Fadeout: A Dave Brandstetter Mystery

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She was rolling a wheel along the road. When the tire wobbled against her it smeared mud on the white raincoat. She had tied a triangle of clear plastic over her hair. It lay like drenched tissue paper. When she heard the car come up behind her and turned to look at him, strands of wet hair lay plastered down her face. She raked at them with the fingers of one muddy hand and gave him a little frantic wave with the other. The wheel got away from her then. It lurched into the roadside scrub and lay down like a sick animal . He set the hand brake and got out. The water thundered down the arroyo. Over its roar, he shouted, "Get into the car." "The wheel!" she wailed. "I'll bring it," he said. "Get in." When he opened the luggage compartment the smell of new automobile came out. He'd only opened it twice. For suitcases. Well, all that hand25 some, contoured carpeting was due for a shock. He heaved the split and earth-clogged tire inside and slammed the lid. Now his own coat was muddy. He sighed, wiped his hands on it and climbed back into the car behind the steering wheel. "Gosh, thanks." She perched, dripping, on the seat edge. "But I'm ruining your lovely new car." "It's a company car," he said. "They expect me to use it hard. Like James Bond." "What company? Who are you? Brand what?" "Brandstetter, David. Medallion Life. I'm an insurance investigator." He let go the hand brake and began to inch the car along again. The rain came down hard now. The windshield wipers waved like the arms of a drowning man. "What did you think you were doing?" "I had a flat and no spare. I was walking to Pima. My boyfriend works at the Signal station." She looked at her muddy hands. "Have you got a Kleenex or something?" Keeping watch on the road, what he could see of it, he leaned across and opened the glove compartment. There was a box of tissues. Blue box with little white tracery flowers . He jerked some of the soft papers out and handed them to her. "How come you didn't go back to Olson's?" She sneezed. A plastic bag for trash hung off the dashboard . Thoughtful Medallion. She stuffed the muddied Kleenex into it and pulled fresh ones to blow her nose. "They don't have a spare." "I meant, you could have phoned from there." "He's there," she said. Dave glanced at her. "When did you get this flat? You left up there a good hour ago. Where's your car?" 26 "Back up the road. A little below the bridge." "I didn't see it," Dave said. "It's parked up that little overgrown side road that used to lead to a house that burned down." "What were you doing there?" "Waiting." Her face set. Young, sullen. She muttered, "There was something I wanted to see." "Who was coming to Olson's-right?" "Right. It was him. Hale McNeil. When you didn't come down, I began to wonder if it would be. But it was. Him. He. Then, when I started up my car, the damn tire was flat. My third in two weeks . . . Can I have a cigarette, please? I left mine in my car." He dug out his pack and handed it to her. "There's a dash lighter," he said. "It sounds to me as if you either ought to get new tires or stop backing up country roads to spy on your employer. Why shouldn't Hale McNeil visit Mrs. Olson? They're old friends." The smoke from the cigarette hung gray and still in the warm car. She blinked at him through it. "Insurance investigators come around when there's something wrong," she said. "You think there's something wrong about Fox Olson 's death, don't you?" He watched the road. "Do you?" "Yes." She poked the lighter back into its socket. "I think he committed suicide." "Why?" The smoke smelled good. "Light one of those for me, would you?" "Because Thorne and Hale are having an affair." She pushed the lighter and hung the new cigarette in her mouth. All the lipstick was gone. It looked vulnerable as a flower. 27 "You think," he asked, "or you know?" "I...