Crime Components

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Someone in the George Williams family must have a love affair with wind chimes. They are everywhere along the rim of the front porch, making tinkling sounds in the hot desert air. On a radio, somewhere inside the house, the song “Autumn Leaves” is playing. The melody mingles with the sound of the chimes.

I punch the doorbell and wait. I punch it again, and wait. One more time, with no success. At last, I bang my fist on the frame of the screen door and yell, "Anybody home?"

A woman, who has traces of beauty, but who has been on the fast track of life, pushes open the screen door. She looks to be about 5'3", maybe 115 pounds with thick blonde hair that hangs to her shoulders, and green eyes. I would guess her age to be around thirty-five. She wears a form fitting dress that accents her figure. A cigarette dangles from her rouged lips and the smoke curls up into the thick hair. This would be an attractive package to any man from sixteen to eighty. However, it’s the emerald green eyes that fascinate me. They’re knowing. I have the feeling she's seen everything. There is a flicker of suspicion that moves behind them.

"Mrs. Williams? I'm Gene McLain of the Arizona Reporter. I wonder if you could tell me where I can find your husband."

She looks me up and down as though I’m a stud horse that she’s considering buying. Taking the cigarette from her mouth, she blows the smoke in my direction.

"Yeah, I'm Rosemary Williams, and I have no idea where George might be. If I had to guess, I would say he's gambling and fooling around with some very young ladies in Mexico. George going on a couple of toots a year has been the story of our married life. The lure of booze, gambling, and easy women is something he can't resist."

I have the distinct feeling that Mrs. Williams isn't worried if her husband ever comes back or not, but I push on. "There has been talk of a Missing Persons report being filed on your husband."

She gives a bitter laugh, takes a drag on her cigarette and blows more smoke in my face. "That has to be Billy Broaddus, the owner of Acme Auto. George must be driving one of his fancy new models and he's worried about the merchandise. From personal experience, I can tell you that Billy Broaddus is only interested in merchandise."

I try to get matters off a personal track, although I file away what she has told me. "I understand Mr. Broaddus being concerned about his car."

"You got a smart mouth, McLain. I'm not sure you're my kind of man."

I would love to know what the qualifications are for “her kind of man,” but I wait for her to continue.

"Why don't you tell Billy not to worry? George is a big, tough guy and can take care of himself. He'll be back when he gets back, and that could be today, tomorrow, or next month."

She puts the cigarette back in her red lips and lets it dangle. She does the up and down look again as if I’m being selected or rejected to be a super stud. In a second, I find that rejection is my fate.

"Do me a favor, McLain. Don't bother me again." She turns and walks into the house. The door is slow closing and I have ample time to admire the roll of her lush hips. Just like in the movies. She gets lost in the darkness of the interior and I'm left standing looking at the closed screen door while the wind chimes flutter and tinkle in a breeze that grows hotter by the minute.

In the back of my head my brain is playing a little warning refrain: remember McLain, she called him "Billy" and indicated he might know more about her "merchandise" than one would expect. Husbands have been bumped off for a wide variety of reasons and passion is high on the list. I better do some checking into the private life of one William Broaddus.