever remain a mystery.

Jane was up the next morning by ten. By ten thirty, she and Mouse had walked the length of the town's business district and had checked out all the potential eateries. It was slim pickings.

The day was overcast, with a stiff wind blowing leaves across the road. Waldo and Conner's Mills were approximately the same size, but the two small towns felt surprisingly different. While Waldo's business district was spread out and appeared decades newer, Conner's Mills's main street ran along both sides of two blocks. It looked like the town had hit its zenith in the
twenties and thirties and had been on the downslide ever since. Weeds sprung up from cracks in the sidewalk and many of the windows appeared to be held together by duct tape. It felt like the town was, if not dying, then in serious decay.

Finding a bench outside the barber shop, Jane sat down to make a couple phone calls. She hadn't been able to reach Nolan last night, but this morning he answered on the first ring.

“It's me,” she said, crossing her legs to get more comfortable on the stiff wood slats.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice rumbling across the line. “Glad we finally connected. I talked to your brother last night. He filled me in on the entire story.”

“Think you can help him?”

“I told him I'd do whatever I could.”

“He hasn't got much money.”

“Not a problem. You can always work off the debt.”

“Oh, that's how we're going to play it.”

“You're a natural PI, Jane.”

“I'm a natural restaurateur.”

“Who should come to work for me. How many times do I have to tell you, I'll teach you everything I know. You're wasting your talents in the restaurant business.”

He knew Jane had always been pulled in that direction and liked to apply pressure whenever the moment seemed right.

“You have any connections in New Jersey?” asked Jane.

“You're changing the subject.”

“For the moment, yes.”

“Okay, yeah, I do have some connections. Like I told Peter, I'll get back to you when I know something. It may take a while. Or I may hit a dead end. No promises.”

“Anything you can do to help him—”

“Yeah, I hear you. He's very determined to find that kid. I never pass judgments on other men's crusades. Fie said he'd be gone for a week or so with your father's campaign, but it would be a big help if I could get my hands on a picture of his wife when she was Margaret's age. The sooner the better. Since Peter can't get it to me, he thought you might have something.”

Jane had to think. All her family albums were in her study at home. But she was pretty sure she didn't have any of Sigrid when she was a child. “Wait. Peter made a big deal out of Siggy's last birthday. Had a party at their apartment for about thirty people. He sent out these funny invitations with a picture of Sigrid as a young kid on the front. It's not the best-quality photo, but it's something.”

“When can I come get it?”

“Well, that's kind of a problem. I'm down in Iowa at the moment.”

“What the hell are you doing in Iowa?”

“Long story.”

“I'll bet.”

“Listen, the card is in my study. I think I stuffed it in a folder labeled ‘Family.' It's in the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk.”

“How do I get in?”

“There's a neighbor—Evelyn Bratrude—who lives directly across the street. White house with dark green trim. She's got a key. I'll call and tell her you'll be coining by.”

“Perfect. What are you doing in Iowa, Jane?”

“Just a little vacation.”

“Your nose is growing.”

“Probably. Thanks, kiddo. I owe you big-time.”

“And I won't forget it. I'll be in touch.”

After hanging up, Jane phoned Evelyn and left her a message. Her last call was to Kenzie.

“Hey, babe. It's me.”

“I'm so glad you called, Lawless. I'm really missing you this morning. I hate this long-distance crap.”

“I'll be there soon.”

“I'm glad the jacket fits.”

“Like a glove. Hey, I've been thinking about the kind of food we should serve at the party. We can either be really casual, grill burgers, brats, chicken, that sort of thing. Beans, potato salad, corn on the cob, apple pies. Homemade sangria. Or, we could do something a little more elegant. Like, say, an appetizer buffet. Champagne. Lots of spring flowers on the buffet table.”

“They both sound great. I'll let you choose, okay?”

“Fine with me. Look, I'm sorry, but I can't talk long this morning. Cordelia and I are just about to leave. But I'll call you later.”

“I'll be gone late tonight. And tomorrow I'm going antiquing with some friends.”

“No problem. I'll talk to you soon. I miss you.”

“I can't wait until you come.”

“Me either. Bye, sweetheart.”

Jane sat for a moment watching a few cars pass, then got up and walked across the street. She tied Mouse up outside a bakery. The one thing Conner's Mills had going for it that Waldo didn't was Mona's Bake Shoppe. Jane bought a half dozen pastries and two cups of coffee.

When she got back to the motel, Cordelia was, of course, still asleep, but the smell of coffee seemed to rouse her.

“I had bad dreams,” she said, turning on her back and groaning. “I woke a few minutes ago and thought I'd been transformed into a large Chinese water beetle.”

“You're mixing up Charlie Chan with Kafka,” said Jane, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“I suppose, or it was Bjorn's Special.” One skeptical eye peered at the interior of the room. The other one remained closed. “Life doesn't get any more surreal than waking up in the Trail's End Motor Court in Conner's Mills, Iowa.” She hoisted herself up, stuffed another pillow behind her back. “Say, what time is it?”

“A little after eleven.”

“No way.” She grabbed her cell phone and punched in some numbers. After talking to Melanie's mom and getting the morning update, she closed the phone and leaned back. “She's about the same.”

“Wish it was better news,” said Jane.

“Yeah.” She nodded at the sack.

“I've got two bear claws, two slices of banana loaf, and two raised glazed.” Jane tossed it to her. “All fresh from the oven.”

“And coffee, yes?”

“Black and strong.”

“What's on today's itinerary?”

“I called Alf Trotter on the way back from the bakery. He's agreed to meet with us this afternoon. Didn't get an answer at Sue's brother's place, so I tried her mother's. From what Melanie said in her notes, I would imagine she's in her late eighties. Anyway, she was a little wary, but she finally agreed to let us come by tomorrow morning, as long as we promise not to stay long. After we're done talking to her, I figure we'll head back to the cities.”

“Splendid.”

“I'm also hoping we can talk to the guy who owns Big Chick's Lounge in Waldo, the one where everyone got drunk the night
of the murder. Melanie's notes said the same guy has owned it since the midsixties, but according to what I found out this morning, his son runs it now. Name's Bob Nelson. Thought we'd stop by there this evening.”

“What about Lethal Larry Wilton?”

“Assuming we're right and he's the guy who owns the Silverado, we'll just have to keep our eyes peeled for the truck. The biggest problem I see is that we don't know what he looks like. Since we've got some time before we talk to Trotter, I suggest we find you a baseball cap to cover your hair. You're like a walking neon sign. He could pick you out of a crowd a hundred yards away.”

Cordelia selected a bear claw, sniffed it, and then took a bite. “Ambrosia! As I see it, Janey, there's only one problem with your hat suggestion. Cordelia Thorn does not wear baseball caps. It's not part of my idiom.”

“Look, I don't care if you cover your head with a doily. Before we go back to Waldo, the hair issue
will
be handled.”

 

Conner's Mills wasn't exactly a hat-shopping paradise. After a couple hours of mad searching, they found two hats that Cordelia said she might be willing to wear. One was a battered green St. Patrick's Day felt derby. It covered her hair, all right, but it didn't do much to mute her odd appearance. The other was a child's white yacht hat with gold braids and a black brim. They found it at a garage sale. It didn't quite cover all her hair, but by then, Jane was losing patience.

“just buy it,” she said. “It's better than nothing.”

Cordelia tried to rub a stain out of the cloth, then put it back on. “It's me, isn't it.?”

“Absolutely.”

“But it squishes my head.”

Jane yanked it off and threw it back on the table. “Come on. You can stay in the car with the top up and the tinted windows to protect you from prying eyes. We'll drive back to Waldo and I'll go get you something from the Ben Franklin store. They're bound to have a better selection than this.”

Forty-five minutes later, Jane came out of the store waving a sack. She'd bought three hats. If Cordelia didn't like any of them, she could either shave her head or stay at the motel for the duration. Presented with those two options, Jane figured she'd go for at least one of them.

“I'll close my eyes,” said Cordelia. “Surprise me.”

Jane handed her a pith helmut. She had to give Cordelia the opportunity to say no—and this was the one she was hoping she'd say no to.

Cordelia studied it for a moment, then handed it back and said, “One word.
Yawn.
I am
so over
pith helmets.”