Ed Gorman - Wake Up Little Susie

“The crime scene. We could destroy evidence.”

“That more of the stuff them Commies taught you at Iowa?”

A few years ago, a professor of economics had written a mildly left-wing book about the poverty of migrant workers. Ever since then, the local McCarthyites had accused everyone on the faculty of being a Commie.

“Crime scene. You’ve never heard that expression before?”

“I just wanted you to see and then apologize.”

“For what?”

“For accusing this fine man of being a murderer.”

“A, he wasn’t a fine man, and, B,

I still think he had something to do with the murder of his wife.”

I don’t know what kind of reaction Cliffie’d expected from me-probably some kind of swooning admission that I’d been wrong about Squires-but I wasn’t giving it to him.

I sighed. “I’m sorry he’s dead.”

There was a small hole on the right side of his forehead. I assumed this was the shot that killed him.

His tan suit was grass-stained on the knees and elbows. His right cheek was bruised badly.

“You are, huh?”

“He was a human being.”

“Not much of one, according to you.”

“He beat his wives pretty badly. That isn’t exactly an admirable trait.”

“Some people just think their shit don’t stink. That’s what sticks in my craw.”

“Meaning me?”

The smirk. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“So what’s the connection to Chalmers?”

“Two people seen him get on the cable car with Squires here.”

“When was this?”

“About two hours ago.”

“You going to tell me who they are?”

“The witnesses?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Oh, sure. I’ll even let you interview them so you can twist their stories.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“You sure of that?”

“I’m sure.”

“What I’m sure of is, you’re full of shit. You and the Judge.”

“Gosh, and here I was going to invite you to my birthday party.”

“C’mon, McCain, the bastard’s nailed and you know it. He’s an ex-con.”

I had a lot of things to do.

“Let’s go,” I said. “I need to get back.”

He looked at the body and then smirked at me. “Nailed good and tight.”

I was just walking back to my car when the block-long Lincoln Continental swept up.

Jeeves was driving. I called him Jeeves because of my fondness for P. G. Wodehouse. I also called him Jeeves because I had no idea what his name was. He was Judge Whitney’s driver, that’s all I knew. He rolled down the window. He was in livery. He looked proper and tough at the same time, not unlike the Judge herself. He nodded to the backseat.

I opened the back door and peeked in.

Judge Whitney handed me a drink of some kind.

“Get in.”

I got in. Jeeves swept us away. The Lincoln was so cushy it was like floating.

Beethoven was low on the radio. There was a heavy window between front and backseats. The

Judge was dressed in a black suede car coat and slacks. Between us on the plump seat was a large thermos of whatever we were drinking.

She said, as we sailed along, “I’ve done something nice for you.”

“Thank you. It actually tastes pretty good.

For alcohol.”

“It’s called a Manhattan and that isn’t what I had reference to.”

“Oh.”

“I was referring to David Squires.”

“Some dirt?”

“A lot of dirt. He was broke.”

“You’re kidding. What happened to that inheritance of his?”

“Squandered on every kind of cockamamie idea you can think of. He had this business manager-an old family friend-in Chicago. The fellow basically figured out a way to embezzle a lot of money.”

“When did Squires find this out?”

“A couple of years ago. As he was a member of a prestigious family, the local bankers kept everything quiet. He was deeply in debt. The bank was almost ready to foreclose on his estate.”

“I take it you’re getting this from a banker?”

“Of course.”

“Nice to know they keep their secrets.”

She clucked, something she rarely does. She curses, she rolls her eyes, she shakes her head, but she rarely clucks. “Secrets are confided upward, McCain. Since my family is more prominent than the Squires family, I have a right to know.”

“I believe the English called it the Divine Right of Kings.”

“You’re perfectly happy being uncivilized, aren’t you?”

“Downright delirious. Just give me a good Three Stooges movie and a box of popcorn and I’m in heaven.”

She took a healthy swallow of her drink.

“I just gave you some important information. Now do something with it.”

“Any suggestions?”

“You’re the investigator, McCain, not me.”

“So you think his being broke had something to do with his murder?”

“Don’t you?”

And with that, she got me. Her rubber band. Right on my little Irish nose.

“Don’t people give you funny looks when they see you carrying rubber bands around?” I asked.

“People never give me funny looks. They wouldn’t dare.”

“I guess that’s a good point.”

This time, I ducked.

She lifted her phone. I heard it ring up front. Jeeves picked up. She said,

“Take him back to his car” and hung up.

“Cliffie could always get lucky, you know,” she said. “You’ve got to wrap this up.”

I stared out the window at my little town. It looked so cozy with night here, the lights on in all the friendly windows, the gray images of Tv flashing through the air, so many contented people in those living rooms, old couples and middle-aged couples and young couples, babies waddling around in industrial-strength diapers and older brothers on the telephone nervously trying to impress the girl they just called. I loved the whole history of the town, way back to when the French explorers tried to take advantage of the Indians hereabouts, only to learn that the Indians were slyly taking advantage of them. I started thinking about Mary again, and I got scared. Two people were dead. Whoever had killed them probably wouldn’t mind killing a third.

When we pulled up next to my Ford, the Judge said, “Time to get to work, McCain.

Serious work.”

When she opened the door I handed her the plastic bag.

“What’s this?”

“What you left behind Friday night.”

“It’s a little late for games, McCain.

Plus which, I’m in a rotten mood. I’m out of Chablis and my monthly visitor just dropped in tonight.”

Somebody somewhere has probably compiled a list of all the synonyms for menstruation. Amy Squires was sticking with the most common one.

“So do I get invited inside?”

She smiled with that big ripe mouth of hers.

“I only have two kinds of gentlemen callers.

Those who bring me booze and those I want to sleep with. You don’t have any booze and you look like you’re about fifteen.”

She knew how to stroke a guy’s ego.

“So we just stand here?”

“So we just stand here.”

She wore a black blouse and jeans. Bare feet. She looked sexy in the same sleepy, voluptuous way she usually did. Probably not a great wife but a hell of a mistress. She rattled ice cubes in her glass.

“I thought you were out of Chablis.”

“Chablis, yes. I didn’t say anything about Scotch.”

“Ah.”

“You and your ahs. And just what the hell is this anyway?” She held up the plastic bag I’d handed her.

“You broke out a taillight Friday night at Keys’s around nine-thirty, when you were trying to get away.”

You always hope they’ll break down in tears and confess, the way they do on those Tv courtroom dramas. She got defiant. “You prick.”