Ed Gorman - Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

“She was in a mental hospital?”

“She takes ‘trips.’ She always says she’s going to California to visit one of her sisters that lives there. But she and this sister haven’t spoken in years. She’s really going to this hospital in Chicago. The last time, she was so far down she rode the lightning, as they call it.”

“Shock treatments?”

“A dozen of them. God, I felt so sorry for her.”

“Isn’t that a pretty radical step, electroshock?”

“Not as radical as you’d think. My minor was psych. They do shock treatments on all kinds of people now. And this time—” She paused. “Well, it was a special circumstance that time. She took a couple of shots at Dad. Well, sort of.”

“Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Another one of his dalliances. Some woman he’d spent some time with in Chicago a few years back sent him a birthday card. He must be sleeping with mental defectives. Who’d send a birthday card to a married man? Anyway, Mom just flipped out. Grabbed the gun he keeps in his desk drawer, went into the den and fired twice at him. I don’t think she meant to actually hurt him. He always gets dramatic it about it and says ‘that time she tried to kill me.’ But my grandfather taught all three of his girls how to shoot and mom’s pretty good at it. If she’d wanted to kill Dad, she could have.”

“So you’re worried—”

“She could be a suspect. She’s—fragile. You wouldn’t know it. She’s usually very good at keeping up a front. But—I just had to get your opinion.”

“We’re all just sitting here waiting to see how this plays out. I’m going on with my investigation. Right now I really don’t have any opinion. I need more facts.”

“I know. I was just hoping you had some idea.” She shook her head. “Check that. It’s a lie. I needed to get out of that house. God, you can’t believe what it’s like in there. And I just keep picturing the Hastings woman down in the bomb shelter—I just needed to get out of there. So I came looking for you.” She stood up. “I saw you keep looking at the notes on your desk. Which means that you’re very busy and that I’m in the way. But I feel better just talking to you.”

“I’m glad of that,” I said. “I just wish I could come up with something helpful.”

“I’m half-tempted to see if I could get Mom back in the hospital again. Away from all this.”

“Would she go?”

“She might.” I walked her to the door. She kissed me on the mouth. Her lipstick tasted good and her mouth was wonderful. She never had taken her shades off. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Good luck to both of us.”

ELEVEN

I SPENT NEARLY EIGHTY MINUTES on the phone. I contacted the companies Ross Murdoch had given me. And from the companies I got the names of the men who’d worked on building the bomb shelter. I also got the addresses of where they were working today.

I spent two hours driving around town talking to them, much to the displeasure of their bosses. I kept my visits as short as possible. Most of the men said the same thing. That people came and went all day long during the construction process and they really didn’t pay much attention. Same thing about the day of the murder. Hadn’t paid much attention.

One man said he’d noticed a red-haired sheet metal guy with a blue eagle tattoo on the top of his right hand. That was the guy from Palmer Sheet Metal I’d interview later. Another guy told me he’d seen a Negro man late in the day carry a big box to the back door. I wrote down what he told me and then called the Murdoch house. Deirdre was there. She said the man was from a furniture store and that she had signed for the chair he carried herself. A third possibility evaporated even faster. An electrician told me that he’d seen a green truck pull up just before quitting time. The Murdochs had requested that all the workers be out of there promptly at six every evening. I called Deirdre back. She said that the long cardboard container from that particular truck was a floor lamp. They’d hired a decorator and all the items she’d selected for the revamp were just being delivered in the past few days. A lot of other people in and out, too.

“It must be frustrating,” she said.

“It is. But it’s usually the only way to learn things.” Then: “How’s your mom?”

“Sleeping. I’ve checked on her twice. I just hope she stays asleep.”

“How’s your dad?”

“Nervous. He’s giving a press conference on the steps of the court house in another hour. He’s in the den going over and over his prepared statement. He’s going to get everything out in the open. I know he made this mess all by himself—and that he’s a grown-up and so on and so forth—but I still feel sorry for him. He’s a very proud man. And some of the people in this town’ll eat him alive.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re right. I’m sorry for your family.”

“Dad says that he deserves it. He was really morose a while ago. He said it would be better for everybody if he just dropped dead. His side of the family has a history of heart trouble. That’s one of the reasons he stays in such good shape.”

“Tell him I’ll be checking in with him tonight by phone.”

“I was hoping to see you.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to be working straight through the night.”

“So what will you do now?”

“Start talking to the other three men, one by one.”

“I don’t envy you that. They’re not easy to deal with. I’ve been around them all my life. They can really give you a hard time.”

“Gosh, I find that hard to believe.”

“Poor Sam,” she said. “Poor, poor Sam.”

I tried Mike Hardin, office and home. Not in. I tried Gavin Wheeler, office and home. Not in. I tried Peter Carlson. The country club golf course.

In big cities, country clubs are usually formidable places. A lot of them are designed to intimidate. I’ve seen some as big and excessive as Rhineland castles. The Cedar View Country Club isn’t quite there yet. It’s a large, one-story, flat-roofed building made out of native stone. The members built it with an eye to expansion so there’s a lot more parking space than they need currently. The golf course, I’m told, is pretty decent for a town this size. The hot summer had scorched most of the grass brown. The leaves were just starting to turn autumnal. You could see geese and pheasants and hawks against the hard blue sky.

I found a caddy and said, “Five bucks if you’ll do me a favor.”

He was in his forties, stooped slightly from his occupation, and was not as subservient as some of the members probably expected. I’m one of those people who can kiss ass for fifty-eight minutes if I really have to. But make it fifty-nine and I get surly. All the groveling backs up in my throat and starts to burn.

I think the fortyish caddie with the frayed yellow cotton cap and the checkered brown-and-yellow pants had just reached his own fifty-nine minutes. He said, with great weariness, “I sure hope I don’t have to walk far. I got a scratchy throat—my oldest daughter came home from school yesterday throwin’ up and sayin’ it hurt to swallow. I think I’m comin’ down with it myself.”

“You know where Peter Carlson is?”

His mouth twisted into a frown when I mentioned the name. Carlson treated lessers without mercy. And every person on the planet was his lesser. Then he grinned with two neat rows of dentures. “Between us, tell you where I’d like him to be.”

“Guess a lot of people feel that way.”

“Most everybody out here does. Even the big shots.”

“You go get him for me? I don’t have a membership here and I don’t know the course well enough to find him.”