Wicked Fix (37 page)

difficulty I kept a straight face as she went on.

"We belong to the country club. And he's decided

to go into politics." She looked up blearily. "All of it is

very important to him. You see, he came from a very

poor family, and ..."

Oh, please; not another old story. For a minute

there I was tempted just to bonk her over the head with

the Cutty bottle.

Instead I sat down again. "So I guess a scandal,

even an old one, could hurt him in a lot of ways. Financially

too, maybe."

She snorted, not prettily. "Especially an old one.

God, his opponents could go to town on me. Old dirt's

the hardest to clean up. As for money, well, you know

what they say: it's who you know that counts. And if

people don't want to know you anymore ..."

She trailed off, then rallied with an effort. "One

thing about Eastport, it doesn't matter how much

money you have. It's how you act that people judge

you on, here. But boy, do they ever."

A hideous gust of wind shook the building; the

lights dimmed and the draperies shivered as the windows

thought about breaking, decided against it.

Thick, water-resistant pelt or not, I hoped Willow's

creature-feature husband was tucked snugly into the

Waco Diner or at La Sardina having a beer.

"What about Reuben?" I asked. "I heard you were

with him the night he set fire to Uncle Deckie Cobb's

shack."

She looked up, her mascara-smeared eyes surprised.

It didn't seem like an act. "No. I was following

him. I was not with ... that was Mike Carpentier. I

was following them."

Another rush of wind roared. The lights flickered.

We held our breaths until the power came on steadily

again. The kids clicked the remote control through the

channels.

"Why were you following them?" I glanced at El

lie, whose gaze remained studiously fixed on the television

screen. But I could tell she was listening.

Willow looked impatient. "We--Mike, Paddy Far

rell, and I--all lived within sight of one another, you

see. On Beech Street. And Reuben used to climb the

trellis into Mike's bedroom window at night. Stay

there, sometimes for hours."

I'd heard of Beech Street, didn't think I'd been on

it. It was in a ramshackle part of town, I knew that

much. But twenty years ago, probably it hadn't been

run-down. "When Mike was about twelve, and Reuben

was--"

"Right. Nineteen or so. God, it was weird." She

grimaced, remembering. "He used to get these little animals

and bring them to Mike. Mikey, we called him

back then. A bird in a cage one time, and another time

I think a puppy. How Mike explained those to his

folks, I don't know." She sat up straighter, shook off

the recollection.

"But you were supposed to be his girlfriend, right?

I mean, sort of, anyway? So did you ask him about

that? Or ask Mike?"

Willow nodded reluctantly. "Sort of his girlfriend.

He was the bad boy, I was the bad girl: perfect fit,

right? And sure, I thought I would ask him about it.

Sometime when I really wanted a split lip, or a black

eye."

She frowned impatiently. "I wouldn't have asked

Mikey anything like that, though. He was just a little

kid."

Willow finished her coffee, looked around for

more. When I didn't get up immediately, she went and

got it herself, putting the pot and a bowl of creamers

and sugar packets on the table.

Not for the first time, I thought about money and

manners: that sometimes when people forget they've

got it, they remember how to behave. But it's a hard

thing to forget for some people, especially ones like

Willow who've had to try so hard to get it.

And like you, a small voice whispered unpleasantly

in my head. I banished it, concentrating on what Willow

was saying.

"He would do that, though," she went on. "Take a

liking to one of the kids, make a pet of them. Or a

dislike, and ..."

Make a mess of them, I wanted to say, thinking

about Boxy Thorogood. But she was going on pretty

steadily and I didn't want to interrupt her.

"Anyway, that night they both climbed out of

Mikey's window again, and that was different. I was

curious so I followed them."

She paused, her forehead furrowing. "Uncle

Deckie had a shack at the edge of town. Boards, tar

paper. They went inside. Then they came out, Reuben

kind of giggling the way he did and Mikey looking

... I don't know. Strange. Like maybe he was in

shock or something."

Willow looked over to make sure her kids weren't

listening. Ellie's head tipped bemusedly at the TV; the

kids' faces were blankly avid.

Willow sighed. "And then the place just sort

of ... erupted. A ball of flames. Deckie, screaming

inside. He screamed for a long time. And Reuben just

stood there. Giggling."

"Did you try to get help? Or tell anyone, afterwards?"

Her face closed abruptly. "Someone must have

seen, because the fire sirens went off almost right away.

After that I ran. But not," she added, "until after Mike

Carpentier saw me."

She shivered, as if trying to shake off the memory.

"He got home afterwards somehow, so hardly anyone

else ever knew he was there but me. But if looks could

kill, when he saw that I knew he was there that night,

I'd have been dead on the spot."

"And neither one of you ever told anyone officially

that Reuben did it."

Her laugh was scornful. "You still don't really believe

it, do you? How bad he was. But that's because

you weren't a part of it. You didn't tell on Reuben

Tate, see. You just ... didn't."

The kids were getting restless, saying there was

nothing to watch on TV. I thought if the wind kept up

they'd be watching a dark screen soon; the lights flickered

again, warningly.

I got up. "So that put the nail in your coffin, reputation-wise,"

I guessed. "Who was it put the story

around that you were there with him? Implying you

were in on it, instead of Mike?"

She nodded, began clearing up the coffee things. "I

don't know. But I couldn't really prove otherwise,

could I? So I didn't bother denying it. I just got out of

town as soon as I graduated, swore I'd never come

back. And do I ever wish I hadn't."

Another gust, more ferocious than any before, hit

the motel and made the structure shudder. The windows

thrummed as we all waited to find out whether

they were going to burst in at us, Willow in the act of

rinsing the coffeemaker's basket at the kitchenette sink.

"What did Weasel Bodine have to do with any of

it?" I asked.

Willow looked surprised. "Nothing," she said.

"Who's he?"

The lights went out.

The power was off for only a few pitch-

black instants, but when it came on again

Willow's face had firmed up determinedly;

she began making the subtle, ushering movements

of the practiced hostess, informing us that the

party was over.

"Did you see Reuben before he died?" I asked as

she handed me my rain slicker. "Did he come around,

making a pest of himself?"

"Oh, sure. Wanted money. And he'd done his

homework. Reuben always did. Always knew," she finished,

"how he could hurt you."

She gave me my rain hat. Ellie got up from in front

of the television and said goodbye to the kids.

"Said he'd rake up all the old gossip," Willow

went on. "I gave him," she added a little shamefacedly,

"fifty dollars to go away. Do you think the police will

keep us here for very long?"

"I don't know," I began, and then the door flung

open, wind-driven rain sheeting past the big man himself:

Willow's husband. He wore a bomber jacket,

wide-wale corduroys, and running shoes, all drenched;

shoving the door closed, he frowned in displeasure,

and not only at being wet.

Willow hastened to introduce us as two old East

port chums, a story he accepted scowlingly but without

questions; it was just possible, I thought, that his development

level was preverbal.

Although that of course would have ruled out aspirations

to politics, so probably he was able to pronounce

words, if not necessarily to understand all of

them. Also it seemed to me that Willow was a little

afraid of him, or why not tell him the truth about why

we'd come?

"Good t'meet 'cha," he managed finally, not offering

a hand or the pretense of a smile.

"Likewise," I replied, noting again the big, square

head and blocky neck, the meaty, plug-ugly cast of his

face.

Businessman, my aunt Fanny. This guy was a thug.

It was the pinkie ring on his right hand that finally

nailed it for me: a thick, vulgar object of gleaming

gold, dripping with diamonds, about as subtle and

tasteful as a set of brass knuckles.

I didn't get a look at the left hand, to see if there

was any mark on it. He kept it stuffed in his jacket

pocket, probably to keep it from bumping along on the

ground when he shambled.

Meanwhile, there was one final thing I wanted to

make sure of, while I still had the chance.

"Willow," I said, "you must meet Victor, my husband,

sometime. Even though we're divorced we're on

such good terms and I know you'd enjoy hearing

about ..."

This, you see, is the trouble with very fast improv:

you run out of logic long before you run out of breath.

All I really wanted was to confirm that she'd never

been in Victor's house. Which I felt fairly sure she

could not have been, but ...

"Actually," she said, "I have. Met him, that is. Jeremy,"

she waved at the blond boy in front of the TV,

"fell off a bike the first day we were here. Hit his head

hard, and someone said go see Dr. Tiptree. So we went,

and he was so kind and reassuring to us. Wasn't he,

dear?" she added to her husband.

"Mmmph," he agreed, pouring himself a Cutty.

Which was when I finished pulling on my rain stuff