The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [89]
“That one does,” they both said, with George tapping Newell’s picture. “Nasty-looking fellow, at least from what we could see in passing. He was Archie’s father, Newell, according to Linda. We heard his personality matched his appearance.”
“What was he driving?”
“An old, beaten-up pickup truck.”
“You never saw him in anything else?”
Again they exchanged baffled looks. “Nope,” George said, speaking for them both.
“And when was the last time you saw him around here?” Lester asked, keeping the timetable of the truck’s sale from Newell to Mel in mind.
“What would you say, George?” she asked. “Two months ago, maybe three?”
He nodded. “That’s what I would say—closer to three.”
After the eviction notice and before the truck sale, Spinney thought. “Did you see him often?”
“Well,” George answered slowly, “over the years, we saw him now and then. You know he actually owned the house, right? That Archie and Michelle rented from him.”
“Yes.”
“We always figured he was just being a landlord, dropping by to make sure everything was okay. He never stayed long.”
“And after Archie died,” Lester asked, “how often did he come by then?”
George shrugged. “Half a dozen times, maybe.”
“Really?” Lester reacted, surprised. “Over a six-month period?”
Mrs. Heller nodded. “About that, yes.”
“Were the visits evenly spaced?”
Her brow furrowed. “That’s interesting,” she said. “They weren’t. Isn’t that right, George?”
“Yup,” he agreed. “There were about four visits that we saw over something like a week and a half, just before they stopped altogether.”
Lester suddenly thought of something else. “When you saw him driving by, was he always alone?”
They both hesitated. George finally said, “Can’t say for sure. From this angle, we could see through the driver’s window, but not to the other side of the cab. And sometimes, when he drove back, it was too dark to see anyone inside at all.”
The old man suddenly leaned forward in his chair, as if hoping to dispel any disappointment. “So, Detective, by your expression, I can tell you’re pleased overall. Have we given you something valuable?”
Spinney hesitated before answering. The question made him uncomfortable, and not just because he didn’t want to answer it. It also suggested the possibility that these two informants had been feeding him what they thought he wanted to hear. In fact—not that they would know this—they’d been the only ones to say that Newell had ever visited the area, at least to the degree they claimed. Cops, like responsible reporters, didn’t like hanging their narratives on the say-so of just one source.
“You’ve been very helpful,” he therefore said blandly.
Mrs. Heller pressed a little harder. “Do you always dig this deep for all deaths? You’ve made us think something bad might have happened to poor Michelle.”
Spinney had to struggle to remember that they’d never actually met poor Michelle.
“That’s exactly why we do it,” he explained. “To make sure nothing did happen.” He tried shifting the focus by picking up Mel Martin’s mug shot. “You’re sure you never saw this man around here?”
George Heller replied cautiously, as if reading Lester’s silent reservations about their enthusiasm. “We never did, but that doesn’t mean he never came by. We don’t actually spend all our time staring out the window. It’s just a hobby.”
“I understand,” Lester told them, “and I really do appreciate your being so helpful.”
Mel Martin was grateful, too, as he sat watching, yet again, in his truck. Banger had been good to him, not just with information but in the way he’d died. After being grabbed outside the Vista Motel, he’d been quiet at first, which had made for a peaceful departure out of town, and then he’d broken down in textbook fashion as soon as he realized what Mel had in store.
For Mel, it had amounted to a watershed. In his progression of killings, this had been the first he’d planned with care, and just as he’d anticipated