God Save the Child

I went through all the strength magazines. They dated back five years, and each of them had a story on Vic Harroway. I learned how Vic trained down for “that polished look.” I learned Vic’s diet-supplement secrets for gaining “ten to fifteen pounds of solid muscles.” I learned Vic’s technique for developing “sinewy and shapely underpinnings.” I didn’t learn much about Vic’s theories on kidnapping and harassment or if he might know where Kevin Bartlett was.

I looked at the scrapbook. It was what I thought it would be. Clippings of Vic Harroway’s triumphs in body-building contests. Ads announcing the opening of a new health spa where Vic Harroway would be the supervisor of physical conditioning. Fifteen-year-old newspaper clippings of Vic Harroway as a high school football hero in Everett. Snapshots of Vic and one of Vic and Kevin with Vic’s arm around Kevin’s shoulder. Harroway was smiling. Kevin looked very serious.

“Did Kevin lift weights?” I asked Dolly.

“No. I remember he wanted to buy a set once, but my mother wouldn’t let him.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. She said it would make him big and beefy and stuff, you know?”

I nodded.

“They had a big fight about it.”

I nodded again.

“Would it?”

“Would it what?”

“Would it make him big and beefy?”

“Not if he did it right,” I said. I took the publicity shot of Harroway, put the magazines and the scrapbook back in the trunk, and closed it. Dolly and the dog and I went downstairs. The dog edged me out on the way down, and I was last. In the driveway Marge Bartlett was standing looking impatiently into the open barn. She had on a pale violet pants suit with huge cuffed bell-bottoms and blunt-nosed black shoes poking out underneath. A big burlap purse with a crocheted design hung from her shoulder. She wore white lipstick, and her nails were polished in a pale lavender.

“Come on, Dolly, time to go to Aunt Betty’s. Hop in the car.”

“Aw, Ma, I don’t want to go over there again.”

“Come on now, no arguing. Hop in the car I’ve got a lot of shopping to do. The party is tonight, and I don’t want you in the way. You know how nervous I get when I’m having a big party. And while I’m at the shopping center I don’t want you here alone. It’s too dangerous.”

I went to my car and put the photo in the glove compartment.

“Well, lemme stay with Mr. Spenser.”

Marge Bartlett shook her head firmly. “Not on your life. Mr. Spenser is my bodyguard, and he’ll have to go with me to the shopping center.” She clapped her hands once, sharply. “In the car.”

Dolly climbed into the backseat of the red Mustang. Marge Bartlett got in behind the wheel, and I sat beside her. The dog stood in front of the car with his ears back and stared at us.

“Can I bring Punkin?” Dolly asked.

“Absolutely not. I don’t want him getting the car all muddy, and Aunt Betty can’t stand dogs anyway.”

“He’s not muddy,” Dolly said.

The cop in the Smithfield cruiser poked his head out the side window and said, “Where you going?”

“It’s all right. Mr. Spenser is with me. We’ll be gone most of the day, shopping.”

“Whoopee,” I said. “All day.”

The cop nodded. “Okay, Mrs. Bartlett. I’m going to take off then. You let us know when you’re back, and Chief’ll send someone up.”

He started the cruiser and headed down the drive. We followed. He turned left. We turned right.

14

The north shore shopping center was on high ground north off Route 128 in Peabody. Red brick, symmetrical evergreens, and parking for 8000 cars. I discovered that Marge Bartlett was a member of the shopping center the way some people belong to a country club. Between 10:15 and 1:20 she charged three hundred and seventy-five dollars’ worth of clothes. I spent that time watching her, nodding approval when she asked my opinion, keeping a weather eye out for assailants, and trying not to look like a pervert as I stood around outside a series of ladies’ dressing rooms. I was glad I hadn’t worn my white raincoat. There were a lot of very well-shaped suburban ladies shopping in the same stores. Suburban ladies tended to wear their clothes quite snug, I noticed. I was alert for concealed weapons.

We got back to Smithfield at about a quarter of two. The house was still. Roger Bartlett worked Saturdays, and Dolly was going to spend the night with Aunt Betty. Punkin lay placidly in a hollow under some bushes to the right of the back door. Marge Bartlett held the door for me as I carried in the shopping bags. The dog came in behind us.

“Put them on the couch in the living room,” she said. “I want to call the caterer.”

There was a corpse in the living room. On the floor, face down, with its head at a funny angle. I dropped the shopping bags and went back to the kitchen with my gun out.