“How much do you know about your husband’s business dealings?” I asked her.
“He was an art dealer. He had money in an insurance agency. He was part owner of several mail-order businesses.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“You mean his illegal business dealings.”
“That’s right.”
“Not much. Next to nothing.”
We were past the city limits, on our way out of town, now. Traffic was light, but it was a foggy night, misting, and visibility was poor.
“Tell me as much as you do know, then,” I said.
“While I was married to him, I thought he was a pillar of the community. Active in charity work. Chamber of Com- merce, Lions Club, everything. He was conservative, politically. He wasn’t active in local politics, not openly, anyway… he did have friends in political circles, and contributed heavily to various campaigns.”
“You’re talking about the public man, Carrie. What about the private man?”
“He was polite. Reserved. Kind. I know you’re wondering about the age difference, and if you’re thinking maybe he was more a father to me than a husband in some ways, yes, I suppose you’re right. But he was a husband, too.”
“Go on.”
“When he was found murdered… shot to death, by the side of the road…” She stopped a moment, shivered. “… when that happened, I realized I’d been pretty na ive. I realized there were things about him I hadn’t known, that I’d been like a sheltered child where much of his life was concerned. Did you know that some narcotics were found in his possession? Or, rather in a locker at the airport that he had a key to. It was pretty obvious that he’d been involved in some kind of, what? Underworld activity. Sounds silly to say that, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“Anyway, there were a lot of people with a lot of questions. Police, of course. Federal agents, because of the narcotics. More federal men, IRS, checking the books of my husband’s various businesses. It only began cooling down this past month, and I don’t anticipate it cooling down completely till who knows when.”
“Are the federal men gone?”
“All but IRS. They haven’t bothered me personally, much. The narcotics people and the police did, though. Unmercifully.”
“Has anyone else come around to talk to you, Carrie? Someone who might claim to be an old business associate of your husband’s.”
“I haven’t talked to anyone in the last three months except members of my family and police and federal people. And you, Jack.”
“And right now you’re wondering how the hell to ask who the hell I am.”
“Yes.”
“Officially I was a salesman for one of those mail-order companies your husband was part owner of.”
“Unofficially?”
“I guess you could say I delivered messages for him.”
“You’re being vague.”
“I have to be.”
“You’re trying to say you were involved in the illegal side of what my husband did.”
“Yes.”
“I see. Then it wasn’t accidental, our meeting each other?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t arrange the meeting, Carrie. Did you?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll have to assume it was accidental.”
“A coincidence, you mean.”
“I used to stay at the Concort, whenever I came to the Cities on business, to confer with your husband. I like the Concort. I like to swim there. So when I came to the Cities this time, I stayed there again. And swam there again. You inherited an interest in the Concort when your husband was killed. You like to come around and swim there in the mornings. So we bumped into each other.”
“That’s still pretty coincidental.”
“I know it is. It’s the reason I didn’t call you back today. I looked in your purse, last night, saw who you were. It bothered me. I wasn’t going to contact you again till I was sure about you.”
“Are you sure about me now?”
“I guess I have to be. Just like you have to be about me. Maybe we should just be tentatively sure about each other.”
The fog and misting had us crawling along the highway. Few other cars were foolhardy enough to be out on a night like this, pushing through the thick, gray shifting unreality.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said.
“Which question?”
“Why do you think someone’s trying to kill me?”
So I explained it to her, modifying certain parts and leaving others out, but giving her what was, essentially, the truth. I told her that an attempt had been made on my life, for reasons I had yet to ascertain, but that I had managed to trace the attempt to another former associate of her husband’s (Ash) who I’d followed to the Quad Cities, where some sort of takeover of her husband’s extralegal business activities seemed to be in progress, part of which involved Ash and another man staking out her home and recording her every move and, eventually, killing her.
I also told her that despite our poolside encounter, I hadn’t known until a few hours ago that she was the potential victim in the brown brick house. And I told her that if she hadn’t broken her usually rigid daily routine and driven to the Concort last night for an evening swim, she’d probably be dead now.
That chilled her a bit.
“I still don’t understand why anyone would want to have me killed.”
“Neither do I. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I can’t. The part of my husband’s life these people would be interested in, I’m totally ignorant of.”
“Maybe they don’t know that. Maybe you’re in possession of information that could be dangerous to somebody, even if you aren’t aware of it.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Again, neither do I. But somebody does. Somebody considers you an obstacle. Somehow, you’ve got in the way of whoever it is who’s trying to take over where your husband left off.”
“And I don’t even know what it is they’re trying to take over. Narcotics smuggling? Crooked politics? What?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“No. No. No, I don’t.”
“Carrie, a while ago you said how those federal people and the police had bothered you… unmercifully, I think you said. Is that why you haven’t asked me to take you to the police?”
“Oh, you’re wondering if that’s occurred to me. That I should be thinking, if my life’s really in danger, shouldn’t I run to the police? Why put myself in your hands instead, the hands of a stranger? Well, why not? Who else do I have? I put myself in your hands last night, willingly enough. Why not again.”
There was an uneasiness in her voice, despite her artificially flip attitude, that disturbed me. A resignation, that seemed to say, If you’re my lover, fine… but if you’re my murderer, well that’s fine, too… it just doesn’t matter that much to me, one way or the other, anymore.
“Carrie,” I said. “If you think I’ve kidnapped you, you’re wrong. If you want to go to the police, just say so. I’ll turn this heap around and drop you off at the station in Davenport. Just say the word.”
“No. No police. I told you about my husband’s political ties. People in local government and beyond could be involved in the same illegal things he was involved in, and if there are people trying to kill me, it could very likely be them. So, no, I don’t have the urge to call the police. But I would like to know what you hope to do for me. Besides hide me out for a while. How can you stop killers, anyway?”
“The same way they stop you.”
“Oh. I think I see what you mean.”
“Maybe you’ll want to change your mind about the police, after all, Carrie. Knowing that.”
“Knowing what? That some people are going to die? And that you’re going to kill them? No. My husband was murdered. I’m apparently next on the list. People want to murder me. No, it doesn’t bother me if people like that are killed. It doesn’t even bother me if you’re the one who does it. I just don’t want to hear about it. Lie to me if you have to. But don’t tell me.”
We were coming into a small town, a cemetery on our left, a sign welcoming us to Blue Grass, population 1032, on the right.
“You might be holed up at that cottage several days,” I said. “Got any food on hand there?”
“Not to speak of,” she said.
“Well, if something’s open here, we’ll stop and pick some up.”
A block later I pulled up along the curb in front of an old-fashioned clapboard grocery store and sent her in. Then I drove down another block and pulled in to get gas.
While the Buick was being filled, I went in and got change and used the pay phone.
I called the number Ash had given me earlier today.
The call went through immediately; one ring and a well-modulated baritone voice answered.
“Who’s speaking?” I demanded.
“Curtis Brooks.”
“Brooks, are you the man, or just a stooge? I don’t want to talk to another go-between.”
“You must be Mr. Quarry.”
“Do you have ten thousand dollars handy?”
“Why?”
“Have it handy by tomorrow morning. Early. I’ve got the Broker’s widow and that’s what it’ll cost you, if you want her.”
I hung up, paid for the gas and drove over and picked her up at the grocery store, and we headed through the fog and mist toward her cottage.