The Best American Mystery Stories 2000

Barbara D’Amato Motel 66

From Murder on Route 66

About eight miles south of Bloomington-Normal, June finally convinced Donald to let her drive. At that point they were a hundred and thirty miles away from Chicago. A hundred and thirty miles from home. Donald had crossed the middle line too often, and she was worried about the amount of champagne he had drunk. The secondhand Packard that was her grandfather’s wedding gift held the road through sheer weight, tacking slowly like a working sailboat and not much less hefty than a Packard hearse, but there were giant produce trucks with vertical wooden pickets holding loads of asparagus coming the other way, bound to Chicago probably, and June was terrified about what would happen if Donald steered into one head-on.

Once relieved of driving, David picked a champagne bottle off the floor of the back seat and swigged some of it. Donald’s brother had put six of the bottles of champagne that had not been drunk into the car, saying “Celebrate!”

“Do you think you should have all that?” she asked, very cautiously, not wanting to start off their marriage sounding like a nag.

“Why, sure, Juney. If I can’t drink champagne today, what day can I ever drink it?”

“Well, that’s true.”

It was getting late and the sun was low. A noon wedding had been followed by the wedding lunch, then the bouquet-throwing, and finally she had changed into this peach-colored suit and matching little hat, and her new wedding hairstyle. She felt glamorous, but the straight skirt was too tight for comfortable driving. She wondered if she should hike it up, but she would feel brazen to have her thighs exposed. Then she thought, “How silly. We’re married.” But she still didn’t hike it up. Somehow it just didn’t seem right.

Her mother had insisted on June and Donald having a good solid snack before they left, and it turned out, much as June hated to admit it, her mother had been right. They would really have been hungry by now otherwise. The woman had also put a package of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper in a bag in the back seat and June had eaten a sandwich while Donald drove. He only seemed to want champagne.

They had passed three or four Motel 66s along Route 66 as they headed south. But they had no connection with each other, Donald said. She said, “Maybe they’re a chain, like Howard Johnson’s.”

But Donald said, “No. Howard Johnson’s is restaurants. There aren’t any motel chains.”

She was sure she’d heard of some, but she didn’t want to contradict Donald, because he didn’t like being contradicted. And anyway it wasn’t important.

Motel 66 Motor Court was nice looking, a dozen separate little cabins painted white with navy blue trim. The cabins were plunked down in a horseshoe shape in the middle of open land. Young trees had been planted between each cabin and the next, but they were saplings and didn’t soften the flat, featureless landscape much. June thought that the trees were copper beeches. Donald pulled up to a tiny cabin in the center that had an office sign in front.

“Do you think we need our marriage license?” June said, as she smoothed her skirt before getting out of the car. She had never checked into a motel before — the idea still made her quite nervous — and she had heard bad things.

“No,” Donald said.

“But people say they’ll wonder if you’re really married, and they check to see if you have luggage—”

By then Donald had entered the door of the office and she followed right away, suddenly feeling alone. As she closed the car door, a little rice blew out. Well, if they don’t believe it, she thought, there’s the proof.

June heard angry voices, quickly cut off. The office was not more than ten feet by ten feet, with a counter topped with linoleum in the center. The same linoleum covered the floor. The office was spotlessly clean, and in fact a teenage girl with a dustpan and broom was digging dust out of the corner where the two far walls came together.

A cash register sat on a card table against the rear wall. A man sat cranking the handle of an adding machine, holding small sheets of paper in his left hand.

“Welcome to Motel 66,” said a pink, plump woman in a pink dress sprigged with blue carnations.

Donald said, “Thanks. We’d like a room.”

“How many nights?”

“One.”

“That’ll be six dollars.”

June saw Donald wince, thinking this was more than he had expected to pay. She hoped he wouldn’t make a fuss.

The woman seemed to want to gloss over the price too, and talked on breezily. “I’m Bertine, and this is Pete. You’re lucky you stopped now. We’re full up except for two units.”

Pete stood up, saying, “Soon as the sign goes on, people start coming off the highway.”

Donald peeled six ones from his roll of wedding money. Pete was very handsome, June noticed, and he smiled at her, then actually winked. Immediately she told herself loyally that Donald was a good-looking man too.

Donald reached out for the key, a big brass key attached to a piece of wood into which the number three had been burned with a wood-burning tool. June patted her hair, unfamiliar and somewhat uncomfortable in its new style. Rice flew out onto the counter.

“Oh, gee!” she said.

Bertine said, “Why you’re just married!”

June blushed. “That’s right.”

“That’s so exciting. Isn’t that exciting, Pete?”

“Sure is. Congratulations.”

“On your wedding trip?” Bertine said.

“Yes. My uncle has a house near Los Angeles he’s lending us for two weeks. And we’re seeing the country, the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest and everything, as we go.”

“Well, isn’t that the best!”

June ducked her head, still embarrassed because these people would know it was her wedding night.

The cleaning girl tipped up her dustpan to hold the dust and headed for the side door of the office. As she passed behind Pete and Bertine, Pete casually reached his left hand back and patted her bottom. Donald noticed, but June did not, and Bertine was standing to Pete’s right and could not have seen.

Donald seized the key and headed for the door. June followed him quickly, afraid somebody might embarrass her with wedding night jokes.

As the screen door closed behind them. June heard Bertine say cheerily, “There. There’s another car turning in. We’re full.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s swell, isn’t it?”

“It is, Pete.”

June stopped to listen. She was interested in people.

“It is now,” Pete said. “How about in a couple of years? Once the interstate is in. Huh?”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad. You know the government. It could be years before they even get started. Prob’ly will be. Decades, maybe.”

“I heard they started a section near Bloomington.”

“Well, that’s there. This is here.”

“I told you we should never’ve bought here. Goddamn President Eisenhower anyhow!”

His hand on the car door, Donald said, “Come on, Juney.”

As Donald drove the car over to cabin three, June whispered, “They’ve been arguing.”

Donald said, “Obviously. But it’s not our problem.”

“Oh, no. Of course not.”

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Donald said. He didn’t say anything about Pete patting the cleaning girl.

It was past eight-thirty P.M. now, and the sun was setting.

The cabin was as spotless inside as the office had been. The decor was fake rustic, with red and green plaid linoleum, wood-look wall-board, and a white ceiling with wooden beams. June knew the beams were hollow. Her parents had exactly the same thing in their rec room. But she liked it.

The bathroom didn’t quite match. All the fixtures were pink.

June said, “This is so exciting. I know I’m just a silly romantic, but here I am getting married in June and my name is June. It’s almost like it’s meant.”

“Most people get married in June.”

“Yes. That’s true.” This was not the answer she’d hoped for. She’d rather he’d said something like, “It feels like it was meant for me too.” Not wanting to be argumentative, she said, “Well, not everybody’s name is June.”

Donald picked up a bottle of champagne and went to the bathroom to get a glass. “Pete and Bertine must’ve got a real deal on pink porcelain,” he said, coming out. He poured the glass full.

“Uh — should we go get dinner?” June asked. “There’s the Moon Shot Restaurant across the street. Just behind the Phillips 66.”

“I’m not hungry. Are you?”

“No, I ate a sandwich.”

“Then let’s go to bed.”

Timidly, June picked up her overnight case — white leather, a gift from her aunt Nella — and went into the bathroom. She showered, then splashed on lilac-scented body lotion. A gift from her niece Peggy.

Embarrassed, thrilled, and a little giddy all at the same time, she took the top item from the overnight case. It was a beautiful lace nightgown, with ruffles at the hem and neckline. The girls from the Kresge five-and-dime where June worked had pooled their money and bought it for her. There were some other gifts at the shower that were embarrassing, but June had pretended to be too sophisticated to notice, and if she hadn’t blushed so hard, it would have worked. One of the girls confessed that she had actually “done it” with her boyfriend, and the others glanced at one another, thinking, but not saying, that she was a fallen woman.

The nightgown was a lovely orchid color. There had been much laughing at the shower, when two of the girls insisted it was lilac and would “go” with Peggy’s lilac scent. Three of them said the color was orchid, and June herself kept saying lavender, and they all giggled. A satin ribbon in darker orchid was threaded through eyelets around the neckline and tied in a bow in front. June wondered briefly if she would look like a candy box, but then thought, no, it was beautiful, and it went well with her dark hair. She slipped it down over her shoulders, wiggled it over her hips, smoothed everything into place with nervous hands, and stepped out of the bathroom.

Don lay on the bed, on top of the bedspread, asleep in his clothes.

“Donald?” He didn’t stir. “Donald? Here I am.”

He still didn’t stir, so she touched his shoulder. The glass on the night table was empty. Half of the new bottle of champagne was gone.

“Don?”

Mumbly, he said, “Don’ bother—”

June sat down in the only chair in the room, a chair with wooden arms and an upholstered plaid seat and back, and watched Don sleep. After forty-five minutes or so, she tried to wake him again, but he didn’t even mumble. She stood and gazed out the window; it was long since dark, and there was no moon.

After a few tears had run down her cheeks, June went to the large suitcase and found some cheese crackers her mother had shoved in at the last minute. She spent another half hour munching them slowly, then tried waking Don again. When that didn’t work, she got a glass of water, drank it one swallow at a time, then took dungarees and a sweater from her suitcase, changed out of the lovely nightgown, which she draped carefully across the back of the chair — the extra care was intended to contain her anger — and went out for a walk.

An hour and a half later, June came back to the room. She let herself in quietly. Don was not there. Feeling guilty, she went into the bathroom and took a shower. When she got out, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was very mysterious, she thought, that you didn’t really know who anybody was, not even yourself. “Serves you right, Don,” she whispered. Twenty minutes later he turned up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was stiff and stringy, as if he’d been used upside down as a floor mop. She knew he was hung over, but she didn’t want to mention it. Instead she said uneasily, “Where have you been?”

He said, “You weren’t here.” She didn’t respond to that. He said, “I went for a walk.”

“Where?”

“Over to the Moon Shot.”

“But it closed at ten.”

“All I said was I walked over there. I didn’t say it was open!”

“Oh.”

“And then I walked around a while!”

June and Donald woke up early, even though Donald had a hangover and couldn’t open his eyes all the way. They dressed silently, facing away from each other, each not wanting to catch the other’s eye. They walked together to the office to return the key.

Finally, Donald said, “Sorry about last night.”

Thinking for a few seconds, to try to decide whether she was about to lie or be honest, June finally said, “Me too.”

Bertine was alone in the office.

June said, “Well, thanks. It was a — it was a really nice cabin.”

“Sure thing,” Bertine said, but her eyes were red and puffy and she dragged her feet. It took her several seconds to focus on her job. “Have a happy life,” she said. “Come visit again someday.”

Donald got behind the wheel of the car. June said soberly, “I guess they’ve been fighting again.”

From the back seat, Jennifer, who was seven years old, said, “Why can’t we stay at a Holiday Inn? They have a swimming pool.”

Donald said, “This is your mother’s idea. Not mine. I can think of a lot of better places to be.”

June said, “We’re having a nostalgia trip.”

Don Jr. said, “Well, it’s your nostalgia. It’s not ours.”

They pulled off Interstate 55 onto a deteriorated road that once had been Route 66, running parallel to the interstate. They bumped over potholes so crumbly they must have been unpatched for years. Ahead they saw two concrete islands, four big metal caps over ground pipes, and a shell of the old gas station, two oil bays inside still visible as long narrow depressions with a central hole for the hydraulic lift. There was no sign whatever of the Moon Shot Burgers and Fries. The motel still stood — twelve cabins with beech trees shading them from the summer sun. The cabins were painted white with red trim. The red enamel paint was peeling and the matte white looked chalky and cheap.

June said, “Look, Don, they’ve changed the name. Now it’s the Route 66 Motor Inn.”

“This is soooo bogus!”Jennifer said. But she was a nice child, really, and didn’t grumble when they stopped the car, even though the place didn’t appear to be very prosperous.

Donald said, “A Holiday Inn would be better. Let’s go find one.”

June said, “No.”

Don Jr., usually called Donny, said, “This looks weird.”

Donny was thirteen years old. They’d had a fertility problem between Donny and Jennifer, but fortunately nothing permanent. Donny was just starting to make his growth spurt. He hoped by next fall, when he went back to school, he’d discover he’d caught up with the girls in his class, most of whom had put on their growth spurt last year.

He’s growing so fast, June thought, studying her gangly child. She could have sworn those pants and the sleeves of the shirt fit when they left Chicago. That was all of six hours ago. Now his wrists stuck out an inch and his ankles an inch and a half. He’d gone up one shoe size a month for the last six months and everybody said feel started to grow first, then the legs. Thank God Donald was a hard-working man.

“Why didn’t you go to Florida or something on your honeymoon?” Donny asked.

“Well, partly we had never seen the country. Especially the West. And partly your uncle Mort had a house near Los Angeles that he was going to loan us for two weeks.”

“The price was right,” Donald said. “Free.”

June said, “We had this big old car that your great-grandfather gave us. You’d have laughed at it, Donny.”

“Yeah. I wish you’d’ve kept it.”

“Can’t keep everything,” Donald said.

“You remember your great-grandfather, Donny?”

“Not really. He used to ride me in his wheelbarrow, didn’t he?”

Getting out of the car, June said, “We took five days to drive to L.A. We saw the Painted Desert in Arizona, for one thing. And in Amarillo, Texas, we saw a real cattle drive.”

Jennifer said, “Big deal.”

Donny said, “Why not Las Vegas?”

“We didn’t have any money. You kids have been much more fortunate than we were, you know. Thanks to your dad being a good provider.” Well, perhaps he was a little possessive, a little rigid too, but maybe being solid meant you had to be rigid.

“We always hear that.”

“Well, we didn’t have any money, but we saw a lot of the wild West.”

Jennifer said, “That’s okay, Mom. You’re entitled to a life.”

“We took Route 66 all the way from Chicago to L.A. Did you know there was even a TV show once about Route 66?”

Looking at the potholed road, Jennifer said, “Route 66 isn’t here anymore.”

“Neither is George Washington,” June said. “But we still study him.”

All four of them walked into the central cabin, the one with the office sign above the door. Donald pulled out his credit card. He had three and was proud of them.

June took one look at the woman behind the cash register. “Why, you’re still here!” The woman was older, tougher, plumper, and more frayed.

“Do I know you?”

“You’re Betty — no, Bertha—”

“Bertine.”

“We were here nearly fifteen years ago. June 11, 1971.”

“Oh, my God. The newlyweds!”

Donald said, “Come on, Juney. Let’s get a key and go.”

June said, “Bertine, do you really remember somebody who was here that long ago? I mean, I remember you and your husband, but it was my wedding trip. Everything was important. You must have a dozen new people here every day.”

“Mmm, well, now that I see you, I sort of remember.” She hesitated. “Actually it wasn’t like every other day.”

“Why?”

“I might as well tell you. Pete was killed that night.”

“Oh!”June felt shock, even though Pete wasn’t anything to her, of course. Not really. She could hardly even picture Pete in her mind’s eye anymore, which seemed wrong. She ought to remember him. Handsome, she thought, but she somehow confused him in her mind with Robert Redford. “Was he in an accident?”

“He was beaten to death with a rock. Behind the old Moon Shot Restaurant.”

“Oh, my God!”

“He never came home that night. I thought he was — um — was out, you know, somewhere. They found him when the Moon Shot opened for lunch.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know. We never found out. A drifter, I guess. The cops asked about who was here, in the cabins, you know, so I told them all about everybody. But none of you had anything to do with us. We’d never seen any of you before. They talked with the people who worked for us, but nothing came of it. Just nobody a-tall had a motive. I guess it was just one of those things. He was only twenty-eight.”

Since each “cabin” had only one room and one big bed, they took two cabins next to each other, number three and number four. Donald and Donny took number four and June and Jennifer took three.

“Jeez, this is truly bogus!”Jennifer said when they unlocked their door and she saw the tiny room. June thought it didn’t seem as clean as she remembered it.

From one door away, Donny said to Jennifer, “Hey! I think it’s excellent. How many times do you get to visit the scene of a murder?”

“Get inside, Donny,” Donald said.

“But, Dad, let’s go look at where it happened! She said over by where the restaurant was. Maybe we can find a clue.”

“We are not,” Donald said, veins beginning to stand out on his face, “going to ruin our vacation. And we are not going to say one more word about murder!”

The sign on Interstate 55 said HISTORIC ROUTE 66! EXIT! HERE!

Just past it, there was a second sign: STAY AT HISTORIC ROUTE 66 MOTEL! ORIGINAL! NOT REBUILT!

And a third sign: SATELLITE BURGERS! JUKEBOXES! MALT SHOP! ONE BLOCK ON RIGHT!

As they came to the exit, a series of six signs in a long row swept past them saying,

Smaller letters under the Edsel offer read: OUR CURATOR MUST ACCOMPANY YOU.

The last sign was shaped like a long hand with a pointing finger and added, ARTIFACTS! NEWSPAPERS! NEIL ARMSTRONG WALKS ON MOON! ORIGINAL FRONT PAGES AND BLOW-UPS! 500 HUBCAPS 500!

It was all so different, with its effort at trying to be the same, June thought. And here we are, back here again, and again the reason is a wedding.

Donny, who was twenty-seven, had dropped out of college after a year, gone to work for a concrete company, then decided building wooden forms and troweling ready-mix was not a lifetime career for him. He had just graduated from the University of Champaign in computer engineering. In his last year he’d met Deborah Henry, who’d been in several classes with him. On June thirtieth they were getting married in St. Louis, where Deborah’s family lived.

One more chance, June thought, to drive part of their old, sentimental route.

Jennifer, who was twenty and a junior at Yale, had said, “I’ll fly to St. Louis. I did your nostalgia trip once and once was enough.”

It wasn’t all malt shops and gas-guzzling cars and jukeboxes, June thought. It wasn’t romance. It was a lack of options. Her children really believed she was nostalgic. Children were so simple-minded when it came to parents. She was not nostalgic. If she was looking for anything, it was understanding. A search. Who was I then and why?

What a funny, naive little thing I was when we first came here, she thought, uneasily. Brought up with virtually no knowledge of sex and those unreasonable expectations. All twitterpated at the idea of my wedding night. It was such a big deal. Not like these kids.

She remembered Don’s anger a couple of years ago when they found condoms in Jennifer’s drawer. Fathers can be so unrealistic. And when June tried to tell him condoms were a good thing, and that she had already talked with both children about them, he yelled, “My mother didn’t even know the word ‘condom’ and if she had, she would never have uttered it in my presence.”

“I’m sure, dear,”June had said mildly.

They pulled into the Motel 66 driveway.

“Dad, can I take the car over to that museum shop? They might have moon landing stuff. Memorabilia.”

“Absolutely not. If you want the car, I’ll go with you.”

Donny, who’d been through this before, said indulgently, “Yeah, Dad. I know. What’s yours is yours.” To June he said, “Mom, it’s only two blocks. I’ll walk fast over there and see what they’ve got. Five minutes.”

“Just three minutes,” Donald said. “We need to find a place to eat.”

Historic Motel 66 was surrounded by recently mowed bright green grass. Huge beech trees shaded the cabins, except for a gap down toward the end, where a cabin was missing and half a tree remained next to the space, a split trunk leaning eastward. Lightning, June thought.

The bright white and blue paint looked new. The colors struck a chord in June’s memory, but she couldn’t quite be sure.

She and Donald entered the office. The old cash register was back. The walls were covered with black and white blow-ups of Motel 66, each meticulously dated, and a professionally produced sign above them read, THE HISTORY OF MOTEL 66!

Behind the counter stood a trim white-haired woman in a black power suit over a sapphire blue silk shirt.

June said, “Oh! Isn’t Bertha, uh, Ber — um, isn’t she here anymore?”

“I’m Bertine.”

“Bertine! I wouldn’t have known you!”

Bertine smiled. “I figured if I was gonna spruce up the place I’d spruce up myself too. I kind of remember you, honey, but not quite.”

“We’re what you called the newlyweds. From 1971. June 11, 1971.”

“Oh.” Bertine’s eyes clouded for a few seconds. “I have to say, I’ve brought the place along a bit since then. Pete would still recognize it, though.”

“It looks great!”

“Well, I’m doing okay. This isn’t a way to get rich. But I make decent money. Now. It was hard going for a while.”

Donald pulled out his credit cards. “Let me get the keys,” he said. “We’ve gotta go eat.”

Bertine said, “See, I have the old cash register, but I hardly know how to take cash anymore. My accountant says never take cash and surely never let any of the help take cash.” She laughed. “There’s a fragment of Route 66 from Oklahoma City to Vinita, Oklahoma, if you’re touring. And a piece of historic 66 in Albuquerque.”

June said, “We’re not going to L. A. this time. Just St. Louis.”

She thought about Uncle Mort, who had loaned them his house. Uncle Mort had run off with a girl he met at his health club, where he was working out because his doctor told him to. The girl was a cardio-fitness trainer, but June’s mother would still have called her a flibbertigibbet, if June’s mother were still alive.

June walked over to the photo blow-ups. One showed the construction of the cabins and was dated March 27, 1969. One showed a line of late-sixties cars on the curved driveway near the motel office.

Bertine walked over to the photos behind her. June had stopped in front of a big photo of Bertine and Pete, holding hands under a MOTEL 66 sign at the door of the brand-new office.

Donald said, “Come on, Juney. I’m hungry.”

“Poor Pete,” Bertine said, but June’s back was rigid and she didn’t turn around.

Donny came bursting in, shouting, “I got a reproduction 1969 New York Times moon landing page. Debbie’s gonna think it’s real fun.” When he entered, Bertine caught sight of him and she froze, staring.

Donny came to a stop next to the photo of Pete, age probably twenty-seven.

For a second, Bertine looked back and forth between the photo and Donny.

Bertine tried to ask June something, but the words caught in her throat. It was something like “no motive.” June made a small whimpering sound. Then she turned in fear to Donald.

When she saw the expression on his face, she started to scream.