Эд Горман - Riders on the Storm

“Well, I’ll keep working. I tried you about twenty minutes ago but there wasn’t any answer.”

“I’ve had a busy morning. I watched the parade for a few minutes.”

“Did O’Shay ascend into heaven in glowing robes?”

“Damn near.”

“He’s still going to lose. That poll in the newspaper last week really surprised me.”

Five hundred Black River Fallsians were asked their opinion on the war. Sixty-five percent wanted to withdraw within a year. My town, like most of America, had had enough. It was the politicians who hadn’t.

“I’ll be in touch.”

I spent ten minutes getting ready. I went in the john and washed my face and combed my hair and then I turned to my emergency closet. Spare sport coat, spare necktie, spare Old Spice. I always wore trousers that would look all right with the emergency sport coat if the need arose.

I stood next to my desk for a few minutes trying to plan what would be the most effective presentation. The problem was that I had no idea what I was walking into. The only thing I could count on was that it likely would not be civil. In fact it could get downright ugly. Everyone involved was under great stress and stress doesn’t make for civil, rational conversations.

I knew I was putting it off because it was not anything I would even have considered if Will’s future wasn’t involved. I went through the photographs trying to put them in proper order for dramatic effect.

Probably the one in the back yard where they were making out. And he had his hand on her ass.

Yeah, that one would probably get her attention.

I was worried about mourners, family, and friends visiting or even staying overnight. Getting to her would be difficult. The best possibility was that Valerie Donovan would stay alone so Anders could slither in after dark. Or maybe even figure a way to get in during daylight.

The home was old-money gentry. A two-story brick with three-stall garage and enough chimneys to wear out Santa Claus and three gables to confuse him on a dark night. A full-size swimming pool in back as well as a screened-in porch that ran the width of the long house. This was a notable house because it had been built during the depth of the Depression by a banker who had wisely withdrawn all his cash from his place of work a month and a half before the crash. He was not exactly beloved and when he died at thirty-nine not even an O’Shay parade could have saved his reputation.

This was one of the rich people’s homes my folks had driven by after Mass on Sundays. My mother had read all about it in the paper and gave us details of the interior that only a smart guide could.

No cars in the long, wide driveway. I parked and then walked to an imposing front door of intricately carved wood. The brass knocker was half the size of a basketball. I used the doorbell.

The home was isolated because of a ravine on the west side and a steep hill on the other. I tried the knocker now. Twice and then once more for luck.

She might not be home. She might be sleeping. She might be on the phone. She might not want visitors of any kind except for Anders.

I decided to try the back porch.

On my way around, a fat, cute, little brown-and-white puppy showed up to accompany me on my journey. I had to slow down because those tiny legs were churning too fast already. I stopped a couple of times to pet him. He smelled doggy good.

The porch was as advertised, an immense stone screened monument to good times for people who could afford it. The furnishings ran to expensive couches, chairs, and divans more appropriate to the interior. But there wasn’t a great deal of it. Given the spaciousness of it and the flagstone floor it was easy to guess that intimate parties of fifteen to twenty privileged souls could be held here. There were small bars at both ends of the porch.

Valerie — at least I assumed it was Valerie — had her back to me as she stood talking to somebody on a phone that had a cord that would stretch the length of the place.

“No, of course I don’t want to see you. I never want to see you.” Then, “Well, you had that coming. Just because I’m trying to be cautious you tell me I don’t want to see you. I’m supposed to be the bereaved widow, remember? And in fact I am feeling terrible about it.” Listening. Then, “Well, you’ve been married three times and had sex with seventy percent of the women in this town so you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about. When we were first married I loved Steve, loved him deeply. And I made a total commitment to him. So I miss him. Is that all right? And I hope that bastard who killed him doesn’t get off with some kind of insanity defense. And it really does piss me off, Lon, that you don’t understand a single fucking thing about making a commitment.” Then, “This conversation isn’t doing either one of us any good. Let’s talk later.”

She slammed the phone and then turned to set it on a mahogany table and that was when she saw me.

Hands on hips. “And just who the hell would you be?” A gray skirt that loved every inch of her lower body as the turquoise blouse loved the upper.

“My name’s Sam McCain. We’ve met a few times socially.”

“Must have been memorable. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was hoping I could talk to you for a little while.”

“Wait. You’re Esme’s investigator. Sam McCain; I thought that was familiar. I like Esme. She’s one of the few people I can really talk to in this whole town. I’m sorry if I was abrupt. But I really don’t want to talk right now.”

“It’s kind of important.”

A queenly sigh. There was a cool grandness to her beauty that intimidated me. I waved the manila envelope at her and felt, for the first time, in control.

“You really should see these, Mrs. Donovan.”

Hands on her hips again. “I think I’ll call Esme and tell her that her little investigator is a pest. How would that be?”

I took her pause as permission to mount the three stone steps and join her on the back porch.

I waved the envelope at her again. “What I have here, Mrs. Donovan, is three photographs of you with Lon Anders. In one of them you’re going into a motel room and in another he’s kissing you and he has his hand on your ass.”

She had a wonderful strong fuck-you laugh. “So Steve finally hired you to follow me around. Lon said he was too stupid to know what was going on. That’s Lon’s ego. He thinks everybody except him is stupid. So when did he hire you?”

“He didn’t hire me, he hired an investigator from Des Moines. A very good one.”

“So why isn’t he here instead of you?”

“Somebody tried to kill him last night. He’s in the hospital in bad shape.”

“I suppose you want me to feel sorry for someone who was spying on me.”

“I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out.”

“I suppose you’re considered a wit.”

“Just by my mom.”

“I just may call Esme.” The bluff was one thing she wasn’t good at.

“Good. Then I’ll feel free to show her these photos.”

She slapped me across the ear. For all the delicacy of her face, neck, arms, and wrists, she had a slap that was three-quarters of the way to being a punch. “Sit down on the couch and let’s get this over with.”

My ear smarting, I obeyed her Majesty and took a seat on a peach-colored couch. She sat close but not too close. There was no way she was going to let me put my hand on her ass.

“Let’s get this straight. You’re not going to get very much money from me. I’ll tell you that right now.”

“I’m not here to blackmail you, Mrs. Donovan. I want to prove that Will Cullen didn’t kill your husband.”