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  "We were married fifteen years and he was probably lying and cheating for most of them. Charlie was a very smooth talker. Well, he was a salesman and they can do that pretty well. Talk smooth, I mean."

  "What did he sell?"

  "Optical Equipment, binoculars, telescopes, goggles, that kind of stuff. He worked for Regis Optics, from Chicago. Charlie was the distributor for Iowa and part of Illinois. He sold to retailers, so he was out of town a lot. I guess that made it easier to meet other women."

  "Did you have any children?" I asked.

  "No. When we were first married, we used to talk about it, but Charlie always wanted to wait just a little longer. I knew, finally, that he would never be ready to be a parent. He was too selfish and was never going to give up either his freedom or his own expensive toys."

  "So, you said you'd booted him out?" I offered, getting back to the main subject.

  "Yes, in February, the third of February. I'd found out about another affair and I'd already decided that if there was ever another one it would be the last. I told him to take his stuff and get out. He did it, get out, I mean. He got a small apartment in Coralville. I assumed he'd be glad to be free. For a while he was, but then he started calling and crying and wanting me to take him back."

  Iris Wilson was a petite woman, maybe five feet tall, blonde hair that looked natural enough and perfect skin on a very nice face. I decided Charlie Wilson was an ass.

  "Were you divorced when he died?"

  "No. He died April nineteenth. It wasn't final yet. I guess that was better for me, financially, I mean. But I didn't want him to die." Her eyes filled up, but to her credit, she blinked back the tears.

  "How did it happen?"

  "The police said it was an accident. He was drunk and fell into the water over by the Coralville Dam. They said it happened at night. Some fishermen found his body downstream the next day. The police said he must have climbed on the fence and fallen in." She produced a folded newspaper clipping from her purse and handed it to me. I opened it and saw the headline about Charlie Wilson's body being found.

  "I thought you might want to read that. I want it back, though."

  I opened a blue file folder, slid the article inside, and returned the folder to the desk. I'd written her name on the cover before she arrived. I nodded and said that of course I'd see that she got it back. I thought over what she'd said so far.

  "How do you know he was drunk? Did they run tests?"

  "They said they took some of his blood and, I think, urine to the state police lab and did tests where they can go backwards and figure out what his alcohol level was when he died. I don't understand it all, but they said his blood alcohol was two times the legal limit.

  "So the police ruled it as accidental?"

  "What they said was that there was no evidence of foul play and it was either suicide or an accident. They said even though there was a letter he wrote to me about killing himself, they were comfortable just listing it as accidental. I think they believe he killed himself but were trying to be, well, you know, kind to me."

  "Tell me about the letter."

  "They found it in his apartment. He was writing it to me and it wasn't finished yet. He'd sent me some other ones since he'd moved out. They were always in the same tone, that he didn't want to live without me and would rather be dead. I thought that was just his way to get me to take him back, trying to manipulate me, like he'd always done. I was determined not to give in to him this time."

  She paused while the tears tried to get a good hold again, then got it under control and went on. "I'm afraid he really killed himself and I have to know for sure. I feel so guilty about it, like if I'd given him another chance or tried to get help for him, maybe this wouldn't have happened. I just can't believe he would really have done that, drunk or not."

  Like many family members that have to deal with the sorrow and guilt of a suicide, Iris was probably just unable to accept the facts. She'd probably already heard that, though, so I didn't mention it.

  We discussed a modest fee and she gave me her address in Iowa City. Since she was still legally married to Charlie when he died, Iris was allowed to take his personal effects home from his apartment. They were all in a couple of boxes. I agreed to pick them up later that day.

  Needing to think about a few things, I drove to the Community Center over near the highway. Serious thinking, I'd found, was best done as a sideline, while my conscious mind was otherwise occupied by something mundane, like walking or driving. Otherwise, as soon as I realized I was seriously thinking about a problem. The thoughts evaporated faster than I could get a grip on them. I liked to use the indoor track at the Community Center where I could just walk and let my brain noodle around without having to worry about traffic. And it also eliminated the excuse of bad weather from my long list of reasons to skip the walks.

  Besides figuring out how to approach Caroline and what to say to her, I also had to think about Maxine and her suspicions about Talmadge. I was pretty certain he was having an affair. Maxine was a lot of things, controlling, outspoken and overbearing, just to name a few. But she wasn't stupid. And Talmadge's actions were more than a little suspicious. After all, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck....

  Chapter 3

  The drive to Iris Wilson's house was uneventful. Traffic in Iowa City, even at its worst, didn't seem bad to me. I'd been negotiating Pittsburgh's Parkway, with the rest of the speed crazed city drivers, since I was sixteen.

  Iris had said she lived on the east side of town, just north of Rochester Avenue; a directional nomenclature I was finally getting used to. Here, with no mountains to avoid, most of the highways and streets were laid out at ninety degree angles. If you turned to the right off North Main Street, you were said to be going east on the next street, and probably were, in fact, headed due east. The folks here actually spoke that way when they gave you directions; "Go north on 965 and turn west onto Evergreen until the light, then go south for two miles until you see the store on the west side of the road." It made perfect sense once you got used to it. Back in Pittsburgh, if you turned right at a corner, there'd be so many twists and turns in the first two blocks, you might end up headed in the same compass direction as you were before making the turn.

  The Wilson house was a small single story with a shallow pitch to the roof. The tiny front porch needed paint as did the tan wooden siding. Huge shrubs encircled the porch, pushing their dark branches between the chipped railings. I wiped my shoes on the mat that said "Welcome" in faded shades of brown and yellow and pressed the doorbell. Of course, that probably didn't work either. Along with his other failings, Charlie Wilson didn't seem to be much of a handyman. I knocked on the door and Iris Wilson opened it and invited me in.

  The smell of vanilla and spices permeated the small house.

  We sat side by side on a brown tweed sofa in the clean but sparsely furnished living room. I noticed a couple of nice pieces and commented on them. A small cherry secretary desk against the side wall had belonged to Iris' mother and had been in her family for years. In the corner was an upholstered rocking chair that looked to be made of oak. She said she'd bought it at an auction and refinished it herself. Other than that, the furnishings looked inexpensive but well kept.

  Three cardboard boxes were stacked beside the front door. It wasn't much to show for a whole life, but that was probably most of Charlie Wilson's personal belongings. On the coffee table in front of us, Iris had placed a tray of Christmas cookies and some napkins. Excusing herself, she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two mugs of coffee. The mugs had pictures of snowmen and reindeer all around them.

  "What?" I said, "No Christmas tree?"

  She laughed. "I know. I'm way too early for Christmas cookies. It's not even Thanksgiving yet. Every year it seems to come faster, so I just start earlier to enjoy more of the season. I'll freeze most of the cookies I make and bring them out in time for Christmas. Since you were coming down, I thought I
'd bake some today."

  The cookies were great. Crispy sugar cookies are among my all-time favorite sweets. We chatted a little about the holidays and made the usual small talk that strangers engage in when they're tossed together in a situation that invites some social discourse. After about a half hour the conversation turned to the task at hand.

  "Are all of Charlie's things in there?" I indicated the boxes.

  "All the small stuff. His suits and shoes and the coats on hangers are still in the closet. I didn't know if you'd need to take them. Do you want to see them?"

  I did and we moved to the bedroom where the door had been slid to one side on the near closet, exposing a rack of men's clothes. Iris told me to go ahead and look through them and to take anything I needed.

  I started at the floor and worked my way up. There were seven pair of men's dress shoes all of which looked expensive. Pulling them out onto the carpeting, I sat beside the pile and took a closer look. I was impressed. Each had all leather construction. The shoes ranged from tassel loafers in a deep cordovan shade to several wing tips in both black and shades of brown and tan. All of them looked fairly new, including the five pair of Nikes that were stacked in a box at the back of the closet. Three pair of high top hunting or hiking boots completed the footwear selection. This guy had more money in shoes than I had in my entire wardrobe.

  The small room was getting warm. Apparently the furnace worked well, anyway. Reaching up to the side window, I shoved the lower sash upward and let some cold air in. The smell of pine blew in from the side yard. Opening each shoe, I felt around inside, searching for I didn't know what. All of them were empty. I checked the sizes, but they were too small for me.

  I got up and started through the racks of clothes in the closet. The hangers were loaded with suits, slacks and sport jackets. At the far right, there were several top coats and all weather coats stuffed in at the end of the rod. It took some time to go through all the pockets and feel along the linings for hidden objects. Still, it was simpler to do it here than to drag all this gear back to my place.

  I didn't find anything of interest in any of the clothing and leaned over to close the window before I left. The section of the lock that should have been attached to the upper sash was missing, so I couldn't lock it. If I'd been looking for evidence that Charlie Wilson was no handy man, the condition of his house provided plenty. Luckily for Iris, Iowa City was a pretty safe area and the missing lock probably would never pose a problem. Looking back over the closet, I noticed a briefcase at one side of the space that had some heft to it, so I picked it up and carried it out of the bedroom with me.

  Iris was in the kitchen and I called her name as I went through the doorway. "Iris, do you mind if I take this case with me? I'll check through it and bring it back when I return the boxes."

  "That's fine. Did you find anything in his clothes?"

  "Nope. But then I don't know what I'm looking for yet. Can you hold on to the rest of the stuff for a while? I mean, don't give it away or sell it, just in case."

  "That's no problem. It's been there this long and a little while longer won't hurt anything." Iris offered me a plate of the cookies and I didn't refuse them. While she was wrapping them up in the kitchen, I started carrying the boxes and the briefcase to my car.

  On my last trip back to the house, I met a tall darkly bearded man walking up the steps. We both stopped.

  "Hello." He said, continuing inside as he pulled off a glove and extended his hand. "I'm Gary Omar, a friend of Iris'. I'd guess you're Rudy the detective."

  Gary had a firm handshake and a smile that seemed genuine. I decided I liked him. As I picked up the last of the three boxes, I could hear Iris' steps coming in from the kitchen and turned to see her face light up at the sight of Gary Omar. She stretched up to kiss him before they both saw me out. Good for you, Iris, I thought. Good for you.

  With the things in the trunk of my Grand Am, I was soon back in Oak Grove. I set the boxes on the floor in my living room and carried the leather case through to my office, where I laid it on the desk. I snapped open the latches and flipped the top back to reveal the contents. The bottom surface was filled with neatly aligned pieces of optical equipment, each one held in place by Velcro bands that were attached to the floor of the case. There were binoculars, small telescopes, magnifying lenses, night glasses, assorted rifle sights and several sets of cleaning and repair kits. I removed each item in turn, took it apart and looked at all of it. Zip. Nada.

  The lid of the case had slots for papers and was stuffed with catalogs and blank sales forms. Combing through all of it was equally non-productive. There was no sales book or anything personal here. Pondering again my choice of professions, and wondering if I could take out boredom insurance, I closed the case and set it back in the living room, next to the boxes I'd stacked beside the couch.

  A quick cup of reheated coffee might help. I brought a mug back and sat on the couch to begin going through the boxes. They looked like they had been filled by opening drawers and dumping the contents. The first one contained some back issues of hunting and fishing magazines, several half-filled cigarette packs, a couple of pounds of more Regis' Optics catalogs and some junk mail, mostly of the "You May Already Be a Winner" variety.

  The second box was smaller but had better stuff in it. Charlie's sales book was there, along with his personal address book, wallet and keys. Apparently Iris didn't want any part of this stuff, or maybe she couldn't stand to handle his things yet. There were some photos, mostly of him and Iris in happier times, several at the beach and one with the two of them all dressed up, in what looked like a hotel lobby. He was an average looking guy, a little short, maybe five feet nine, with a lot of blond hair. He looked like he might go about a hundred and sixty. There was another picture, a five by seven in a gold colored frame that showed the two of them with an older couple on a porch. The older folks were seated on a dark green wicker swing and Charlie and Iris were standing beside them. Iris looked pretty in a pale blue blouse with a tiny white pattern running through it. Her husband was wearing a blue denim shirt, open at the neck to reveal two thick gold chains hanging around his neck. I unfolded the cardboard flap in the back and set the frame on my desk. I'd have to ask Iris who the older people were, just in case it was something I needed to know. You can never be certain what will turn out to be a clue.

  The third, and biggest box, was full of clothes, underwear, socks, tee shirts, dress shirts wrapped from a laundry service; the kind of stuff you keep in a drawer. There was also a bunch of neckties that looked like she had lifted them off a tie rack and just laid them in here. I looked at the labels on a couple of them. All were silk, mostly from Italy. Why was I not surprised? Nothing was really noteworthy, so I closed the flaps and set that one aside with the first.

  I went through the wallet and laid the contents out on the footlocker that I used as a coffee table. I checked the driver's license statistics and found I'd been pretty close on Wilson's height and weight; he'd told the state that he was five-nine and a hundred and seventy pounds. I set the license aside along with the registration card for his car, and riffled through the credit cards, counting as I sorted them. There were three for local Iowa City stores, one gasoline credit card and fourteen MasterCard and Visa cards. Turning these over, I picked up the phone and began calling the numbers on the back of the cards.

  Most of them had five or six digits and then some word, like "Visa" embossed on the back of the card, for customer service. I managed to figure which keys to punch to 'spell' the words, but I really hated that whole idea. Like I was going to memorize the other six digits anyway.

  The customer service menus were very similar on all the cards. I had to type in his account number and zip code, and then listen for the balance due and available credit. If I wanted payment information, and I did, I had to select another number and there I was. I snagged a sheet of paper from my desk and started a list.

  An hour and a half later, I knew that Cha
rlie Wilson had almost ninety seven thousand dollars in available credit, with no balance due on any of the cards. Even more interesting was the fact that Charlie's last payment on each of the cards had been made in March and each was for a hefty sum of money. He had paid out over eighty thousand dollars in that month. Now where would he get that kind of money? And what was he buying on all these credit cards? I dialed Iris's number.

  It turns out she'd known about a lot of major purchases. "Charlie's toys," she said. There were three snowmobiles, a boat, a truck, several expensive hunting trips, flights to the West Coast to see the folks, and assorted gifts for both her and for his parents back in Everly, California.

  "I've sold most of the bigger things, the boat, snowmobiles, the truck and his sports gear," she said. "I just put ads in the paper and got what I could for them. I don't even know if they're all paid for yet."

  "He charged all that stuff, on credit cards?" I couldn't believe this guy.

  "That was one of the things we fought about," she said. "Charlie thought he deserved everything he wanted and he usually managed to get it. He had huge credit payments and wasn't able to keep up with them. There were always promises and more promises that he'd take care of them, but I've been bracing myself, expecting to hear from the companies or from some collection agency. So far no one's called and I'm sure not going to call them."

  "By the way," I said, "I have a question about one of the photographs in the boxes." I described the framed five by seven color snapshot.

  Iris told me that the couple on the porch was, indeed, Charlie's parents, Clyde and Lois Wilson, who still lived in Charlie's home town of Everly. The picture was taken by a neighbor last December when she and Charlie had flown out to California for a visit over Christmas.

  I told her I'd keep her posted.

  The sun was almost down by the time I finished sifting through the sales log and address book, making notes as I went along. Leaving the two books, Charlie's wallet, the credit card lists and the photo of Charlie and Iris in California on top of my desk, I folded the cardboard flaps in and set the third box beside the couch with the briefcase and the first two boxes. Time for a break.