She hadn’t lost her touch with the rubber bands.Ever since she’d hired me, Judge Esme Anne Whitney would sit on the edge of her desk and fire them at me. Up until a few years ago, she would have been partaking of brandy while she did this; but a trip to a Minnesota clinic where alcoholics were treated had taught her-despite all her noisy bitter initial objections to the truth-that she was an alcoholic and had to give up drinking completely.
This morning she wore a tan linen suit, yellow blouse, tan hose, and brown pumps. The imperious and finely wrought beauty was remarkably intact, the short silver hair only adding to the appeal. And the other important things were intact, too-her endless self-regard, her impatience, and her judgment that at sixty-some years of age, who knew how to run the world better than she did?
“You look funny with a rubber band hanging off your nose.”
“Gosh, and just think. Next year you’ll be in fifth grade.”
“I have a Polaroid camera in my desk, but I suppose the rubber band would fall off by the time I got it.”
“Aw, shucks.” I ripped the rubber band off my nose, strung it between thumb and forefinger, and fired it back at her. I missed, as I usually do.
“Now who’s being juvenile, McCain?” She lifted her blue package of Gauloises from her desk and lighted one with a fey little solid silver lighter. “Lou Bennett was a friend of mine. Of sorts.”
The way sunlight angled through the tall windows and illuminated the framed painting of her patrician father reminded me of the day years ago when I’d brought my parents here to meet her at her request. My mother had been taken with the severe but handsome image of the patriarch. I could remember her standing in a similar stream of light.
My folks were as quiet and polite and intimidated as if the Pope had asked them to an audience. The lustrous dark wainscoting, the rich ruby carpeting you could twist an ankle in, and the magisterial walls of leather-bound books intimidated most people. That was the intention. My parents were humbled being here, of course. Not many people from the Hills got invites. They only relaxed when the judge, who’d been unusually cordial, told them she’d invited them here so that they could hear her offer me a job as her investigator. She’d even had a bottle of champagne on hand for the occasion.
“I don’t find that surprising, Judge. You and Bennett had a lot in common.”
“I know how you meant that, McCain, but I’d have thought you’d have respected him. He saved a colored man’s life. You’re always prattling on about civil rights.”
“He couldn’t dine out on that forever. He did one good thing in his life, but he did a lot of bad things too.”
“If you mean the run-in he had with the school board, I agreed with him one hundred percent. Those two teachers had no respect for American history. The way they taught it, we were butchers and murderers when we came here from Europe.”
“He wanted a whitewash. And he wanted the teachers fired.”
Something shifted in her upper-class gaze. “Well, he did go a bit far, I have to admit. I’m the one who suggested that he drop the idea of firing them. Or monitoring their classes.”
“You did?”
“You don’t have to sound so damned surprised, McCain. I do believe in the Constitution, you know.”
“He didn’t.”
She looked unhappy. “No, he didn’t.” Then: “He was a bit of an ass, I have to say. But I heard about him breaking down last night at that stupid rally of yours. I felt sorry for him.”
“So did I. So did most of the people at the rally. Commies have feelings, too.”
She ignored my comment. Instead she inhaled deeply and exhaled a blast of smoke heavy enough to tar a road. “So tell me about this Doran person Cliffie thinks killed Bennett.”
She winced at his political activities but seemed pleased when I mentioned Yale. The filthy degenerate Communist troublemaker with a Yale degree wasn’t quite so filthy after all.
“Why does Cliffie think Doran killed Lou?”
I told her about the fight on the sidewalk. “That’s all I know right now. As I said, Cliffie didn’t want me anywhere near the crime scene.”
She smiled. “I’m glad we make him nervous. And we should. He’s a buffoon.”
“He was a friend of Bennett’s too, remember? I’m surprised the three of you didn’t sit around getting drunk and making lists of all the Commies here in Black River Falls.”
“I’d call you insolent if you weren’t so juvenile.” She left the perch on her desk and walked over to one of the windows. Good gams and a tight backside. Every one of her four husbands had no doubt been most appreciative of these and her many other charms. “Well, hop to it, McCain. I want to really humiliate Cliffie this time. Giving that stupid minister a permit for that record-burning tomorrow was the last straw.”
The record-burning she had alluded to was the brainstorm of Reverend H. Dobson Cartwright, DD, which allegedly stood for Doctor of Divinity. Kenny called him Reverend Cartwright, DDT. That was more appropriate. Cartwright had a radio show and a flock and was given to publicity stunts that embarrassed everybody but true believers. Tomorrow his flock would be burning the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and many others.
Knowing I was being dismissed, I stood up and took my last shot, “Gee, you mean you’re not taking in your Lawrence Welk records?”
“Good-bye, McCain.”
“Jerry Vale?”
“I said good-bye.”
“Kate Smith?”
She’d never given me the finger before. She looked sort of cute doing it.