How Like an Angel (17 page)

“You're over-imagining, Willie.”

“No, I don't think so. God knows I'd like to, but I can't. George acted like a different man. He wasn't
George
any more. The real George, my George, wouldn't go on a trip like that without careful planning in advance about where he'd stay and what he'd do and how long he'd be gone. He didn't tell me a single detail beyond the fact that he was leaving the next morning. So you see, I have reason to be afraid. I've got this terrible feeling he's not coming back. I keep thinking of O'Gorman.”

“Why O'Gorman?”

She pushed the handkerchief across her forehead again. “Endings can happen so suddenly. I should have argued with George, begged him to take me along. Then if the plane crashed, at least we'd have died together.”

“You're getting morbid, Willie. I didn't hear of any plane crash day before yesterday. Right this minute George is prob­ably surrounded by a bevy of sun-browned maidens who are teaching him the hula.”

She stared up at Quinn coldly. “If that was intended to cheer me up, I assure you it didn't. Sun-browned maidens, hell.”

“With hibiscus in their hair.”

“I have a hibiscus growing in my own backyard. Any time I want to put one in my hair, I can. I can also get a tan
and
do the hula, if I have to.”

“I'd bet on you any day, Willie.”

“Would you?”

“Try me.”

“Oh, stop kidding around, Quinn,” she said with a brisk shake of her head. “I'm not your type, and you're not mine. I like older, more mature men, not the kind who know where they're going, but the kind who are already there. I've been through that stardust and baked beans routine once. Never again. I want security. I don't think you even know what you want.”

“I'm beginning to find out.”

“Since when?”

“Since I hit rock-bottom a couple of weeks ago.”

“How far down is rock-bottom for you, Quinn?”

“Far enough,” he said, “so there's no direction to go but up. Have you ever heard of the Tower of Heaven?”

“I had a very religious aunt who was always using phrases like that in her conversation.”

“This isn't a phrase, it's a real place in the mountains be­hind San Felice. I've been there twice and I've promised to go back a third time. Which reminds me, did you ever have acne?”

Her precisely plucked brows moved up her forehead. “Say, are you losing your marbles?”

“I may be. I'd like an answer to my question anyway.”

“I never had acne, no,” she said carefully, as though she were humoring an idiot. “My kid sister did when she was in high school. She got rid of it by washing her face six or seven times a day, using Norton's drying lotion, and not eating any sweets or oils. Is that what you want to know?”

“Yes. Thank you, Willie.”

“I suppose if I asked
why
you wanted to know, you wouldn't—”

“I wouldn't.”

“You're a very peculiar man,” Willie said thoughtfully. “But I'm sure that's already been pointed out to you?”

“At my mother's knee. Besides, we can't all be perfect like George.”

“I didn't claim he was perfect.” There was a sharp note in her voice as if she had suddenly had too vivid a picture of George surrounded by the sun-browned maidens. “He's head­strong like his mother, for one thing. When he gets an idea, he goes right ahead and acts on it, without consulting anyone else or caring what I—what someone else might think.”

“Like the sudden trip to Hawaii?”

“It's a good example.”

“You're sure he went to Hawaii?”

“Why, I—of course. Of course I'm sure.”

“Did you see him off?”

“Naturally.”

“Where?”

“He came to my apartment to say good-bye,” she said. “He was going to drive to San Felice, catch a plane there, and then transfer at Los Angeles to a jet liner for Honolulu.”

“Leaving his car at San Felice airport?”

“Yes.”

“They don't have a garage at San Felice airport.”

“There must be garages nearby,” she said anxiously. “Aren't there?”

“I guess so. What kind of car was he driving?”

“His own. A green Pontiac station wagon, last year's. Why are you asking me all these questions? I don't like it. It makes me nervous. You seem to be implying that George didn't go to Hawaii at all.”

“No. I just want to make sure he did.”

“Why, it never even occurred to me to doubt it until you started hinting around,” she said in an accusing voice. “Maybe you're deliberately trying to cause trouble between George and me for reasons of your own.”

“There's already been trouble between George and you, hasn't there, Willie?”

Her jaws tightened, giving her face a strong sinewy look Quinn hadn't seen before. “None that I couldn't handle. His mother has been, well, rather difficult.”

“Last time you talked about her she was an old harridan. Is she improving, or are you?” When she didn't answer, Quinn went on. “I heard an interesting rumor a few days ago from what I consider a reliable source. It concerns George.”

“Then I don't care to hear it. A man in George's position, especially after what happened to Alberta, becomes the target for all kinds of rumors and gossip. He's borne up under it the only way he could, by living a clean, decent, exemplary life. There's something about George you couldn't know since you haven't met him—he's an extraordinarily brave man. He could easily have left town to avoid the scandal. But he didn't. He stayed here and fought it.”

“Why?”

“I told you. He's a brave man.”

“Maybe he had ties in Chicote, the same kind that keep you here.”

“You mean his mother? Or me?”

“Neither,” Quinn said. “I mean Martha O'Gorman.”

Willie's face looked ready to fall apart, but she caught it in time and held it together by sheer will power. The effort left her trembling. “That's ridiculous.”

“I don't see why. She's an attractive woman and she has class.”

“Class? So that's what you call it when someone acts as though she's better than the rest of us. I know all about Martha O'Gorman. My best friend works with her at the hospital lab and she says Martha throws a fit if anyone makes the least little mistake.”

“The least little mistake in a hospital lab can be pretty big.”

Quinn realized that Willie, not for the first time, had quite neatly turned the conversation away from George.
There are certain kinds of birds,
he thought,
that protect their nests, when they're threatened, by pretending the nest is someplace else. The maneuver involves a lot of squawking and wing-beating; Willie's good at both, but she's a little too obvious, and she suffers from the current disadvantage of not being entirely sure where her nest is and what's going on inside it.

Willie kept right on squawking, anyway. “She's a cold, hard woman. You've only to look at that frozen face of hers to figure out that much. The girls at the lab are all scared of her.”

“You seem pretty scared of her yourself, Willie.”

“Me? Why should I be?”

“Because of George.”

She began, once again, telling Quinn how ridiculous the idea was, how absolutely absurd to think of George paying atten­tion to a woman like that. But her words had a hollow ring, and Quinn knew she wasn't even convincing herself. He knew another thing, too: Willie King was suffering from a severe case of jealousy, and he wondered what had caused it. A week ago she had seemed a great deal more sure of herself, and the only fly in her amber was George's mother. Now the amber was polished and other flies had become visible. Martha O'Gorman and the sun-browned maidens with hibiscus in their hair, and perhaps still others Quinn hadn't yet discovered.

THIRTEEN

It was an
old white-brick three-storied house, a Victorian dowager looking down her nose and trying to ignore the oil-rich newcomers she was forced to associate with. Behind thick lace curtains and bristling turrets she brooded, pondered, dis­approved, and fought a losing battle against the flat-roofed ranch-styles and stucco and redwood boxes. Quinn expected that the woman who answered the door would match the house.

Mrs. Haywood didn't. She was slim and stylish in beige-colored linen. Her hair was dyed platinum pink, and her face bore the barely visible scars of a surgical lifting. She looked as youthful as her son George, except for the ancient griefs that showed in her eyes.

Quinn said, “Mrs. Haywood?”

“Yes.” No amount of surgery could disguise her voice; it was the cracked whine of an old woman. “I buy nothing from peddlers.”

“My name is Joe Quinn. I'd like to discuss some business with Mr. Haywood.”

“Business should be confined to the office.”

“I called his office and was told he wasn't in. I took a chance on his being home.”

“He's not.”

“Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Haywood. When your husband gets home, please tell him to get in touch with me, will you? I'm at Frisby's Motel on Main Street.”

“Husband?” She pounced on the word like a starving cat. Quinn could almost feel the sting of her claws. He was both repelled and moved to pity by the desperate hunger in her eyes and the coy girlish smile that failed to hide it. “You've made a mistake, Mr. Quinn, but what a very nice one. It's too bad all the mistakes we humans make can't be so pleasant. George is my son.”

Quinn was sorry he'd had to use such raw bait but it was too late now to snatch it away. “That's hard to believe.”

“Quite frankly, I adore flattery, so I'm not going to argue with you.”

“I'm sure the mistake's been made before, Mrs. Haywood.”

“Oh yes, on a number of occasions, but it never fails to astonish and amuse me. I'm afraid poor George isn't quite so amused. Perhaps this time I won't tell him about it; it will remain our little secret, Mr. Quinn, just between you and me.”

And the next hundred people she meets
, Quinn thought.

Now that he had come face to face with Mrs. Haywood, he was no longer surprised by her complete rejection of her two daughters. There was no room in the house for younger females who might invite comparisons. Mrs. Haywood's maternal instinct was a good deal weaker than her instinct for self-preservation. She meant to survive, on her own terms, and she couldn't afford the luxury of sentiment.
Poor Willie, her road to security has more chuckholes and detours than she's equipped to handle. If there was no room in the house for Alberta and Ruth, there will certainly be none for Willie.

Mrs. Haywood had assumed a picturesque, fashion-magazine pose against the doorjamb. “Of course, I've always kept fit. I see no reason why people should let themselves go after fif—forty. I've always tried to impress upon my family my own axiom: you
are
what you
eat.”

If Mrs. Haywood subsisted on gall and wormwood, then her axiom was undoubtedly true. Quinn said, “I'm sorry to have missed Mr. Haywood. Will he be in his office later this afternoon?”

“Oh no. George is in Hawaii.” She obviously didn't like either the change of subject or the idea of George being in Hawaii. “Doctor's orders. It's absurd, of course. There's noth­ing the matter with George that good cold showers and hard exercise won't cure. But then, doctors are all alike, aren't they? When they have no real cure to offer they recommend a change of climate and scene. Are you a friend of George's?”

“I have some business to discuss with him.”

“Well, I don't know when he'll be back. The trip came as a complete surprise to me. He didn't even mention it to me until after he'd bought his ticket. Then it was too late for me to do anything about it. It seems terribly foolish and extrava­gant to spend all that money because some incompetent doctor suggests it. George could just as easily have gone to stay in San Felice, the climate's the same as Hawaii. I have my own share of aches and pains but I don't take off for exotic places. I simply increase my wheat germ and tiger's milk and do a few extra knee bends. Do you believe in vigorous exercise, Mr. Quinn?”

“Oh yes. Yes, indeed.”

“I thought so. You seem very fit.”

She changed her pose from fashion magazine to Olympic champion, and looked hopefully at Quinn as if she expected another compliment. Quinn couldn't think of any he could offer without gagging. He said instead, “Do you happen to know what airline Mr. Haywood took?”

“No. Should I?”

“You said he'd bought his ticket. I thought he might have showed it to you.”

“He brandished an envelope under my nose but I knew he was only doing it to annoy me so I pretended complete in­difference. I will not be provoked into a common quarrel, it's too hard on the heart and the arteries. I simply express my viewpoint and refuse to discuss the matter any further. George was quite aware how I felt about this trip of his. I considered it unnecessary and extravagant, and I told him point-blank that if he was really concerned about his health he'd stay home more in the evenings instead of chasing around after women.”

“Mr. Haywood isn't married?”

“He was. His wife died many years ago. It was hardly un­expected. She was a poor spiritless little thing, life was too much for her. Since her death, of course, every woman in town has set her cap for George. Fortunately, he has me to point out to him some of their wiles and pretenses. He'd never see through any of them himself, he's hopelessly naive. A very good example of this happened a few days ago. A woman called and said she had to see George about a mysterious letter she'd received—I heard her because I had picked up the extension phone, quite by accident. Mysterious letter, indeed. Why, a child could have seen through a ruse like that. But George, no. In spite of his cough, off he went before I had a chance to tell him that even if she was speaking the truth she was up to no good. The
right
people just do not receive mys­terious letters. When I asked him about it later he blew up at me. I tell you, it's not easy to be a mother in this age of hard liquor and harder women.” She smiled with a flash of teeth too white and perfect to have been around as long as the rest of her. “I find you restful and
simpatico,
Mr. Quinn. Do you live in Chicote?”

“No.”

“What a shame. I was hoping you could come to dinner one night with George and me. We eat simple, healthful food, but it's quite tasty, nevertheless.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Quinn said. “You know, you've aroused my curiosity, Mrs. Haywood.”

She looked flattered. “I have? How?”

“That mysterious letter. Did it really exist?”

“Well, I can't be sure because George wouldn't tell me. But I think, personally, that she invented it. It was merely an excuse to get George to go over to her house and see her in her own setting, with the two children, and a fire in the fire­place, and something bubbling on the stove, that sort of thing. Deliberate domesticity, if you follow me.”

I follow you
, Quinn thought,
right up to Martha O'Gor­man's front door.

There was no fire in the fireplace, and if something was bubbling on the stove, none of its aroma was escaping through the locked windows and drawn blinds. The brass lion's-head knocker on the front door looked as if it hadn't been used since Quinn's first visit a week ago. From the yard next door a girl about ten years old, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, watched Quinn curiously as he waited for someone to answer his knock.

After a time she said in a dreamy voice, “They're not home. They left about an hour ago.”

“Do you happen to know where they went?”

“They didn't tell me, but I saw Richard putting the sleep­ing bags in the car so I guess they went camping. They do a lot of camping.”

The girl chewed reflectively on her gum for a minute. Quinn said, by way of encouragement, “Have you been a neighbor of the O'Gormans very long?”

“Practically forever. Sally's my best friend. Richard I hate, he's too bossy.”

“Have you ever gone camping with them?”

“Once, last year. I didn't like it.”

“Why not?”

“I kept thinking of big black bears. Also, rattlesnakes, on account of that was where we were camping, on the Rattle­snake River. It was real scary.”

“What's your name, young lady?”

“Miranda Knights. I hate it.”

“I think it's very pretty,” Quinn said. “Do you remember exactly where you camped on the Rattlesnake River, Miranda?”

“Sure. Paradise Falls, where the Rattlesnake flows into the Torcido River. It's not really a falls, though; it's just some big boulders with trickles of water falling down. Richard likes it because he hides behind the boulders and makes noises like a bear and jumps out to scare Sally and me. Richard's ghastly.”

“Oh, I can see that.”

“My brothers are ghastly, too, but they're smaller than I am so it's not such a terrible problem.”

“I'm sure you can handle it,” Quinn said. “Tell me, Miranda, do the O'Gormans usually camp at Paradise Falls?”

“I never heard Sally talk about any other place except that.”

“Do you know how to get there?”

“No,” Miranda said. “But it doesn't take long, less than an hour.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Naturally. Last year when I was with them and I got homesick and scared of black bears and rattlesnakes, Mrs. O'Gorman kept telling me I was less than an hour from home.”

“Thank you, Miranda.”

“You're welcome.”

Quinn returned to his car. He thought of asking directions at a gas station and setting out immediately for Paradise Falls. But the mid-afternoon heat was so intense that it rose in waves from the streets and sidewalks, and the whole town had a blurry look as if it had grown fuzz.

He went back to his motel room, turned the air-conditioner on full, and lay down on the bed. The more he learned of Martha O'Gorman, the less he felt he knew her. Her image, like the town shimmering in the heat, had become blurred. It had been clear enough at first: she was a woman devoted to her family and still in mourning for a beloved husband, a woman of both sense and sensitivity who dreaded the thought that the inquiry into her husband's disappearance might be reopened. The dread was natural enough, she'd been through a bad time, harassed by gossip, rumors and publicity. They had all died down now and Quinn could understand why she was reluctant to start them up again. What bothered him was the fact that at the coroner's inquest Martha O'Gorman had had a chance to resolve the whole case and she had refused it. If she had not claimed that she had put the dent in the rear bumper of the car by backing into a lamppost, the coroner's jury would probably have decided that O'Gorman's car had been forced off the road. There could be only one of two reasons behind her claim: either it was the truth, or she couldn't afford to leave open that particular area of investi­gation:
gentlemen of the jury, I put that dent in the bumper, you needn't look any further.
Apparently they hadn't looked any further, and only a few skeptics like Frisby still believed Martha had lied, to save her own skin, or somebody else's.

A dent and a few traces of dark green paint—small things in themselves, made larger in Quinn's eyes by the contradic­tions in Martha's character and behavior. She was too ill to work, yet she went on a camping trip. And the spot she chose, and, according to the girl Miranda, always chose, was not just any old campground. It was the place which, if the police and John Ronda were correct, her husband's body had floated by. Quinn remembered John Ronda telling him about it: a few miles beyond the bridge where O'Gorman's car went over, the Rattlesnake River joined the Torcido, which at that time was a raging torrent fed by mountain streams and melting snow.

Why did she keep returning to the same place? Quinn wondered. Did she hope to find him, after all these years, wedged between a couple of boulders? Or was she motivated by guilt? And what did she tell the kids?—
Let's all go out and look for Daddy.

The boy, Richard, had gathered driftwood and pine cones for the campfire and he was itching to light it. But his mother told him it wasn't cool enough yet and it would be better to wait.

His mother and sister Sally were cooking supper on the charcoal grill, beans and corn on the cob and spareribs. Some­times the ribs caught fire and Sally would put out the flames by squirting them with a plastic water pistol. She didn't handle the pistol the way a boy would have, pretending to shoot something or someone. She was very solemn about it, using the child's toy like an adult, for practical reasons.