The Dells (26 page)

“Thanks for talking to me,” Shoe said. “Yeah,” Mackie said. “See you around.” He turned away and strode across the busy street as if traffic did not exist.

“Rae?” Patty Dutton said.

“Uh?” Rachel said. Patty had been speaking, but Rachel couldn't for the life of her remember what she'd been saying. “Sorry. I guess I'm not really with it,” she said with a wan smile.

“If you want to take off,” Patty said. “I can handle things. It's not like there's a whole lot happening.” They were sitting in lawn chairs outside the kitchen shelter, in the shade of the door fly.

“I'm all right,” Rachel said. “A little stunned. I can't help thinking about Marty. Why would anyone want to kill her?”

“Not that I wished her ill,” Patty said, “but she was having an affair with my husband. I know she was your friend, but it's hard to get too worked up about the death of the woman who was sleeping with your husband.”

“The police are going to want to talk to him, you know,” Rachel said.

“Well, he's made his own bed, hasn't he?”

“Was he there when you went home after leaving my parents' place last night?”

“Rae,” Patty said incredulously. “You're not seriously suggesting Tim killed her, are you?”

The flesh of Rachel's face prickled with the heat of her embarrassment. Naturally, she had considered it, but how seriously, she wasn't sure. “God, no,” she said, with as much sincerity as she could muster.

“As a matter of fact,” Patty said, “he did go out after I got home. The security company called. The alarm at the store went off and Tim had to go down and check it out. He's been having a lot of trouble with it lately. The slightest thing seems to set it off.”

Convenient, Rachel thought, and chided herself for her suspicious nature. “What time did he get home?” she asked nevertheless.

“I don't know,” Patty replied. “I took a pill and went out like a light.”

“How long have you known about Tim and Marty?” Rachel asked.

“A while,” Patty said. “What I don't know is what Tim saw in her. She wasn't particularly attractive, was she? I mean, men weren't attracted to her because she was pretty, were they? It was because she would, well, do things.”

“For heaven's sake, Patty. Do things? Such as?”

“You know what I mean,” Patty said, cheeks reddening.

Rachel was shocked by Patty's uncharacteristic priggishness. She was so vivacious, flirty, and sexy, it was hard to believe she was a prude. Then, although she realized she was stereotyping, she remembered that Patty's father was a retired minister and her mother a librarian.

“You think I'm a prude, don't you?” Patty said. “All right, fine. If not wanting a man to come in my mouth or screw me in the ass is being a prude, then I'm a prude.”

“Not wanting to do those things doesn't make you a prude, Patty, but disapproving of other women because they do, that's prudish. I didn't like anal sex the one time I tried it, and won't do it again. As for a man ejaculating in my mouth, I'm not crazy about it either, but, well, there are times when it just seems like the right thing to do.”

“Okay,” Patty admitted with a sheepish grin. “I guess you're right about that, but I haven't felt that way with Tim for a long time. You know, a couple of months ago he asked me if I'd be interested in, um, a three-way with another woman. I told him no bloody way.”

“Did he have another woman in mind?” Patty didn't answer. “Was it Marty?”

“Guess again.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Me?” Rachel laughed and almost choked. “You're joking.”

“What's the matter? I'm not your type?”

“Huh. No. I didn't mean … ”

“It's all right, Rae. I'm just kidding.” She hesitated, then said, “Did you and Tim ever — well, you know?”

“No way,” Rachel said. “Tim's a … ” She shut her mouth.

“Tim's a what?” Patty asked. “You were going to say pig, weren't you?”

“I've never told you this,” Rachel said. “Because we're friends. But Tim must've made a dozen passes at me in the last couple of years or so. They were all pretty clumsy and crude and when I told him to drop dead, he'd pretend he was just joking around. He wasn't, though. He was serious. I finally told him that if he didn't cut it out, I'd tell you.”

Patty laughed, but it was a thin, self-conscious sound. “Tim's congenitally incapable of being within ten feet of a woman without making a pass at her.”

“Patty,” Rachel said sternly. “That's what the shrinks call ‘enabling.' Don't make excuses for his philandering. It's okay to be pissed at him because he fools around. In fact, it's more than okay; you
should
be pissed at him.”

“Of course I'm pissed at him, but what can I do? He's a guy. Guys have a problem with sex. They need it more than we do.”

“With all due respect, Patty, that's bullshit, and you know it. Tim's a selfish, insensitive prick, if you'll pardon the redundancy. You don't know what Tim saw in Marty. Well, I don't know what you see in him.”

“Sometimes I ask myself the same thing.”

“Why
did
you marry him?”

“It seemed like the thing to do at the time?” Patty said, with a self-deprecating smile.

“Right,” Rachel said, laughing. “Been there. Done that. Twice. Use the T-shirt to wash my car.”

“Tim's no better or worse than a lot of men I've known,” Patty said. “Worse than some, better than others. How'd you like to be married to Dougie Hallam?”

“Ugh. I'd rather be celibate the rest of my life.”

“Then there are guys like your brother.”

“Hal? I'd rather be celibate the rest of my life.”

“I meant Joe. Shoe.”

“Yeah, I know who you meant.”

“How come he's not married?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

A fter leaving the motel and getting his bearings, Hal found a Wal-Mart, where he bought a pair of slacks, a polo shirt, socks, and underwear, plus a cheap overnight bag. He changed in a public washroom, placing his soiled clothes into the shopping bag, knotting it, and stuffing it all into the overnight bag. By the time he walked across the huge parking lot to Maureen's car, his new shirt was soaked and sour with sweat. He wasn't any drier or sweeter smelling when, twenty minutes later, he parked in front of Gord Peters's Spanish-style ranch house in Mississauga.

“Hey, Hal,” Peters said when his wife, Clara, showed Hal into the backyard. The yard was surrounded by a six-foot fence and tall hedges, affording almost complete privacy. Peters was lounging in a beach chair by the small, kidney-shaped, in-ground pool, beer bottle propped on his small, hairy belly — he looked like a man who'd swallowed a soccer ball. He was wearing a black
Speedo bathing suit that barely contained his bulging genitals, his feet dangling in the water. Gord and Clara, like Hal and Maureen, didn't have children, but their ancient standard-bred poodle, Puddles, liked to cool off in the pool. At the moment, though, Puddles was lying in the shade of a parched-looking evergreen shrub, panting as though he were breathing his last. “Jesus,” Peters said. “You look like death. Clara, get the man a beer.”

“No, thank you,” Hal said, stomach lurching. “Get me another, then, will you, pet? That's a dear.” He absently scratched at his privates with stubby, hairy fingers.

Clara Peters smiled thinly as she turned toward the house. Hal watched her walk away. She was a quietly pretty woman, a bit serious, perhaps, the vice-principal of an elementary school. About forty, she had an absolutely stunning figure, Hal knew, from having seen her in a bathing suit at company picnics. Most times you wouldn't know it to look at her, though; she tended to wear baggy, shapeless clothing. Peters constantly complained that she dressed like a washer woman.

“Sit down before you fall down at least,” Peters said, indicating a lawn chair. Hal sat heavily, placing the empty overnight bag at his feet. “To what do we owe the honour of your visit, O wise one? Or'd you just come to lech Clara?”

“I have a favour to ask.”

“Ask away, old chum.”

Clara came out of the house with Peters's beer. She also had a tall glass of ice water. She handed the bottle of beer to her husband and held the glass out to Hal. “You looked like you could use this,” she said.

“Thank you,” Hal said, taking it. She smiled down at him.

“Yeah, thanks, pet,” Peters said, toasting her with his beer bottle, then raising it to his mouth. When his
wife had gone into the house again, he said, “So, what can I do for you, pal of mine?”

“I need some money.”

“Clara!” Peters bellowed, so loudly Puddle's head popped up and Hal flinched. “Bring my chequebook.” At a more reasonable volume, he said, “How much do you need?”

“Oh, five hundred thousand ought to do it.”

“Five hundred — Clara,” he called. “Forget the chequebook.” Lowering his voice: “You're joking, right?”

“I'm perfectly serious.”

“That's a hell of a lot of money, Hal.”

“I know it is.”

“The stuff doesn't just grow on trees.”

“As I figure it,” Hal said, “your fraudulent claim scheme has netted you at least three times that much in the last two years.”

Peters sat up. “For god's sake, Hal, keep your voice down.”

“Clara doesn't know?” Hal said.

“Of course not. Miss Goody Two-Shoes. She'd freak. Then turn me in for the finder's fee. Look, we had a deal, Hal. I did you a pretty big favour — ”

“And I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, Gord,” Hal said.

“ — because if that girl had filed a complaint, Hal, Jerry would've fired your ass faster than you could say ‘family values.' He sure as hell wouldn't've made you a VP.”

“Yes, I know, Gord,” Hal said tiredly. “I don't need you to remind me that it was an incredibly stupid thing to do.”

“But I made it all go away, didn't I?” Peters said.

“Yes, you did,” Hal said. For all he knew, though, it had been a setup from the start, orchestrated by Peters;
the girl had made it a point to prove to him that she never wore underwear. “And in return, I turned a blind eye to your embezzlement, even covered your tracks a couple of times.”

“And thanks for that, but a deal's a deal, Hal. I do you a favour, you do me a favour. We both win.” His expression sharpened. “Rumour has it Jerry is considering you for CFO next year. No one deserves it more. Thing is, Hal, it's always possible that the little cock-teaser could come back for more. You never know with blackmail, do you?”

“No,” Hal agreed. “You never do.”

“What do you need the money for, anyway?”

“That's my business.”

“All right, look,” Peters said. “We're friends. I want to be fair. I can let you have a few grand. Say twenty. In the spirit of friendship.”

“You must think I'm pretty stupid.”

Peters feigned hurt. “Hal, Hal. I don't think you're stupid at all. All right, twenty-five. But that's it.”

“We're both in the insurance business, Gord.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it,” Hal said. Peters's tan was beginning to look a little greenish and a sheen of perspiration glistened on his upper lip. “I need five hundred thousand dollars, Gord, but in that spirit of friendship you mentioned, I have something to offer in return.”

“I'm listening.”

“Jerry has requested an audit of your department.” Peters looked as though he were going to throw up.

“Oh, shit.”

“You've been pretty slick,” Hal said, “but not quite slick enough. Did you really think you could get away with it indefinitely?”

“No, of course not, but I figured I had a little longer. You're the VP of finance, Hal. Isn't there anything you
can do?”

“To stop it? Sorry. It's out of my hands. You know Jerry. When he gets a bee in his bonnet, he isn't happy till it stops buzzing. The best I could do is delay it for a week, maybe two. That would give you a little time. Or … ”

“Or what?” Peters's colour still wasn't good, but his face was hard, his grey eyes as lifeless and cold as ball bearings.

“I could go to Jerry first thing Tuesday morning and serve him your head on a platter.”

“What good would that do you?”

“No good at all. In fact, it would in all likelihood cost me my job, wouldn't it?”

“Damn right. I took out some insurance too, Hal. I've got you and your little friend on tape.”

“I assumed as much,” Hal said. “And who could blame you? But I've been thinking about retiring anyway. You, on the other hand, would lose everything — your house, your savings, perhaps even Clara — and, in all probability, go to jail for a good long time.”

“You son of a bitch. You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“No,” Hal said. “I'm not enjoying it at all.”

“You know,” Peters said, “if you weren't my friend, I'd bash your brains out with this beer bottle and bury you in Clara's garden.”

“Then I'm thankful you consider me a friend,” Hal said. “It's because you're my friend I'm just asking for five hundred thousand.”

“Some friend. I don't keep that much just lying around, you know.”

“I know. Let's start with the fifty thousand you keep in that safe in your recreation room.”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“You told me, Gord. At last year's Christmas party.

Your emergency fund, you called it.”

“Well, that was stupid of me, wasn't it?” Peters said with a thin, ironic smile.