withheavy-lidded, blank eyes and pneumatically big hair. I’d heard gossip that she drank heavily. There were awards for excellence from the various automakers he represented; but they were cheap-looking certificates that Bob Don had mounted in expensive frames. I thought they looked rather sad.
Bob Don sat behind his desk in a thronelike leather chair and gestured for me to take a seat. Clutter covered the desk, including a huge, ceramic monstrosity of an ashtray with a few butts mashed in it. I saw it and laughed; it reminded me of the horror ashtray I used in the library. Bob Don laughed with me in the automatic, reflexive way of salesmen. I told him why I laughed and his grin grew.
“Oh, Lord, yes, Gretchen’s just got too much time on her hands.” He examined the ashtray as though it were an interesting part from a foreign car. “She said it represents somethin’, but damned if I know what it is. Rage, I think. Insisted she had to take some damned course over at the community college in Bavary. Not pottery, but cer-a-mics. Next week it’ll be photography or genealogy or some such thing.” He shook his head and started to offer me a cigarette. Suddenly he withdrew the pack. “Sorry. Just remembered you’re trying to quit.”
“How did you know?”
“You mentioned it last board meeting.” He shrugged and put the pack away.
“Actually, I’d love to have a cigarette with you, Bob Don. I decided to hold off on quitting for the moment.”
He looked pleased, muttered something about not living forever, and lit for us both. I inhaled deeply and looked at him through the smoky veil. Tall guy, over six feet, probably up over two hundred pounds now. His face held strength when he wasn’t trying to be a good ol’ boy, and I thought he must’ve been handsome whenhe was young. He looked better when he didn’t smile than when he did. His official Beta verse, according to my notebook, was Judges 5:30:
Have they not divided the prey; to every man a damsel or two?
Two women. Had Beta discovered another woman in Bob Don’s life aside from the artistically challenged Gretchen? Or had some other
prey
been split? Or neither? Beta had a vivid imagination. At least I had that in common with her, I thought.
I stayed silent for a moment, watching him smoke, and wondering if he was going to set his blond-gray hair on fire with his cigarette. His hair spray was probably creating an ozone hole directly over Mirabeau. He wore it swept into a Conway Twitty-style helmet, with long matching sideburns. Bob Don could have easily been a televangelist or a Sixties country-western singer as much as a rural car dealer.
“What’s up, Jordy?” he finally said, breaking my reverie.
“I wanted to talk to you about Beta Harcher.”
His eyes frosted. “Oh, her. Don’t pay attention to her. She’s just a bit overzealous, and—”
I didn’t let him continue. “Haven’t you heard? She’s dead.”
I might as well have leaned over the table and mussed up his hair. The shock showed naked on his face. He recovered quickly, drawing on his cigarette. His eyes avoided mine. “Dead?”
I told the story in few words, omitting the list. “I thought the police might have called you by now. They’re starting an investigation, of course.”
“Call me? Why?” Now he looked at me. His complexion, fair to begin with, paled.
“You have a key to the library, Bob Don. There wasa key on her that Tamma Hufnagel says Beta swiped from Adam, but who knows for sure?”
“Good Lord!” He receded into his chair. He blinked his puffy blue eyes through the smoke. “Holy Christ!” he muttered. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sacrilege and booze? How un-Baptist of you, Bob Don.”
He shrugged instead of arguing. “I’m a man like any other, Jordy. I believe in God, but all His rules get tiresome. I’m gonna have me a whiskey. You want one?”
“Sure.” I never drink early, but I’m flexible under stress.
He produced two plastic
Bob Don sat behind his desk in a thronelike leather chair and gestured for me to take a seat. Clutter covered the desk, including a huge, ceramic monstrosity of an ashtray with a few butts mashed in it. I saw it and laughed; it reminded me of the horror ashtray I used in the library. Bob Don laughed with me in the automatic, reflexive way of salesmen. I told him why I laughed and his grin grew.
“Oh, Lord, yes, Gretchen’s just got too much time on her hands.” He examined the ashtray as though it were an interesting part from a foreign car. “She said it represents somethin’, but damned if I know what it is. Rage, I think. Insisted she had to take some damned course over at the community college in Bavary. Not pottery, but cer-a-mics. Next week it’ll be photography or genealogy or some such thing.” He shook his head and started to offer me a cigarette. Suddenly he withdrew the pack. “Sorry. Just remembered you’re trying to quit.”
“How did you know?”
“You mentioned it last board meeting.” He shrugged and put the pack away.
“Actually, I’d love to have a cigarette with you, Bob Don. I decided to hold off on quitting for the moment.”
He looked pleased, muttered something about not living forever, and lit for us both. I inhaled deeply and looked at him through the smoky veil. Tall guy, over six feet, probably up over two hundred pounds now. His face held strength when he wasn’t trying to be a good ol’ boy, and I thought he must’ve been handsome whenhe was young. He looked better when he didn’t smile than when he did. His official Beta verse, according to my notebook, was Judges 5:30:
Have they not divided the prey; to every man a damsel or two?
Two women. Had Beta discovered another woman in Bob Don’s life aside from the artistically challenged Gretchen? Or had some other
prey
been split? Or neither? Beta had a vivid imagination. At least I had that in common with her, I thought.
I stayed silent for a moment, watching him smoke, and wondering if he was going to set his blond-gray hair on fire with his cigarette. His hair spray was probably creating an ozone hole directly over Mirabeau. He wore it swept into a Conway Twitty-style helmet, with long matching sideburns. Bob Don could have easily been a televangelist or a Sixties country-western singer as much as a rural car dealer.
“What’s up, Jordy?” he finally said, breaking my reverie.
“I wanted to talk to you about Beta Harcher.”
His eyes frosted. “Oh, her. Don’t pay attention to her. She’s just a bit overzealous, and—”
I didn’t let him continue. “Haven’t you heard? She’s dead.”
I might as well have leaned over the table and mussed up his hair. The shock showed naked on his face. He recovered quickly, drawing on his cigarette. His eyes avoided mine. “Dead?”
I told the story in few words, omitting the list. “I thought the police might have called you by now. They’re starting an investigation, of course.”
“Call me? Why?” Now he looked at me. His complexion, fair to begin with, paled.
“You have a key to the library, Bob Don. There wasa key on her that Tamma Hufnagel says Beta swiped from Adam, but who knows for sure?”
“Good Lord!” He receded into his chair. He blinked his puffy blue eyes through the smoke. “Holy Christ!” he muttered. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sacrilege and booze? How un-Baptist of you, Bob Don.”
He shrugged instead of arguing. “I’m a man like any other, Jordy. I believe in God, but all His rules get tiresome. I’m gonna have me a whiskey. You want one?”
“Sure.” I never drink early, but I’m flexible under stress.
He produced two plastic
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