guess it was the slept-in bed."
"What about a heart attack? That’s what his wife thinks."
"He had the physical condition of a kid. He never had anything wrong with his heart. Anybody can have a heart attack, I guess, but I wouldn’t figure he did."
"All right. Who’d want to kill him?" Digger asked.
"I don’t know."
"Somebody at work? Maybe he was stepping on somebody’s toes?"
"I don’t think so. Everybody liked Vern," Lord said.
"Maybe somebody was going south with company money and Gillette found out about it."
"He would have told me," Lord said. "He was my friend."
"Okay, then. Tell me about Gillette. What women was he fooling around with?"
"What?"
"You heard me," Digger said.
"Mr. Burroughs, I don’t think—"
Digger interrupted, "That’s exactly right. You don’t think. Try it though. Maybe you’ll like it. Now you say the second bed was slept in and it wasn’t by you. So maybe he had company. Maybe a forest ranger with frostbitten toes stopped in to spend the night. Maybe Smokey the Bear showed up and needed a room after spending a busy day harassing people about their cigarette butts. Or maybe some broad showed up to play house. That’s not all the possibilities, not by a long shot, but out of those three I like the last one best. What woman or women was he involved with?"
"I don’t know anything about that," Lord said. Digger knew he was lying by the way he looked away as soon as he finished the sentence.
"When did you guys go up to the cabin?"
"Last deer season," Lord said.
"What day of the week?"
"Saturday," Lord said. "We went up Saturday morning."
"And you found his body Sunday morning?"
"That’s right."
"Did he know you were going to go home Saturday night?"
"I don’t follow you," Lord said.
"What do you do for a living?" Digger asked.
"I’m in the quality-control department at Belton and Sons."
"Christ, no wonder nothing works in America anymore. Did Gillette know you were going home Saturday night?"
"Yes. I guess so. I told him I’d have to."
"When did you tell him?"
"I guess it was the day before," Lord said.
"Did you go up there in your pickup?"
"Yes."
"So he was up there Saturday night without a car?" Digger said.
Lord nodded.
"Okay," Digger said and turned his attention back to his drink.
"What does that mean, okay?"
"It just means thank you for your time and I don’t want to hold you up any longer. There must be other people you have to follow."
"You don’t believe me, do you?"
"It’s not belief," Digger said. "It’s conviction. Sure, I think you really believe that somebody killed Gillette. But you haven’t given me one reason that would convince me. The mussed-up bed probably belonged to a girl friend who drove up, and you’re lying to me about not knowing who she was. What time did you get up there Sunday morning?"
"I don’t know. Around eleven," Lord said.
"How long had he been dead?"
"How would I know?"
"Well, if the corpse was still bleeding, you’d know it was pretty recent. Try this. Was he warm? Most living people and recently dead people are warm. Except maybe in Belton, PA."
"I don’t think I like you, Mr. Burroughs."
"That’s fine. I don’t much like myself. I’m only able to go on because I like other people a lot less. Including you."
"All right," Lord said. He slid down the bench toward the end of the table, as if getting ready to leave. "There was almost an accident, Mr. Burroughs."
"What kind of an accident?"
"The brakes failed on Vern’s car, right after he had a brake job. He almost got killed."
"Maybe a coincidence and maybe a bad garage mechanic," Digger said.
"And maybe somebody trying to kill him," Lord said. "Vern told me once that he was going to make…what’d he call it…a big score."
"What was he talking about?"
"I don’t know," Lord said. "He wouldn’t tell me."
"I don’t blame him," Digger said. "Did Mrs. Gillette know about his near accident that maybe wasn’t an accident?"
"I don’t
"What about a heart attack? That’s what his wife thinks."
"He had the physical condition of a kid. He never had anything wrong with his heart. Anybody can have a heart attack, I guess, but I wouldn’t figure he did."
"All right. Who’d want to kill him?" Digger asked.
"I don’t know."
"Somebody at work? Maybe he was stepping on somebody’s toes?"
"I don’t think so. Everybody liked Vern," Lord said.
"Maybe somebody was going south with company money and Gillette found out about it."
"He would have told me," Lord said. "He was my friend."
"Okay, then. Tell me about Gillette. What women was he fooling around with?"
"What?"
"You heard me," Digger said.
"Mr. Burroughs, I don’t think—"
Digger interrupted, "That’s exactly right. You don’t think. Try it though. Maybe you’ll like it. Now you say the second bed was slept in and it wasn’t by you. So maybe he had company. Maybe a forest ranger with frostbitten toes stopped in to spend the night. Maybe Smokey the Bear showed up and needed a room after spending a busy day harassing people about their cigarette butts. Or maybe some broad showed up to play house. That’s not all the possibilities, not by a long shot, but out of those three I like the last one best. What woman or women was he involved with?"
"I don’t know anything about that," Lord said. Digger knew he was lying by the way he looked away as soon as he finished the sentence.
"When did you guys go up to the cabin?"
"Last deer season," Lord said.
"What day of the week?"
"Saturday," Lord said. "We went up Saturday morning."
"And you found his body Sunday morning?"
"That’s right."
"Did he know you were going to go home Saturday night?"
"I don’t follow you," Lord said.
"What do you do for a living?" Digger asked.
"I’m in the quality-control department at Belton and Sons."
"Christ, no wonder nothing works in America anymore. Did Gillette know you were going home Saturday night?"
"Yes. I guess so. I told him I’d have to."
"When did you tell him?"
"I guess it was the day before," Lord said.
"Did you go up there in your pickup?"
"Yes."
"So he was up there Saturday night without a car?" Digger said.
Lord nodded.
"Okay," Digger said and turned his attention back to his drink.
"What does that mean, okay?"
"It just means thank you for your time and I don’t want to hold you up any longer. There must be other people you have to follow."
"You don’t believe me, do you?"
"It’s not belief," Digger said. "It’s conviction. Sure, I think you really believe that somebody killed Gillette. But you haven’t given me one reason that would convince me. The mussed-up bed probably belonged to a girl friend who drove up, and you’re lying to me about not knowing who she was. What time did you get up there Sunday morning?"
"I don’t know. Around eleven," Lord said.
"How long had he been dead?"
"How would I know?"
"Well, if the corpse was still bleeding, you’d know it was pretty recent. Try this. Was he warm? Most living people and recently dead people are warm. Except maybe in Belton, PA."
"I don’t think I like you, Mr. Burroughs."
"That’s fine. I don’t much like myself. I’m only able to go on because I like other people a lot less. Including you."
"All right," Lord said. He slid down the bench toward the end of the table, as if getting ready to leave. "There was almost an accident, Mr. Burroughs."
"What kind of an accident?"
"The brakes failed on Vern’s car, right after he had a brake job. He almost got killed."
"Maybe a coincidence and maybe a bad garage mechanic," Digger said.
"And maybe somebody trying to kill him," Lord said. "Vern told me once that he was going to make…what’d he call it…a big score."
"What was he talking about?"
"I don’t know," Lord said. "He wouldn’t tell me."
"I don’t blame him," Digger said. "Did Mrs. Gillette know about his near accident that maybe wasn’t an accident?"
"I don’t
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