Ed Gorman - Save The Last Dance For Me

“I’m surprised.”

“About what?”

“Y. I sort of like you. And all the time I thought you were just this grubby little creep that worked for Judge Whitney.”

“I have that right on my business card. Grubby little creep. At your service.”

Another deep inhalation. “What were we talking about?”

“About how your husband could afford a sportscar.”

“A gift from the last church.”

“Ah.”

“They didn’t find out until after we’d left that he’d been seeing three or four of the choir women on the side.”

“I see a pattern here.”

“Oh, it was definitely a pattern. Same as my drinking was-is-a pattern. Life is patterns, Mr. McCain.”

“Yeah, I’ve kinda noticed that.” Then: “You never did tell me what Sara Hall and your husband were doing at Muldaur’s church the night he was killed.”

“They were going to beg him to stop blackmailing my husband. We were running out of money and she was afraid Muldaur would tell somebody about my husband and Dierdre. And then eventually the whole town would know she was pregnant.”

“They really thought Muldaur would back off?”

“Last-ditch effort.” A long trail of smoke. “As I said, we didn’t have much money left. And Sara was terrified of what Muldaur would do.”

“You know a guy named Bill Oates?”

“No. Why?”

“I saw him arguing with his wife the night Muldaur died. And then I saw him in Muldaur’s trailer very early in the morning later on. Made me curious about his relationship with Viola Muldaur.”

“You think he might have killed Muldaur?”

“He looks like a possibility.”

“Anybody else?”

“Y.”

“Are you kidding?”

She sat up. The leather sofa made a lot of noise.

“Afraid not.”

“Why would I kill my husband?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“And did I also kill Muldaur?”

“Probably. But that’s the trouble I’m having with all this.”

“Do you ever read Nero Wolfe?”

“All the time.”

“You know how he always makes those astonishing leaps of deductive logic?”

“I wish I knew how he did it. The question is-who would have a motive to kill both your husband and Muldaur?”

“Are you saying that you’ve eliminated me?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But why would I have killed Muldaur?”

“Look at the time sequence. Maybe you were so sick of Muldaur blackmailing your husband that you killed him with that poison.”

“That makes sense I suppose-may I mooch another cig, by the way?-but if I killed Muldaur why would I turn around and kill my husband?”

I brought her another cigarette. She lit it from the butt of the one she was finishing.

When I was seated again, I said, “You kill Muldaur. Everything looks good for a day or so.

And then your husband tells you he wants a divorce. Or you find that he’s sleeping with another one of the choir ladies again.

You could have a lot of motives. Especially if you were on the bottle again. Alcoholics aren’t very rational when they’re tipping a few.”

“Very neat. Nero would be proud of you.”

She sure did enjoy cigarettes. She smoked with great erotic enthusiasm. My groin was starting to make itself felt again.

“The only thing wrong with it is that it isn’t true, Mr. McCain.”

“So say you.”

“So say I.”

I stood up. Stubbed my Lucky out.

Walked to the door. “I need to go.”

“I could always tell Cliffie you broke into my house.”

“I could always tell Cliffie your husband was a blackmailer.”

She smiled. “I guess that’s a good point.”

Then: “I’m curious.”

“What?”

“A minute or so ago-were you looking at me-sexually?”

“Boy, what a question.”

“Well, were you?”

“Yeah, I guess I was.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s been such a long time since I felt a young man’s eyes on me that way. The proper alcoholic wife of a minister doesn’t get a lot of looks like that. I lost fifteen years when I saw your eyes settle on my breasts and legs.” Tears touched her eyes and voice. “It felt so good.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “You’re a very good-looking woman.”

A teary laugh.

I thought of going over there to give her a reassuring hug. But given the moment, that was probably a very risky move.

I said good-bye and left.

There were two people I wanted to talk to.

Reluctant as I was to go back to Muldaur’s place-my ankle, since you’ve probably been worrying about it, the considerate people you are-hurt only at certain angles. I just wasn’t sure which angles those were. So I’d be moving along just fine and then I’d step down just so and-one of life’s little mysterious games.

The top of Muldaur’s shabby trailer had been painted silver and shone like a mirror in the stabbing rays of the sun. I decided not to take any chances with men with shotguns bursting out the door. I brought my own. 45, which was the gun my dad carried in the war.

I knocked several times. No answer. No dog bark. No human voice. No radio blare. No Tv drone. I took this to mean, in my worldly way, that probably nobody was home or that if somebody was home, he or she didn’t plan to come out.

Then I heard the singing. Sweet and high and mountain-stream pure, no affectation, no straining for effect, a simple, sincere young girl’s voice singing one of those old hillbilly hymns you could catch on “Grand Ole Opry” or “Country Jubilee” every once in a while.

My assumption at first was that it was a record or a radio. But as I turned I realized that it was coming from the church. I let it pull me, eager to hear it more clearly, and moments later I stood in the cooling shadows of the old service garage, listening to Ella Muldaur sing.

Ella stood in the center of the platform, a radiant hill child in a tattered blouse and faded jeans. Viola sat in the chair next to her, dressed in a pair of overalls and a blouse.

“Oh, I have talked to Jesus,

And He said He will show me peace.

Oh, I have talked to Jesus,

And He promised me no more grief.”

Her voice was skilled and knowing enough to convey both the promised peace and the grief of the present time.

No wonder Viola was crying, as she had been that first night I’d seen them here on the altar.

She held Ella’s right hand as the girl sang and swayed in joy and sorrow to the melody. And for that moment I was able to put aside all the hip, modern ways I’d been taught to feel about our quest for purpose and meaning and to simply share in our need to understand our place in the cosmos.

Cave paintings dating back thousand of years illustrated the desperate need mankind had always felt in seeking such an explanation. It almost didn’t matter if you believed in a god-force or not. The need to bring some meaning to the spectacle of human history was primal.

And so gentle and soothing when put into song by this girl.

They were so caught up in Ella’s singing they didn’t even seem aware of me at first.

And then she was done. And I felt banished from celestial comfort. I was no longer elevated by my humanity but doomed to it. It was not in heaven I stood but in an old garage that smelled of car oil and filth.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Viola said.

“I’m here to see Ella.”

“Ella? What for?”

I was only halfway up the aisle. I stood in place.

“The other day she said she had something to tell me. I’m curious what that was going to be.”

“I shouldn’t’ve said that, mister,” Ella said.

“That’s the most beautiful singing I’ve ever heard.”

“You should not praise the Lord’s music,”