Twilight at Mac’s Place

Thirteen

They ate in the kitchen of the large old three-story house on Thirty-fifth Street Northwest. Haynes had a sandwich of thinly sliced cold roast pork on home-baked bread and a bowl of interesting navy bean soup that Lydia Mott said was her own improvement on the U.S. Senate’s recipe. Haynes drank beer with the meal — his first food since the lunch with Tinker Burns and Isabelle Gelinet nine and a half hours earlier.

Howard Mott drank a bloody mary as he finished off the last slice of a lemon meringue pie. Lydia Mott ate nothing and lingered only long enough to accept Haynes’s gracious and obviously sincere compliments on the soup and sandwich.

After she left, Mott swallowed the last bite of the pie, pushed his plate away and said, “You found Isabelle?”

“Tinker found her and showed her to me when I got there.”

“Could he have killed her?”

“Maybe, if he knows how to drown somebody in a bathtub without getting all wet. I suppose he could’ve done it naked, then put his clothes back on. Providing she really was drowned.”

“What do the cops think?”

“Nothing they’re willing to share with me.”

After Haynes finished his sandwich, Mott said, “If you’d like dessert, Lydia baked some cookies.”

“No, thanks.”

“Then let’s go upstairs.”

Insisting that Haynes take the deep armchair with the ottoman, Mott sat in an old oak swivel chair that matched his equally old rolltop desk whose pigeonholes and slots were stuffed with letters, handwritten reminders, business cards, newspaper clippings, invitations to past and future events and an impressive number of bills. Haynes suspected that Mott remembered where he could instantly locate each item.

“Who was Isabelle’s closest living relative?” Mott asked.

“Her mother. Madeleine Gelinet. She lives in Nice.”

“Then she’ll probably get Steady’s farm in Berryville — or the proceeds from its sale.”

“When?”

“After probate.”

“She could use the money now.”

“It’s possible, of course, that Isabelle made out a will.”

“Unmarried thirty-three-year-olds seldom make out wills,” Haynes said.

“True.”

“I was just wondering.”

“About what?”

“Whether it would be okay for me to go up to the farm and look around. Inside the house.”

Mott seemed to take the question under advisement for several seconds before he nodded gravely and said, “Steady’s will specifies that you’re to have your pick of his memorabilia — keepsakes, souvenirs, snapshots, family Bible and so forth, although I can’t recall his mentioning a Bible.”

“There isn’t one.”

Mott cocked his head to the left and gave Haynes an amused look. “I somehow get the feeling you’re really not much interested in Steady’s mementos.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“What you’re really hoping to find is a true copy of his memoirs tucked away someplace.”

“Or even in plain sight.”

“And I also suspect you think Isabelle’s death is an indication, if not evidence, that such a copy might actually exist.”

“That’s occurred to me.”

“Me, too,” Mott said, nodded again, this time more to himself than to Haynes, swiveled around to face the desk, studied the pigeonholes for a moment, reached into one of them and took out a key that was attached by wire to a cardboard tag.

He swiveled around to toss Haynes the key. “It unlocks the front door,” Mott said as he again turned back to his desk, picked up a ballpoint pen and began drawing something on a yellow legal pad. “I’ll draw you a map of how to find the place after you get to Berryville.”

Haynes looked at the tag that was wired to the key with a paper clip. Hand lettering on the tag read, “S. Haynes farm, front door.” He decided to give Howard Mott an A-plus for efficiency.

Mott rose, went over to Haynes and handed him the sheet of ruled yellow paper. “Berryville has two traffic lights,” he said. “When you get to the second one, turn south, go exactly one mile, turn west, go exactly another mile and you’re there.”

Haynes examined the map for a moment or two, looked up and said, “Maybe I’ll take along a guide.”

“You don’t like my map?”

“A guide could also be a witness.”

“To what?”

“To whatever might happen.”

“You have a guide in mind?”

“Erika McCorkle.”

“Ah.”

“What’s’ah’mean?”

“It means you’ll be taking along someone who knew Steady rather well, which might prove useful, and who is also attractive enough to make a pleasant drive even more pleasant.” He paused. “That’s what ‘ah’ means.”

Haynes ignored the explanation and said, “I’d like to retain you as my attorney.”

“I cost too much.”

“This would be strictly on an ‘in case’ basis.”

“In case you land in the shit.”

“Exactly.”

“That’d cost less but still too much. Go pillage some government agency for a few million, then give me a call.”

“What kind of shape is Steady’s ’seventy-six Cadillac convertible in?”

“You’re changing the subject again,” Mott said, his tone suddenly wary.

“Am I?”

“It’s in perfect shape,” Mott said. “Steady babied that car, even nurtured it.”

“Where is it?”

“I had a mechanic in Falls Church go pick it up. He’s the same one who’s serviced it for the past seven years.”

“What’s it worth?”

“It’s the last convertible Cadillac made — until they started making those fifty-thousand-dollar jobs in Italy nobody’ll buy. I guess Steady’s would bring at least ten or fifteen thousand. Maybe twenty.”

“You ever ride in it?”

“Twice, and salivated both times.”

“It’s your retainer.”

“You always strike at the most vulnerable spot?”

“Always.”

Mott sighed. “Okay. You have yourself a lawyer. Anything else?”

“What’s Mr. McCorkle’s home number?”

Mott reeled it off from memory.

“May I use your phone?”

Mott nodded at the phone on his desk, then asked, “Want me to leave?”

“What for?” Haynes said as he rose, went to the desk, picked up the phone and tapped out the number. It rang three times before it was answered with a woman’s hello.

“Erika?” Haynes said.

“Yes.”

“Granville Haynes. Do you know the way to Berryville?”