The Quiet Game

I climb out and walk to my father's car. The other salesmen are lined up against the showroom window, staring openly now. As Jones switches seats and pulls the Trans-Am toward the building, I start the BMW and drive quickly off the lot.

One cell phone call to my mother tells me all I need to know. Frank Jones's ex-wife still lives in Natchez. After a messy divorce she married the president of a local oil company, quite a trade up from Frank Jones. The "messiness" involved affairs Jones had trailed with several secretaries at the battery plant. I dial the oilman's home and ask for the ex-wife by her new name: Little.

"This is Mrs. Little," says a rather prim voice.

"Mrs. Little, this is Penn Cage."

"Dr. Cage's boy?"

"That's right. I-"

"I remember when you used to take the blood and X rays at your daddy's office."

At least she didn't hang up. "Yes, ma'am. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions, if you don't mind."

"What about?"

"The day Del Payton died."

A hesitation. "What about it?"

"I just talked to your ex-husband, and-"

"Sweet Jesus. What did that no-count say about me?"

Her anger sounds fresh, even after thirty years. "He used you for an alibi, Mrs. Little. He said he went out to the Triton parking lot on the night Del Payton died because you asked him to pick up some groceries."

"That's a damn lie, pardon my French. He was in that parking lot because he was diddling one of his floozies."

This remarkable statement stops me for a moment. "Are you… you're saying you think someone was in the lot with him that night?"

"Are you hard of hearing? That no-good tomcat came home that night and asked me to tell the police same story he told you. And I did, numbskull that I was."

I'm not sure I'm breathing.

"The next morning I took the car to the grocery store-for real that time- and as I was loading the bags into the backseat, I found a pair of stockings. They weren't mine, and they were not in pristine condition-if you know what I mean. When I got home, I kicked that sorry sack right out of the house. For good."

"Have you ever told this to anyone before today?"

"Sure. The police. I called them back and told them I hadn't been straight with them. That my husband made me lie."

A car horn honks behind me. I pull into the right lane and accelerate to the speed of the cars around me. "What did the police say?"

"Not to worry. That I wouldn't get into any trouble. Everything was under control."

Under control. "Do you remember which officer you told?"

"Yes. He came out to the house. It was that cop they sent to Parchman later on. Ray Presley."

No account of this meeting made it into the case report. "Was Presley alone when he came to see you?"

"Yes. He gave me the creeps, that Presley. Always did."

"Did anyone from the FBI question you about this?"

Mrs. Little says nothing, but not because she has nothing to tell.

"Mrs. Little, do you remember an FBI agent named Dwight Stone?"

"Well, actually… I do, yes. But that's all I have to say. Good-"

"Please wait! Do you have any idea who your husband was with on that day? Which floozie, I mean? I know this is painful, but it's terribly important. The faster I get to the bottom of this, the less chance anyone is going to get hurt."

"I don't like talking about this." Her breaths are shallow, anxious. "If you get to the bottom of it, my ex-husband is going to come out of it smelling like a cowpie, isn't he?"

"Probably."

"Betty Lou Jackson."

"Ma'am?"

"That's the slut's name. She's married to some electrical contractor now. Beckham, her name is. Acts like she's as good as anybody, but she's a tramp through and through."

"Thank you, Mrs. Little."

"Don't thank me, because I never told you anything."

The phone goes dead.

The nice thing about small towns is that it's easy to find people. Directory assistance has only one Beckham listed. I'm starting to feel like I might solve the Payton case without ever leaving the car.

"Hello?" A woman's voice.

"Is this Betty Lou Beckham?"

"Yes. I don't use the 'Lou' anymore, though. It's just Betty. Betty Beckham. Who is this?"

"This is Penn Cage, Mrs. Beckham."

Deafening silence.

"Mrs. Beckham?"

"I'm real busy right now, Mr.-"

"I just wanted to ask you a couple of quick questions."

"I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"You don't know what I'm going to ask you." Or do you?

"I saw the paper the other day." Her voice is so tight that her vocal cords must be near to snapping. "It's about that, isn't it?"

"Mrs. Beckham, I realize this might be a delicate matter. I'd be glad to speak to you in person if you'd feel more comfortable."

"Don't you come around here! Somebody might see you."

"Who are you worried would see me?"

"Anybody! Are you crazy?"

"Mrs. Beckham, I really only have one question. Were you in that parking lot when Del Payton's car exploded?"

"Oh, my God. Oh, dear Jesus____________________"

"I have absolutely no interest in what you might have been doing there, Mrs. Beckham. I just want to know about the bombing."