Ed Gorman - The Day The Music Died

“That’s what I’m afraid of. She feels guilty about it and wants to handle it fast before my folks find out. So she might try something stupid.”

“I think Sue can have an answer for you sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’d be great.”

“You still got the same phone number?”

“Yeah. But it’d probably be easier if I called you.”

“Fine. Try me around two, three in the afternoon.”

“I really appreciate this, Wyatt.”

“No sweat. I just hope we can help you out.”

Now I needed to find Ruthie. Her friend Gloria drove a new yellow Vw bug that she’d received for her sixteenth birthday from her godfather. I swung by her folks’ home. The bug wasn’t there. I then began a systematic check of the places where the teenagers hung out. I even drove out to Howard Johnson’s again. I spent forty-five minutes on my search and had just about given up when I saw a yellow bug swinging out of the drive of a pizza place out on the south highway.

I honked the horn. Gloria recognized me. I waved and signaled for her to pull over to the curb.

As I approached the car, I could see that Gloria was alone. Would she have any idea where Ruthie was? I felt good about my call to Wyatt. I should have phoned him as soon as I found out Ruthie was pregnant.

Gloria rolled down the Vw window and turned down a Frankie Avalon song on the radio.

“Hi,” she said. She had a small, freckled face with a slight overbite and a rather pointed chin. She wore a thin yellow parka that almost matched the color of her bug, which I suppose was the idea.

“Hi. I’m looking for Ruthie. Have you seen her?”

I could have won a few million from Gloria in a poker game. Though her lips were shaping themselves into a lie, her eyes glanced guiltily away. “Uh, uh-uh.”

“Have you heard from her, then?”

“No, I haven’t heard from her, either.”

“That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“My mother’s under the impression she’s staying all night at your place.”

“Gee, that is funny.”

I said, “Why don’t you turn your engine off?”

For the first time, she showed a little bit of fear.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to leave until you tell me the truth.”

She shifted into first and said, “I’d better be going now.”

I reached in and grabbed the steering wheel.

“Damn it, Gloria, you remember the girl they found last night? The dead one who’d had the abortion?”

She sank back in the seat.

“Did you hear what I said, Gloria?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“You know what’s going on with Ruthie, right?”

She took a moment but finally, she nodded.

“Where is she, Gloria?”

She looked up at me. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I really don’t. She didn’t tell me.

She just asked me to cover for her, you know, with your mom, in case she asked if Ruthie was staying at my house tonight.”

“Gloria, if she goes to some quack who doesn’t know what he’s doing-”

“Honest to God, she didn’t tell me. She just said she’d figured out a way to take care of it. Honest. That’s all she said.”

I believed her. Her face had shifted from guilt to exasperation. Now she was telling me the truth and I was acting as if I didn’t believe her.

“Do you ever hear of anybody around here who does these operations?” I said.

“You mean like doctors?”

“Doctors or anybody. A nurse, maybe.”

“Uh-uh. Most girls go out of state.

There’s a place in Kansas City where my sister went.”

I should’ve called Des Moines sooner. I could have stopped this from happening tonight.

“If you see her or hear from her-”

“I’ll tell her to call you. I really will.

But right now I’m kind of freezing my butt off.

These heaters-”

“That’s all right. Thanks for talking.”

“She’ll be all right. I’m sure she will.”

“I hope you’re right, Gloria.”

The yellow bug headed up to the corner and then turned right when it got a green arrow on the traffic signal. Mist and fog were setting in.

You get a lot of both in the valley. I wondered about my little sister. I should have done so much better protecting her.

I walked back to the phone booth and called Judge Whitney. The brandy was flowing.

I could hear it in her voice.

“I hope you’ve called to tell me that you’ve found the real killer, McCain.”

“Not yet.” But I did tell her about my day and some of the strange things that happened.

“Do you think the colored man could have killed Susan, McCain?”

“Possibly.”

“Find out why he and Kenny had a falling-out.

There might be something in that.” She sounded as if she’d just had the most brilliant deductive thought in the world. But I’d been wondering that all day long.

“There’s also the fact,” I said, “that Renauld was in med school. He might be our man.”

“The Leopold Bloom’s guy?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t think he’d have the guts. All the blood. He’d probably say eek.”

The brandy was flowing indeed. “What’s the music playing?” I said.

“You really don’t know?”

I let her feel superior as all hell.

“I really don’t know.”

“Why, it’s Chopin, of course. I’m very surprised you don’t know.”

“That question wasn’t on my exam when I got my private investigator’s license.”

“But back to the case. You know who I’ve also been thinking about?”

“Who?” I said.

“Bob Frazier.”

“So have I.”

“Really?”

“Between his temper and his pride,” I said, “I could see him going out there and killing Susan in a rage. She’d certainly humiliated him enough times in the past couple of years. And Kenny had humiliated him for years. Maybe he just couldn’t handle it anymore.”

“But then why would Kenny kill himself?”

“Maybe it was the same with Kenny,” I said.

“In fact, I’m almost sure it was. I was there when he did it, don’t forget. He was a very weary and very sad guy. I sensed that he was at the end of things. A pretty good number of alcoholics kill themselves when they feel they’re at the end.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” she said imperiously. Then, “Where are you now, McCain?”

That’s when I heard the sirens. Two, maybe three squad cars. That was a lot, even for a Friday night. Once in a while you got that many headed to a single scene if it was a bad accident out on some lonely road. But generally, given the fact that only four cars worked on weekend nights, one car covered most incidents.

“McCain?”

“I’m here.”

“Are those sirens?”

“Yeah.”

“Any idea what’s going on?”

“No. But there’s a Dx service station that has a police band radio. I’ll head over there.”

“If it’s anything important, you be sure to call me.”

“I will.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t know that was Chopin.”

The Dx station had glossy promo pictures of Buddy Holly all over the front window. There was going to be a Buddy-a-thon on a local radio station Sunday afternoon.

The place was lit up but I didn’t see anybody working. I bought a nickel Coke and some peanuts. I vaguely remembered from health class that peanuts were good energy food. The toilet flushed and the kid came out. He’d apparently been in there dipping his head in an oil c. His long, dark hair glistened with grease.

He wore greasy coveralls with the collar turned up. Way up. He looked like Batman.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“You want some gas, daddy?”

Since I needed a favor from him, I decided not to call him “sonny.”