14 February 1976: Three valentines—one from an old schoolteacher, Miss Wood; another from my tax accountant; and a third signed Love, Bob Quinn. A joke, of course. Jake’s idea of black comedy?
15 February 1976: Called Jake, and he confessed yes, he’d sent the valentine. I said well, you must have been drunk. He said: “I was.”
20 April 1976: A short letter from Jake scribbled on Prairie Motel stationery: “Have been here two days collecting gossip, mostly at the Okay Café. The postmaster is still in Honolulu. Juanita Quinn had a pretty bad stroke. I like Juanita, so I was sorry to hear it. But her husband is fit as a fiddle. Which is the way I prefer it. I don’t want anything to happen to Quinn until I have a final crack at him. The Bureau may have forgotten this matter, but not me. I’ll never give up. Sincerely …”
10 July 1976: Called Jake last night, not having heard from him for more than two months. The man I spoke to was a new Jake Pepper; or rather, the old Jake Pepper, vigorous, optimistic—it was as though he had at last emerged from an inebriated slumber, his rested muscles primed to prowl. I quickly learned what had roused him: “I’ve got a devil by the tail. A humdinger.” The humdinger, though it contained one intriguing element, turned out to be a very ordinary murder; or so it struck me. A young man, aged twenty-two, lived alone on a modest farm with an elderly grandfather. Earlier in the spring the grandson killed the old man in order to inherit his property and steal money the victim had misered away under a mattress.
Neighbors noticed the farmer’s disappearance and saw that the young man was driving a flashy new car. The police were notified, and they soon discovered that the grandson, who had no explanation for his relative’s sudden and complete absence, had bought the new car with old cash. The suspect would neither admit nor deny that he had murdered his grandfather, though the authorities were certain he had. The difficulty was: no corpse. Without a body they couldn’t make an arrest. But search as they might, the victim remained invisible. The local constabulary requested aid from the State Bureau of Investigation, and Jake was assigned to the case. “It’s fascinating. This kid is smart as hell.
Whatever he did to that old man is diabolical. And if we can’t find the body, he’ll go scot-free. But I’m sure it’s somewhere on that farm. Every instinct tells me he chopped Grandpa into mincemeat and buried the parts in different spots. All I need is the head. I’ll find it if I have to plow the place up acre by acre. Inch by inch.” After we’d hung up, I felt a surge of anger; and jealousy: not just a twinge, but a mean jab, as though I’d recently learned of a lover’s betrayal. In truth, I don’t want Jake to be interested in any case other than the case that interests me.
20 July 1976: A telegram from Jake. Have Head One Hand Two Feet Stop Gone Fishing Jake. I wonder why he sent a telegram instead of calling? Can he imagine that I resent this success? I’m pleased, for I know his pride has been at least partially restored. I only hope that wherever he has “gone fishing,” it is somewhere in the neighborhood of Blue River.
22 July 1976: Wrote Jake a congratulatory letter, and told him I was going abroad for three months.
20 December 1976: A Christmas card from Sarasota. “If you ever come this way, please stop by. God bless you. Marylee Connor.”
22 February 1977: A note from Marylee: “I still subscribe to the hometown paper, and thought the enclosed clipping might interest you. I’ve written her husband. He sent me such a lovely letter at the time of Addie’s accident.” The clipping was Juanita Quinn’s obituary; she had died in her sleep. Surprisingly, there was to be no service or burial, for the deceased had requested that she be cremated and her ashes scattered over Blue River.
23 February 1977: Called Jake. He said, rather sheepishly: “Hiya, pardner! You’ve been quite the stranger.” In fact, I’d mailed him a letter from Switzerland, to which he had not replied; and though I’d failed to reach him, had twice phoned during the Christmas holidays. “Oh yeah, I was in Oregon.” Then I came to the point: Juanita Quinn’s obituary. Predictably, he said: “I’m suspicious”; and when I asked why, answered: “Cremations always make me suspicious.” We talked another quarter-hour, but it was a self-conscious conversation, an effort on his part. Perhaps I remind him of matters that, for all his moral strength, he is beginning to want to forget.
10 July 1977: Jake called, elated. Without preamble, he announced: “Like I told you, cremations always make me suspicious. Bob Quinn’s a bridegroom! Well, everybody knew he had another family, a woman with four children fathered by Squire Quinn. He kept them hidden over in Appleton, a place about a hundred miles southwest. Last week he married the lady. Brought his bride and brood back to the ranch, proud as a rooster. Juanita would spin in her grave. If she had a grave.” Stupidly, dazed by the speed of Jake’s narrative, I asked: “How old are the children?” He said: “The youngest is ten and the oldest seventeen. All girls.
I tell you, the town is in an uproar. Sure, they can handle murder, a couple of homicides don’t faze them; but to have their shining knight, their big War Hero, show up with this brazen trollop and her four little bastards is too much for their Presbyterian eyebrows.” I said: “I feel sorry for the children. The woman, too.” Jake said: “I’ll save my sorrow for Juanita. If there was a body to exhume, I’ll bet the coroner would find a nice dose of nicotine inside it.” I said: “I doubt that. He wouldn’t hurt Juanita. She was an alcoholic.
He was her savior. He loved her.” Quietly, Jake said: “And I gather you don’t think he had anything to do with Addie’s ‘accident’?” I said: “He meant to kill her. He would have, eventually. But then she drowned.” Jake said: “Saving him the trouble! Okay. Explain Clem Anderson, the Baxters.” I said: “Yes, that was all Quinn’s work. He had to do it. He’s a messiah with a task.” Jake said: “Then why did he let the postmaster glide through his fingers?” I said: “Has he? My guess is that old Mr. Jaeger has an appointment in Samarra. Quinn will cross his path one day. Quinn can’t rest until that happens. He’s not sane, you know.” Jake hung up, but not before acrimoniously asking: “Are you?”
15 December 1977: Saw a black alligator wallet in a pawnshop window. It was in fine condition, and initialed J.P. I bought it, and because our last conversation had ended angrily (he was angry, I wasn’t), I sent it to Jake as both a Christmas present and a peace offering.
22 December 1977: A Christmas card from the faithful Mrs. Connor: “I’m working for the circus! No, I’m not an acrobat. I’m a receptionist. It beats shuffleboard! All wishes for the New Year.”
17 January 1978: A four-line scrawl from Jake thanking me for the wallet—curtly, inadequately. I’m receptive to hints. I won’t write or call again.
20 December 1978: A Christmas card from Marylee Connor, just her signature; nothing from Jake.
12 September 1979: Fred Wilson and his wife were in New York last week, en route to Europe (their first trip), happy as honeymooners. I took them to dinner; all talk was limited to the excitements of their impending tour until, while selecting dessert, Fred said: “I notice you haven’t mentioned Jake.” I pretended surprise, and casually remarked that I hadn’t heard from Jake in well over a year. Shrewdly, Fred asked: “You fellows have a falling out?” I shrugged: “Nothing quite so clean-cut. But we haven’t always seen eye to eye.” Then Fred said: “Jake’s had bad health problems lately. Emphysema. He’s retiring the end of this month. Now, it’s none of my business, but I think it would be a nice gesture if you called him. Just now he needs a pat on the back.”
14 September 1979: I shall always be grateful to Fred Wilson; he had made it easy for me to swallow my pride and call Jake. We spoke this morning; it was as if we had talked yesterday, and the day before. One wouldn’t believe that there had ever been an interruption in our friendship. He confirmed the news of his retirement: “Just sixteen days to go!”—and said that he planned to live with his son in Oregon. “But before that, I’m going to spend a day or two at the Prairie Motel. I’ve some unfinished chores in that town. There’s some records in the courthouse I want to steal for my files. Hey, listen! Why don’t we go together? Have a real reunion. I could meet you at Denver and drive you down.” Jake did not have to pressure me; if he hadn’t offered the invitation, I would have suggested it myself: I had often dreamed, while awake or asleep, of returning to that melancholy village, for I wanted to see Quinn again—meet and talk with him, just the two of us alone.
IT WAS THE SECOND DAY of October.
Jake, declining an offer to accompany
