Bill Pronzini: Zigzag

“I’m afraid you don’t have any choice. You were a witness to the accident.”

“I already told the cops I never seen it clear. I ain’t got nothing more to say.”

“Just the same, you’ll be subpoenaed and you’ll have to testify.”

“Ah, Christ. Why come around picking on me?”

“No one is picking on you, Mr. Orcutt,” I said. “The civil suit has already been filed and I’m just doing my job, trying to get at the truth of what happened that day.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t get it from me.”

“Just answer a few questions, all right? In your statement you said the vehicle that came down Ridgecrest barreled through the stop sign without slowing. How fast would you say the driver, David Bishop, was going?”

I thought Orcutt was going to put up more argument or else clam up on me, but he did neither. “Hell, I don’t know,” he said with a twitchy sullenness. “Fast enough to total both cars.”

“Faster than he would be if his brakes had been functioning normally?”

Shrug. “I wasn’t looking when he come down the hill. Couldn’t have seen him clear even if I had been — too many trees and it was foggy that day. Look over there when you leave; see the intersection for yourself.”

“Did Mr. Bishop make any attempt to avoid the collision with Mr. Clements’ vehicle?”

“Slid mostly sideways right into it, that’s all I remember.”

“Mostly sideways? The front bumper crushed the passenger side, breaking both of Mrs. Clements’ legs and damaging her spine. That type of impact indicates a head-on, not a broadside, collision.”

Orcutt had nothing to say to that.

I said, “If you’d been behind the wheel and your brakes went out coming downhill to an intersection at increasing speed, what would you do?”

“Huh? What’s it matter what I’d do?”

“I’d appreciate an answer to the question.”

A little silence. Then he said, “Slam it into low gear. Yank on the hand brake.”

“And then, assuming you saw another vehicle approaching on River Road?”

“Twist the goddamn wheel, if there was enough time.”

“What else?”

“What else is there? Go off the road into the trees, kill myself sure by slamming into one of ’em?”

“What about sounding your horn?”

“Yeah. Sure. That’s what Bishop said he done.”

“Do you remember hearing the horn blow?”

“No. Windy and foggy both, and I wasn’t paying no attention until the smash made a hell of a big noise. I told that to the cops, too.”

“According to your statement,” I reminded him, “you heard a sound that might have been a horn blowing.”

“Yeah, might’ve been. I couldn’t be sure.”

“How fast would you say Mr. Clements’ vehicle was traveling?”

“How fast? I told you, I wasn’t paying no attention.”

“The speed limit through Rio Verdi is twenty-five. Would you have noticed if he’d been doing forty or better, as Mr. Bishop claims?”

“No. Plenty people don’t slow down like they’re supposed to.”

“David Bishop owns a second home up on Ridgecrest. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Never saw him before the day of the accident?”

“All right, yeah,” Orcutt said, “I seen him a few times. He bought propane refills when he was up here in the summer. But I never said more’n a dozen words to him.”

“Have you seen him since the accident?”

“No.”

“Sure about that?”

“What, you think he come in here and tried to get me to side with him? Well, he didn’t. And I wouldn’t of done it if he had.” Orcutt ran an unsteady hand over the beard stubble on his chin, making a sandpapery sound. “Listen, mister, that’s it; we’re done. I got work to do.”

Scratch one witness, as far as Arthur Clements’ civil suit was concerned. If Orcutt knew anything other than what he’d told the authorities and now me, he was not likely to admit it in court. The old, sorry code of noninvolvement.

I left him to his work and his hangover. I’d have been willing to bet that as soon as he closed business for the day the first place he’d head for was the saloon down the road.

The second witness’s name was Earline Blunt, a widow in her middle fifties. She called herself, and was known locally as, the Windmill Lady. The reason for that was abundantly evident when I arrived at her roadside home a half mile or so from the scene of the accident. The front and side yards, both shaded by tall pines, were a riot of windmills — little ones not much bigger than pinwheels, large ones taller and broader than garden statuary, and dozens in between. All shapes and sizes, some plain, some painted bright colors and adorned with whimsical illustrations, each — according to the information I had — handmade by the widow Blunt with the assistance of an unmarried daughter she lived with.

The ones on display here served as advertisements as well as yard decorations. Mrs. Blunt made her living, or part of it, selling her creations to various shops along the river and elsewhere in the general area. On this drizzly, windy afternoon, the blades on all of them were spinning merrily and more quietly than you’d expect. Very well constructed, Mrs. Blunt’s windmills.

She was home, and much more receptive to me and the purpose of my visit than George Orcutt had been. Her only reactions were a philosophical sigh and, “I guess I’m not surprised, the way I keep getting called into court for jury duty.” She invited me inside, introduced me to her shy and rather homely daughter, Jean, offered me hot tea or coffee — I accepted the latter — and sent Jean off to do the fetching.

We sat in comfortable, overstuffed chairs in a living room brimming with table-size examples of her art. I told her I thought she did wonderful work, and the compliment put her in an even more receptive mood.

“I’ve always been fascinated by windmills and their history,” she said. “Did you know that the first one was invented by a Greek engineer, Heron of Alexandria, in the first century AD?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes. Others were used as prayer wheels in China and Tibet dating back to the fourth century. Of course, mine have no practical purpose. Some folks consider designing and building miniatures a frivolous pursuit, but others seem to be charmed by them.”

The daughter came in with a tray, set it down on the table between her mother and me, and drifted away without a word. Mrs. Blunt abused her cup of tea with three teaspoons of sugar and a splash of what looked like skim milk. She was not quite as overweight as her daughter, but still on the heavy side — a gray-haired, rosy-cheeked woman with a nice dentured smile. Her hands were large and bore the calluses and other marks of her profession. God forbid she should ever develop severe arthritis.

“Well, then,” she said as I took a sip of black coffee. “You have questions about the accident, you said?”

“A few, yes.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t tell the investigating officers. But go ahead and ask.”

“Let’s start by going over exactly what you saw. You were following behind the Clements vehicle when it happened?”

“That’s right. I’d just left the Rio Verdi Market.”

“Several car lengths behind, according to your statement. About how many would you say?”

“Oh, less than a dozen.”

“And you had a clear view of the collision?”

“More or less. It happened very fast.”

“As far as you could tell, did Mr. Bishop, the driver on Ridgecrest, take any evasive action when he came through the intersection?”

“Evasive action?”

“Try to swerve out of the way to avoid the collision.”