Chapter 7

6:00 PM Thursday: I was sitting on the couch by the picture window in the front room of my rented house, waiting for the last of my supplies to cook, and asking myself "what have I learned". I wasn’t really very worried about how empty the bag was. My thousand dollar retainer gave me five working days to decide if X was talking straight - and of that, at least, I was already very nearly convinced. After all, if X were the killer, why would Boozer try to protect him? The real question was, how could I find out who did do it? What if no one but the killer knew who he was? What if only he and Boozer knew? That's the trouble with places like Testament – not enough witnesses.

I was so lost in these profitable reflections that I almost didn’t notice the headlights turning into my driveway. I got up and flipped on the outside light, and saw that it was the old Chevy I had noticed earlier in Cheri’s driveway. I deduced that my landlord had come to call.

I opened the door before he knocked. He was tall and thin, with tangled brown hair and little brown eyes. He was wearing a dirty work uniform and a two-day beard. And he was alone. "Mr. Sunday?" I asked, and stepped out of his way.

"That’s me," he said, stalking into the middle of the room. He looked around like he’d never been there before. "Everything all right?"

"If it’s not, as my landlord, you’ll be the first to know," I smiled. "Have a seat?" He sat, looking uncomfortable. "You work at the plant down south of here?"

His head jerked up. "Who told you that?" he demanded.

"I don’t know, maybe your wife," I said. "What, isn’t it the truth?"

He looked like he’d have loved to tell me to go to Hell, but for some reason couldn’t. "Yeah, it’s the truth," he admitted grudgingly. That was alright, it didn’t mean anything to me. I offered him a drink, which he refused, and went for one myself. I didn’t often drink, but my heel was starting to hurt again. I brought the jug and an empty glass back too, just in case, and set them on the table between us.

"So," I said, settling on the couch, "what can I do for you?"

He clamped his big bony hands around his knees and took the plunge. "Cheri says you’re nosin’ in that whore killin’."

"She should have told you I’m on vacation."

"Hell." He looked around, then got up, went to the door and spit, then came back. "First somebody kills the tramp, the, not a month later, here you come, asking a lot of questions."

"Any reason I shouldn’t ask questions?"

He looked me square in the eye. "Cause it’s none of your damn business."

He though he was going to get up and stalk out, but I put some bite in my voice.

"Just a minute, Mr. Sunday. Sit down." It took him a minute, but he did as he was told. "That’s no way to ask a favor, Mr. Sunday," I said, being reasonable, and poured some moonshine in his glass. "It’s like this: vacation or not, things I don’t understand make me curious, and when I’m curious I ask questions." I held out the glass, and he took it.

"What’s that got to do with me?"

"You’re one of the things I don’t understand, Mr. Sunday. If that’s all right, just go on out of here, but otherwise, answer some questions for me."

He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, both hands wrapped around the glass. When I took a drink, he seemed to suddenly realize what he had there and took one too. "What don’t you understand?" he asked softly.

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "I was going to say that I couldn’t figure why you would care at all what I did with my time, but that’s not enough. Somewhere out there is a killer. A man that killed a woman. Now, you have a woman, and she’s alone all day out here in the country while you’re off at work. Personally, my money’d be on her in a fair fight, but this…whatever he is, he doesn't fight fair, he strikes from behind. Now, as you said, it has been almost a month, and nothing has been found. Let's say I am looking into it. If so, I might be the only hope of catching him. And you’re trying to stop me. It looks to me like there are two possibilities: you don’t care if Cheri lives or dies, or you know something. What other reason could you have for coming up here?" He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand. "Either I’ll solve it, or I won’t. If I don’t, you’d be no worse off than before. If I do though, - ah, there’s the rub!"

I stopped, but Mr. Sunday must have forgotten what he wanted to say.

I leaned back. "Did you kill Mary Cole, Mr. Sunday?"

Over the years I’ve seen lots of people speechless, and it has been for one of two reasons. They were either totally indignant, or guilty of something. From Mr. Sunday’s face, it was a toss-up.

He wanted to start up with me again, but I beat him, reaching into my pants’ pocket. He watched as I selected fifty dollars from the roll, then held it up: twenty in one hand, thirty in the other. I shook the twenty in his face. "Tell Cheri," I said, "that she wins." I grabbed one of his hands and forced the twenty into it, then waved the thirty. "At least another week." The thirty was reunited with the twenty. I let him go. "Since I’m having such a swell time, " I said to his departing back, then turned and marched into the kitchen.

I was glad to hear the door slam. I don’t much think he’d have liked to see the smoke that was coming from the oven.