Ed Gorman - Short Stories, Volume 1

“Maybe I had my TV up too loud,” Bobbi said. “I love westerns and it was Gunsmoke night. It was a good one, too. But I keep thinking that maybe if I hadn’t played the TV so loud, I could’ve heard her—”

I shook my head. “Don’t start doing that to yourself, Bobbi, or it’ll never end. If only I’d done this, if only I’d done that. You did everything you could.”

She sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

“Mind one more question?”

She shrugged and smiled. “You can see I’ve got a pretty busy social calendar.”

“I want to try and take Rick out of the picture for a minute. Will you try?”

“You mean as a suspect?”

“Right.”

“I’ll try.”

“All right. Now, who are three people who had something against Linda — or Rick?”

“Why Rick?”

“Because maybe the killer wanted to make it look as if Rick did it.”

“Oh, I see.” Then: “I’d have to say Gwen. Gwen Dawes. She was Rick’s former girlfriend. She always blamed Linda for taking him away. You know, they hadn’t been going together all that long, Rick and Linda, I mean. Gwen would still kind of pick arguments with her when she’d see them in public places.”

“Gwen ever come over here and pick an argument?”

“Once, I guess.”

“Remember when?”

“Couple months ago, maybe.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much. She and a couple of girlfriends were pretty drunk, and they came up on the front porch and started writing things on the wall. It was juvenile stuff. Most of us graduated from high school two years ago but we’re still all kids, if you see what I mean.”

I wrote Gwen’s name down and said, “Anybody else who bothered Linda?”

“Paul Walters, for sure.”

“Paul Walters?”

“ Her old boyfriend. He used to wait until Rick left at night and then he’d come over and pick a fight with her.”

“Would she let him in?”

“Sometimes. Then there was Millie Styles. The wife of the man Linda worked for.”

“Why didn’t she like Linda?”

“She accused Linda of trying to steal her husband.”

“Was she?”

“You had to know Linda.”

“I see.”

“She wasn’t a rip or anything.”

“Rip?”

“You know, whore.”

“But she—”

“—could be very flirtatious.”

“More than flirtatious?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Maybe with Mr. Styles?”

“Maybe. He’s an awfully handsome guy. He looks like Fabian.”

She wasn’t kidding. They weren’t very far out of high school.

That was when I felt a scratching on my chin and I looked straight down into the eager, earnest, and heartbreakingly sweet face of Sophia.

“She likes to kiss noses the way Eskimos do,” Bobbi said.

We kissed noses.

Then I set Sophia down and she promptly put a paw in my coffee cup.

“Sophia!” Bobbi said. “She’s always putting her paw in wet things. She’s obsessed, the little devil.”

Sophia paid us no attention. Tail switching, she walked across the coffee table, her left front paw leaving coffee imprints on the surface.

I stood up. “I appreciate this, Bobbi.”

“You can save yourself some work.”

“How would I do that?”

“There’s a skating party tonight. Everybody we’ve talked about is going to be there.” She gave me another one of her significant looks. “Including me.”

“Then I guess that’s a pretty good reason to go, isn’t it?” I said.

“Starts at six-thirty. It’ll be very dark by then. You know how to skate?”

I smiled. “I wouldn’t exactly call it skating.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Falling down is the term that comes to mind,” I said.

Rick Whitney was even harder to love than his aunt.

“When I get out of this place, I’m going to take that hillbilly and push him off Indian Cliff.”

In the past five minutes, Rick Whitney, of the long blond locks and relentlessly arrogant blue-eyed good looks, had also threatened to shoot, stab, and set fire to our beloved chief of police, Cliff Sykes, Jr. As an attorney, I wouldn’t advise any of my clients to express such thoughts, especially when they were in custody, being held for premeditated murder (or as my doctor friend Stan Greenbaum likes to say, “premedicated murder”).

“Rick, we’re not getting anywhere.”

He turned on me again. He’d turned on me three or four times already, pushing his face at me, jabbing his finger at me.

“Do you know what it’s like for a Whitney to be in jail? Why, if my grandfather were still alive, he’d come down here and shoot Sykes right on the spot.”

“Rick? Sit down and shut up.”

“You’re telling me to shut up?”

“Uh-huh. And to sit down.”

“I don’t take orders from people like you.”

I stood up. “Fine. Then I’ll leave.”

He started to say something nasty, but just then a cloud passed over the sun and the six cells on the second floor of the police station got darker.

He said, “I’ll sit down.”

“And shut up?”

It was a difficult moment for a Whitney. Humility is even tougher for them than having a tooth pulled. “And shut up.”

So we sat down, him on the wobbly cot across from my wobbly cot, and we talked as two drunks three cells away pretended they weren’t listening to us.

“A Mrs. Mawbry who lives across the street saw you running out to your car about eleven p.m. the night of the murder. Dr. Mattingly puts the time of death at right around that time.”

“She’s lying.”

“You know better than that.”

“They just hate me because I’m a Whitney.”

It’s not easy going through life being of a superior species, especially when all the little people hate you for it.

“You’ve got fifteen seconds,” I said.

“For what?”

“To stop stalling and tell me the truth. You went to the apartment and found her dead, didn’t you? And then you ran away.”

I watched the faces of the two eavesdropping winos. It was either stay up here in the cells, or use the room downstairs that I was sure Cliff Sykes, Jr., had bugged.

“Ten seconds.”

He sighed and said, “Yeah, I found her. But I didn’t kill her.”

“You sure of that?”

He looked startled. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means were you drinking that evening, and did you have any sort of alcoholic blackout? You’ve been known to tip a few.”

“I had a couple beers earlier. That was it. No alcoholic blackout.”

“All right,” I said. “Now tell me the rest of it.”

“Wonder if the state’ll pass that new law,” Chief Cliff Sykes, Jr., said to me as I was leaving the police station by the back door.

“I didn’t know that you kept up on the law, Cliff, Jr.”

He hated it when I added the Jr. to his name, but since he was about to do a little picking on me, I decided to do a little picking on him. With too much Brylcreem — Cliff, Jr., apparently never heard the part of the jingle that goes “A little dab’ll do ya” — and his wiry mustache, he looks like a bar rat all duded up for Saturday night. He wears a khaki uniform that Warner Brothers must have rejected for an Errol Flynn western. The epaulets alone must weigh twenty-five pounds each.

“Yep, next year they’re goin’ to start fryin’ convicts instead of hanging them.”

The past few years in Iowa, we’d been debating which was the more humane way to shuffle off this mortal coil. At least when the state decides to be the shuffler and make you the shufflee.

“And I’ll bet you think that Rick Whitney is going to be one of the first to sit in the electric chair, right?”