“I believe I like the new lyrics better.”
“Come on, Jack. He wasn’t finished yet.”
Fair enough. A Paul McCartney tune called “Scrambled Eggs” eventually became “Yesterday,” the most widely covered song in music history. While it’s the same syllabic hop from “Kate, You Bitch” to “Shipwrecked Heart,” I somehow doubt the genealogy of Jimmy’s composition is destined for pop lore. In any case, the number’s over and Janet is getting weepy again.
“It turned out so pretty,” she says.
“Remember when you couldn’t think of a reason Cleo would kill your brother? This is why she did it. She needed a hit song and this is the one she wanted.”
“And Jimmy wouldn’t give it up.”
“Bingo.” I ease the Mustang back into traffic. “But here’s the pisser: I can’t prove a damn thing. Except for Cleo, everyone who knows the truth is dead—Jay Burns, the two imbeciles on the airboat. Tito’s alive but he can’t offer much. Hell, he didn’t even play on the sessions.”
“So there’s nothing to give the cops,” she says gloomily.
“I’m afraid not.”
“And nothing to put in your newspaper.”
Tragically, that is true.
We’re driving back toward the donut shop. Janet has slipped behind sunglasses to hide the redness in her eyes. Miles ago she turned off the stereo. I ask her what she’s thinking.
“I was just wonderin’ how Cleo did it.”
“We’ll probably never know.”
“But if you had to guess—I mean, you’ve wrote about stuff like this before, right? Murders and all.”
The truth is, I’ve been thinking a lot about the same question. “She probably drugged him. Slipped him something before he went in the water, to knock him out.”
The centerpiece of my theory is the fish chowder.
After I first interviewed Cleo, she must have realized her story wasn’t seamless. That’s why she embellished it for the New York Times, saying Jimmy had gotten sick from the chowder and she’d begged him to stay in the boat. Clearly she was trying to cover herself in case somebody demanded a legitimate autopsy. She wanted it to appear as if she’d tried to prevent her husband from making the dive, and would thus be an unlikely suspect in his death. Once the cremation was complete, the widow Stomarti never again mentioned bad fish, or her phony premonition.
Almost inaudibly, Janet says, “I hope it wasn’t too painful. Whatever happened.”
“I hope not, too.”
In front of the donut shop, she points out a sporty Mercedes convertible. “Raquel loaned it to me while the Miata’s in the shop. She’s one of the nuns.” Janet laughs self-consciously. “You know what I mean—one of the strippers posing as nuns. But they’ve been so nice, honestly, Jack.”
“Ask them to say a rosary for me.” I lean across the seat and kiss her on the cheek.
She says, “Can I please hear the song one more time? He sounds so damn good, doesn’t he?”
“He’ll sound even better in that sixty-thousand-dollar nunmobile.”
I pop the disc out of the dash and place it in Janet’s palm. Then I reach into the backseat for the bag containing the extra copy of the hard drive. “This is everything he wrote for the album,” I tell Jimmy’s sister. “It’s yours.”
“What about Cleo?”
“Starting today, Cleo’s looking for a different sound. That’s my prediction.”
Janet lifts the sunglasses off her nose and studies the plastic computer box from all angles, as if it were a puzzle cube. Her shoulders are shaking when she looks back at me.
“Jack, I still can’t believe he’s really gone.”
And I can’t believe his wife is getting away with it.
“I’m so sorry, Janet.” I couldn’t be any sorrier.
She sniffs away the tears and gathers herself. Propping the car door open with one knee, she says, “Look, I need to show you something. I want you to follow me.”
“I’m meeting a friend in about ten minutes.”
“Then bring her along.”
“But—”
“No excuses,” says Janet Thrush, with SWAT-team authority.
At age forty-six my father got drunk and fell out of a tree and died. It was a pathetic finale, and I’ll have the rest of my days to picture it happening. I am now forty-seven, grateful and relieved and joyous to have spent more time on this earth than the man responsible for my being here. This might sound appalling but it’s honest. For me to have loved or hated my old man was impossible, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Black irony is known to be indifferent. I would have been pleased to see him make it to his nineties, juggling dentures and pacemakers for the tourists at the Mallory docks. I am pleased, however, not to have followed in his woozy footsteps by punching out at the absurd age of forty-six. If there is (as my mother alludes) a fuckup gene running through his side of the family, I will proceed as if it’s recessive. I intend not to get plastered and chase feral wildlife through avocado trees. I intend not to die idiotically, but to live a long reasonable life.