May be in some trouble here. Hotel room trashed
and two threatening calls telling me to leave town.
You know the drill, McCain. If anything happens to me—
Niven
I lined up the three small color photos on my desk. Each depicted the same couple in three different settings. One in a back yard in bright afternoon, judging by the shadows where they were making out. The second was in a small river pavilion just at dusk. And the third was entering a motel room. In the one in a back yard he had his hand on her ass.
They had one of those relationships where enough was never enough. Valerie Donovan and Lon Anders.
I wondered what Chief Foster, aka “Paul,” would make of these.
Sometimes the obvious conclusion was the correct conclusion. They’re having an affair. Lon has always wanted the business to himself anyway. Like just about everybody else, he’s seen Double Indemnity or one of its dozens and dozens of knockoffs. He knows how this sort of thing works. But he’s smarter than the people in the James M. Cain novel or movie. He waits until he has the chance to make it look like a murder by someone else who seemed to have a motive. The argument between Will and Donovan was well known. So was the fight they had at the party.
What better time to murder Donovan?
This time I called Kenny.
“You ever hear anything about Valerie Donovan?”
“I heard she got it on with the tennis instructor at the country club.”
“Those tennis instructors sure get a lot of ass. Anything else?”
“The marriage was pretty rocky for quite a while. He couldn’t have kids and he wouldn’t let her adopt. He was also very possessive. He slept around himself. By the way, I’m looking into every single person involved in this. Anders doesn’t publicize this but he’s been married three times. He also went on a long weekend to Chicago with Teddy Byrnes two weeks ago.”
“Isn’t he on parole?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.”
“That Chicago weekend is what interests me most. I doubt Donovan knew about it. He wouldn’t have liked it.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Byrnes is a real loyal guy. Donovan’s the one who helps him try to turn his life around and he throws in with the other guy.”
“But Donovan got something out of helping him. He had to or he wouldn’t have done it.”
“What a cynical man you are, Sam McCain.”
“Realistic. I know a lot of Steve Donovans.”
“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.
14
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.”
