Dead Meat (14 page)

“Yes, it did occur to me. We’ve got some work to do, all right, and I surely do appreciate your reminding me of it, Mr. Coyne. But just about now I’ve got to take my prisoner back to Greenville, so, again, I want to thank you for your help. I trust you can verify the fact that nobody’s rights have been violated.”

“Yes,” I said. “I can verify that.”

“Well, good.”

He turned and slouched out of the room. I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. Then I went out through the big room, where the people still mingled in little groups, talking in muted voices. I sat on a rocker on the porch and watched Thurl Harris’s floatplane taxi out onto the lake and then take off.

I
ROCKED AND SMOKED
and watched the lake and tried not to think about Rolando’s dead and violated body or the look on Woody’s face when Thurl Harris led him away.

The sports and guides wandered out of the lodge and made their way down to the water. I watched them load the canoes. One by one, the motors were cranked up, and they sputtered out onto the lake. They seemed subdued by what I felt would henceforth be referred to as the “accident.” But they all went fishing.

After a while Tiny came out and sat down beside me. He carried a Styrofoam cup in one hand. He was working on a big chaw, which was lumped up in his left cheek. Now and then he spat into the cup. Marge came out. She stopped and looked at us for a minute. Then she shrugged and headed in the direction of the cabins.

“Helluva thing,” offered Tiny.

“Ay-yuh,” I said.

“Thurl let on to any of the folks what happened?”

“Couldn’t very well avoid it,” I said. “The man was, in his own crude fashion, trying to investigate a murder.”

“Damn!” he said with sudden vehemence. “Vern’ll have my ass.”

“He may be a little curious about the goings-on up here.

“I dunno, Brady. Maybe we ought to sell the place, after all. I ain’t cut out for this kind of shit. I like things simple.” He spat emphatically over the rail and out onto the pine needles.

“How long have you known Woody?” I asked.

He rocked for a moment. “Hell, Woody came with the place. More’n twenty-five years.”

“You know him pretty well, then.”

“Yup. Guess I do. Course, Woody was never one to say much.”

“Ever see him mad?”

Tiny shook his head thoughtfully. “Nope. Never.”

“Ever hear him speak badly of another man?”

“Use to accuse Lew Pike of cheatin’ at cribbage, but that don’t count. That was just part of their game. Couple times I recollect Woody sayin’ somethin’ about fellas who’d kill more fish’n they could use or try to get their guide to kill a deer on their tag. But those’re things a man has a right to be critical of. I never heard Woody be spiteful or mean.”

I lit another Winston and thought fleetingly of my shortlived resolve to quit the damn things the previous day. “Do you think Woody killed Rolando?” I asked Tiny.

“I suppose I do,” he said carefully. “You never know what a man’s thinkin’ or what he’s capable of doing. Least of all, Woody. Man always kept his own counsel. And he took bad at that insult last night, for damn sure. You missed most of it. Anyways, I guess Thurl Harris thinks he’s got his man.”

“Thurl Harris,” I said. “Beneath that dumb hick sheriff facade there lurks a dumb hick sheriff.” I scowled at Tiny. “Do you know that the only place his men searched was Woody’s room?”

Tiny cocked his head. “But they found what they needed there.”

I slapped my forehead. “You, too? Look. Did you give them permission to search the cabins?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Why not? Because a man like Woody could get the shaft, that’s why.”

Tiny shrugged. “But if he did it…”

I stubbed out my cigarette and then moved the ashes around in the ashtray with the dead butt. Then I looked up at Tiny. “I know what you’re saying. I can’t say I’ve got a better suspect. But Woody? How can that man seriously believe that Woody would be dumb enough to stow the murder weapons in his own cabin, just for one thing?”

“Unless he didn’t care if he got caught. Look, Brady. I’ve been thinkin’ about this. I’ve known old Woody for a good many years. Can’t truthfully say I really know him, if you follow me. But we’ve been together. And I can tell you this. He’s a prideful man. Most especially when it comes to his race. You can maybe insult Woody himself. But you oughtn’t to say anything bad about Indians.”

“Woody told me that he had completely divorced himself from tribal matters,” I said. “He even refused his allotment from the government.”

“Because they aren’t living up to his expectations. He still takes pride in his race, if not the particular people in it. See what I mean?”

I nodded. “I see what you mean,” I said. “It doesn’t convince me that Woody killed Rolando.”

Tiny stared at me sadly. “You know,” he said, “for a lawyer who’s supposed to work with facts and all, sometimes you act pretty dumb.”

“I offered to defend him,” I said. “He refused me cold. Said he knew a good Indian lawyer.”

“I thought he had nothin’ to do with other Indians.”

I shrugged. “Yeah. That’s what he said. God! The look on his face in there when Harris told him he was under arrest. Cold as a rock. Proud and cold. And when he looked at me, it was as if I were the enemy.”

Tiny spat. “Blood’s thicker,” he said.

“I expected something different.”

“You were doin’ him a favor. You wanted him to say thank you. You don’t understand Indians, Brady.” Tiny stood up. “Listen. Don’t get hurt feelin’s. You know as well as me that Indians are different. I ain’t sayin’ better or worse, but different. Push comes to shove, they stick together. Lissen. You wanna go fishin’?”

“My guide’s off to jail.”

“I ain’t proud. I’ve paddled city fellas before.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Thanks.”

Tiny looked at me for a moment. Then he turned his head and spit hugely over the rail. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of things to do, anyway.”

I sat there for a while longer, feeling drained of energy and wondering if I’d hurt Tiny’s feelings. It took an effort of will to hoist myself out of the rocking chair. I wandered back into the lodge. The place was deserted. I noticed the big register book sitting open on a table against the wall. I remembered how interested Ken Rolando had been in it. I went over to take a look.

The most recent entry was the name “Philip Rolando.” He gave his address simply as Albany, New York. Immediately preceding Rolando’s was my own signature. The name before mine was Frank Schatz of Bayonne, New Jersey, the man who didn’t like fishing. Philip Rolando had expressed brief interest in Schatz, I remembered. Reading backward, I saw several other entries before I came to Kenneth Rolando, also of Albany. I read all the entries for the season, wondering what the Rolando brothers might have been looking for. Nothing struck me as remotely interesting beyond the names of a couple of prominent Boston businessmen who had registered as Vern’s guests the first week in May. Vern’s annual ice-out salmon fishing extravaganza.

If there was something in that register that would explain the disappearance of Ken Rolando and the murder of his brother, Philip, I failed to discover it.

I went back outside. I had begun to regret my decision to turn down Tiny’s invitation to go fishing. But I didn’t feel like fishing particularly, and I didn’t relish the idea of being Tiny’s captive in a canoe. He would expect me to be wise and comforting. I felt bereft of wisdom, and Rolando’s murder—and, equally, Woody’s arrest—had left me feeling needy of comforting myself.

I walked down the path toward the cabins, only half aware that I wouldn’t have minded running into Marge. The cabins were all constructed of peeled spruce logs. Steel stovepipes jutted from the roofs. The cabins varied in design and shape and were set off one from the other in the grove of pines so each was assured a measure of privacy. The setup reminded me of the summer camp on the shores of Sebago Lake that I had attended as a boy. I remembered how homesick I had been.

I heard what sounded like somebody quietly gagging. I moved around to the front of the nearest cabin. Polly Wheeler was sitting on the steps. Her arms were crossed on her knees, and her forehead rested on her wrists. Her shoulders were shaking.

I went and sat beside her. She looked up at me.

“Oh, hi,” she said.

She snuffled and wiped her nose on her forearm. I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, and blew her nose extravagantly into it. Then she balled it up and gave it back to me. She combed her hair away from her face with her fingers, blinked her eyes, and tried to smile. Then she said, “Aw, shit,” and I saw the tears rise into her eyes. “Gimme that thing again.”

I gave the handkerchief back to her. She dabbed at her eyes with it.

“You’re upset,” I observed brightly.

“Hey, no shit, Sherlock Holmes.”

I grinned. “I’ve got this real powerful deductive sense.”

Her little smile looked as if it might stick.

“I’m not all that great at comforting distressed maidens, though.”

“That’s not what I hear.” Her smile had become sly.

Several retorts came to mind. All of them would have sounded self-righteous and judgmental and stuffy as hell. So instead I said, “You’re upset over Mr. Rolando’s death.”

“Bingo. That’s it. A Kewpie doll for the middle-aged man with the gray eyes.”

“Yes. Well, your reaction seems—”

“Melodramatic? Out of proportion?”

“Yes. Those things.” I shrugged.

“Hey, Mr. Lawyer, I never had a person I knew get murdered and scalped before. Well, I suppose I should take these things right in stride. I should be tough. Like my mother. Talk about tough broads. Or maybe I should just be dumb like my father. But, hey, what the hell. I’m just me.”

I nodded. There was nothing to say.

“I never saw a dead person before,” she added. “But I went down there this morning and saw him.”

“I guess there’d be something wrong if it didn’t upset you.”

She put her head down on her folded arms again and said something I couldn’t understand. “What did you say?” I asked.

She looked up. This time there was anger in her eyes. “I said something nasty about Indians,” she said.

“Oh, I thought you mentioned the name Phil.”

“Well, I did.”

“You were on a first-name basis with Mr. Rolando, huh?”

Polly leaned back and smiled. “You gonna do my mother’s interrogation routine on me now?”

“No.” I put my hand on her shoulder for a moment. Then I stood up. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I guess you came here to cry in peace. I’ll leave you.”

I started to walk away. “No, wait,” she said. I turned to look back at her. “I need somebody to talk to. Okay? I mean, I can’t very well talk to my parents.”

I went back and sat beside her. “They’re good people, Polly.”

She wrinkled her nose, then tossed her hair. “Sure they are. That’s not it.” She narrowed her eyes. She seemed to be looking for something in my face. I couldn’t tell if she found it. “Look,” she said finally. “I was with Phil last night. I lied to dumb old Thurl Harris in there.”

“But you told him you were with Rolando.”

“I told him I left early.”

“And that was the lie.”

“Hey, you are real sharp, know that? I slept with him, is what I did. It was about three when I snuck back into my room. Okay? See why I can’t talk to Mummy?”

“What happened? Did he seem afraid? Any hint that he might’ve been in danger?”

“No. Nothing like that. Look. You’re a nice guy and all, but I don’t know why I should tell you any of this. I mean, you’re my mother’s friend, right? We should probably just forget it.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “But I won’t tell anyone. I’m a very discreet person. That’s the main thing I’m good at. Maybe the only thing. Ask your uncle sometime. That’s why he hires me. Discretion.”

“Uncle Vern does say you’re a damn good lawyer.”

“He means I know how to keep my mouth shut.” I gave her a very serious look. “Polly, listen,” I said. “What happened between you and Rolando last night isn’t what’s important right now. But if you can tell me what he said—anything you can think of—it might help us figure out who killed him.”

“Old Woody killed him,” she said.

“He’s been arrested. That doesn’t mean he did it. I don’t think he did.”

“Then who?”

“That’s the question.”

She stared at me and then nodded. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“About me, I mean.”

I nodded.

“Here’s how it works. I can’t talk to my parents. About men, I mean. So I tend to talk to men about men. About how I feel about them. Does that make any sense?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t say I was smart. Just discreet.”

Polly grinned quickly. I noticed that she had violet eyes, a very unusual eye color, like young lilac blossoms. “Mummy thinks I’m Gib’s girl,” she said. “She figures I’m sleeping with him. She doesn’t like it, but she seems to accept it. And she’s right. Gib and I are real close. We made love in his airplane once. When it was up in the air, I mean. You ever make love in an airplane?”

“Not once,” I said.

“It’s different. Not that easy to, you know, get organized up there. It’s crowded, the seats are small, all those instruments…” She looked at me and gave me a phony wide-eyed innocent smile. “Anyway, Mummy doesn’t know that—well, that I sleep around a little. But I do. What does that make me?”

I shook my head.

“You can say it,” she persisted.

“Probably,” I said, “it makes you a normal woman. But I’m sure as hell no expert on women. I just have always figured they were pretty much like men. As a starting point, it’s worked pretty well. Of course, I have learned that they’re not exactly like men. And it’s the differences that turn out to be what’s important. It’s taken me a long time to learn all that. Mostly by trial and error. Mainly error.”

“I don’t understand any of what you just said,” said Polly. “But I know that if you weren’t being polite, you’d call me a nympho. That’s the name for it.”