Mr.
McCain, you really need a haircut.”
I wanted to kick him in the crotchtal area.
I didn’t get in to see Judge Whitney until much later that morning. And when I did get to her chambers, I found two men and two women I’d never seen before. They had the taint of fussiness about them, a certain archness that stamped them as her kind of folk, not mine. One of the women was a nice-looking redhead. Which reminded me of Kylie Burke. I wondered how she was doing.
Her world had to be coming apart. No matter that she was too good for him. She’d always been so clearly gaga over him that it was painful to watch.
The Judge was giving orders like a field commander. “Then, Rick, you know how I want the tent set up. And Randy you know how I wanted the cake to be made—eight tiers. And Darla I want the food to be as colorfully arranged as Michele’s flowers—in fact, you two should get together and see if there’s some way you could coordinate some things.”
Maybe a gardenia sandwich, I thought.
All this was for Richard Milhous Nixon, of course.
I had seen the Judge a-flutter and
a-twitter before but these had been on separate occasions. But I’d never seen her both
a-flutter and a-twitter at the same time. This was something to behold.
Oleg Cassini had become her designer of choice and so on her four-trips-a-year to New York City she stocked up on Cassini duds the way factory workers stocked up on Monkey Wards work clothes. Today, she wore a handsome tan linen suit with matching pumps. Her short hair looked freshly washed and combed. And she strode the length of her office with runway elegance. She was all crazed, nervous energy, terrified that she’d make less than a good impression on old Milhous.
That’s why you have to be careful about being a-flutter and a-twitter at the same time. It can really make you crazy—y’re like an engine with the idle running too fast.
“Now, does everybody know what they need to do?”
Cowed, terrified, they glanced at each other and then looked back at the Judge. They nodded like frightened puppies who’d just pooped on the new carpeting.
“Good, because I don’t need to tell you, there’ll be hell to pay for anybody who screws up.”
I felt sorry for them. God, I felt
sorry for them.
She waved them dismissively away. They left with great hurried relief.
“So,” she said when the last of them had closed the door, “this thing is getting worse and worse.”
She went over to her desk, poured herself some brandy, plucked a Gauloise from her cigarette case and lighted it with a small aluminum box that somehow produced fire.
“They’re connected,” she said, exhaling a gulf stream of blue smoke. “Muldaur and Reverend Courtney.”
“I sure think so.”
“But how?”
“Not a clue. Not so far.”
“I don’t want these ridiculous murders hanging over our heads when Dick gets here.”
A chic sip. She was a damned good-looking woman and knew it. “You have one of your famous lists?”
“I have one of my famous lists.”
My crime instructor at the university said that a good detective always writes down names and incidents and then begins to connect them, like
children’s puzzles where eventually the connected lines draw a picture. In this case, the picture of a killer.
“The night Muldaur was murdered, both Sara Hall and the now-deceased Reverend Courtney just happened to show up. I find that strange. I mean, why would they be way out in the boonies like that?
That’s the first thing on my list. The second thing is that when I went out to Muldaur’s trailer the day after the murder the daughter said she knew who’d killed her father but then her mother told her to shut up. Also, there was a crazy hillbilly there named Ned. He was exchanging bullets with the Muldaurs, which they explained to me was just a mountain tradition and not anything to worry about. He claims that Muldaur owes him money for collecting snakes. He’s worth following
McCain, you really need a haircut.”
I wanted to kick him in the crotchtal area.
I didn’t get in to see Judge Whitney until much later that morning. And when I did get to her chambers, I found two men and two women I’d never seen before. They had the taint of fussiness about them, a certain archness that stamped them as her kind of folk, not mine. One of the women was a nice-looking redhead. Which reminded me of Kylie Burke. I wondered how she was doing.
Her world had to be coming apart. No matter that she was too good for him. She’d always been so clearly gaga over him that it was painful to watch.
The Judge was giving orders like a field commander. “Then, Rick, you know how I want the tent set up. And Randy you know how I wanted the cake to be made—eight tiers. And Darla I want the food to be as colorfully arranged as Michele’s flowers—in fact, you two should get together and see if there’s some way you could coordinate some things.”
Maybe a gardenia sandwich, I thought.
All this was for Richard Milhous Nixon, of course.
I had seen the Judge a-flutter and
a-twitter before but these had been on separate occasions. But I’d never seen her both
a-flutter and a-twitter at the same time. This was something to behold.
Oleg Cassini had become her designer of choice and so on her four-trips-a-year to New York City she stocked up on Cassini duds the way factory workers stocked up on Monkey Wards work clothes. Today, she wore a handsome tan linen suit with matching pumps. Her short hair looked freshly washed and combed. And she strode the length of her office with runway elegance. She was all crazed, nervous energy, terrified that she’d make less than a good impression on old Milhous.
That’s why you have to be careful about being a-flutter and a-twitter at the same time. It can really make you crazy—y’re like an engine with the idle running too fast.
“Now, does everybody know what they need to do?”
Cowed, terrified, they glanced at each other and then looked back at the Judge. They nodded like frightened puppies who’d just pooped on the new carpeting.
“Good, because I don’t need to tell you, there’ll be hell to pay for anybody who screws up.”
I felt sorry for them. God, I felt
sorry for them.
She waved them dismissively away. They left with great hurried relief.
“So,” she said when the last of them had closed the door, “this thing is getting worse and worse.”
She went over to her desk, poured herself some brandy, plucked a Gauloise from her cigarette case and lighted it with a small aluminum box that somehow produced fire.
“They’re connected,” she said, exhaling a gulf stream of blue smoke. “Muldaur and Reverend Courtney.”
“I sure think so.”
“But how?”
“Not a clue. Not so far.”
“I don’t want these ridiculous murders hanging over our heads when Dick gets here.”
A chic sip. She was a damned good-looking woman and knew it. “You have one of your famous lists?”
“I have one of my famous lists.”
My crime instructor at the university said that a good detective always writes down names and incidents and then begins to connect them, like
children’s puzzles where eventually the connected lines draw a picture. In this case, the picture of a killer.
“The night Muldaur was murdered, both Sara Hall and the now-deceased Reverend Courtney just happened to show up. I find that strange. I mean, why would they be way out in the boonies like that?
That’s the first thing on my list. The second thing is that when I went out to Muldaur’s trailer the day after the murder the daughter said she knew who’d killed her father but then her mother told her to shut up. Also, there was a crazy hillbilly there named Ned. He was exchanging bullets with the Muldaurs, which they explained to me was just a mountain tradition and not anything to worry about. He claims that Muldaur owes him money for collecting snakes. He’s worth following
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