Cold Judgment (8 page)

CHAPTER 11

“Move in with you?” Debra turned to look at him in amazement. “Mac! Is this a proposition?”

Mac laughed. “In a way, I suppose it is. I just thought you might feel nervous staying all alone. My house is big and it'd be nice to share it with you. As far as the proposition goes, I solemnly promise not to attack you in the middle of the night.”

Debra swallowed nervously. If Mac had been any other man, she would have refused immediately, but somehow Mac was different. It wasn't just the sex thing, either. She felt safe with Mac and she hadn't felt that way with any man since her husband.

“I . . . well . . . yes!” Debra blushed to the roots of her hair. “I'd like to move in with you, just temporarily, of course, until things settle down. It's really nice of you to ask me, Mac.”

It took only fifteen minutes to drive to Debra's apartment. Mac was grinning as he followed her up the stairs. The apartment building was old, but it was in good repair. Mac wandered through the apartment while she packed a couple of suitcases. Debra's living room was tidy and bare of more than minimal decoration. There were no family photos, no pieces of memorabilia to clutter her bookshelves. Mac looked in vain for some evidence of her personality, but even the magazines on the end table were standard and unexciting.

He poked his head in the small kitchen. There were no grocery bags or coupons lying about, no hastily written notes tacked to the refrigerator. The sink was clear of dishes and the porcelain was scrubbed to a dazzling white. All the pots and pans were highly polished, lined up on their shelves in precise geometric order. Even her Tupperware fit. Every lid sat on its matching container.

The bathroom was perfectly nondescript. Matching towels hung on the rack. A bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner sat on the shelf over the sink. The level of liquid in both was the same. Mac shook his head. Such precision was almost frightening. Debra's whole apartment looked like the models that builders showed to their clients. There was nothing personal anywhere.

Suddenly Mac understood. Debra was hiding. If there was nothing of Debra on display, that meant there was nothing to criticize. She was too frightened to put the stamp of her personality on these rooms. Somehow he would have to change that.

“Mac?” He heard her call out to him. He found her in the bedroom, trying to close the lid of the suitcase. “I can't get it shut!”

She looked endearingly untidy. Her hair was mussed and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

“Sit on it.” Mac grinned and lifted her up. “Just wiggle a little and I'll do the rest.”

Debra laughed as Mac snapped the suitcase shut. “Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn. Nineteen fifty-seven.
Love in the Afternoon!”

Mac loaded her suitcases in the trunk and dropped her at the paper. He had to spend a couple of hours at the station. They'd meet later for dinner and then go home. He found himself looking forward to the end of the day.

Now it was evening and they were sitting in his living room watching television. Mac smiled. It was surprising how much more he enjoyed his movies when he shared them with Debbie. Just having her next to him on the couch was a pleasure. He had never realized how lonely he had been.

Mac grinned as Debra mouthed the words along with Katharine Hepburn. She was staring at the screen intently, her crocheting forgotten on her lap. They were watching
The African Queen,
but Mac found himself watching Debra instead of the movie. She was so beautiful sitting there with the brightly colored skeins of yarn stacked at her side.

It was almost like being married. There had been only one awkward moment when they'd first gotten home. Debra had been standing in the doorway of the spare room, staring at the single bed.

“It's way down here at the end of the hall.” Her voice had quivered slightly.

“Why don't you sleep with me?” Mac had taken the suitcases from her and carried them into his room. “I got used to you last night. It's nice to have someone to cuddle in the middle of the night.”

She had blushed and nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. Her hands had trembled as she'd opened the suitcases and started to put away her things, but Mac had noticed her grateful smile.

Bogie and Hepburn were going through the marriage ceremony now. Mac watched for a moment. This movie was one of his favorites. He knew every scene. Debra was so absorbed she didn't even notice when her crochet hook slid off her lap and dropped to the rug.

It was good, having Debbie here. Her clothes hung in his closet on the side that was empty after Mary had left. Now there were bright, feminine colors to balance his browns and grays. The scent of her perfume made the whole house smell wonderful. Her makeup sat on a tray in the bathroom, precisely arranged to take up the least amount of room. The bottles of shampoo and conditioner were in the shower, and Mac grinned. He had used the shampoo when he'd gotten home from work. Now the levels were no longer even.

Mac hoped his untidy habits wouldn't drive Debra up the wall. He was a notorious slob. Even though he tried, his clothes never seemed to wind up in the laundry basket. On wash day he had to check every room for forgotten items. And he wasn't very good about doing the dishes. Mostly he made do with paper plates and TV dinners. He noticed that Debra had straightened up the refrigerator, and the bathroom sink was almost white again. Luckily Debra hadn't found his beer can collection. He had 114 different labels on the top shelf in the spare room. They hadn't been dusted in three years.

The house was beginning to benefit from a woman's touch. Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to find anything without asking her. Mac was a little surprised to find it didn't bother him a bit. He even promised himself that he'd try to be neater. Having Debra stay here was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.

Mac turned back to the movie in time to see the German gunboat blow up. Hepburn and Bogart were swimming to safety. There were tears in Debra's eyes.

“I just loved it!” She leaned back and sighed. “Our lives are so ordinary in comparison. There's no romance anymore.”

“Maybe there could be if two people were willing to take a chance.”

Debra turned to look at him. She saw the warmth in his eyes. Mac wanted to make love to her.

She knew she could put him off, misinterpret his meaning. It would be easy to pretend not to understand. But that would put a lie between them. She had to decide quickly before Mac noticed her fear.

She wanted to make love with Mac. She felt a warm shudder of anticipation when she thought of it. But what if he couldn't? What would happen then?

“Let's go to bed, Mac.” Debra tried to hide her nervousness as she smiled. She got up and a skein of yarn rolled to the floor. She left it there. Being neat and tidy wasn't important right now.

Debra's hands were trembling as she went to the bathroom to put on her new nightgown. It was a thin silk negligee, totally unsuitable for winter. She had dashed into Dayton's this afternoon to buy it, while Mac was down at the station. She had picked it on a whim, without even trying it on. It was totally unlike her to be so expensively spontaneous.

Debra gasped as she faced her reflection in the mirror. The peach color made her skin seem rosy and enticing. Her breasts were barely covered by the lace of the neckline. Every curve of her body was revealed. The thin, clinging material was shamelessly transparent, falling over her hips in a sleek, unbroken line. She looked voluptuous and ripe, like an accomplished paramour.

Suddenly Debra felt ridiculous. The negligee was so blatantly seductive that she was afraid to face Mac. How should she act? What would she say?

Debra shivered in the cold bathroom. Perhaps she should have worn her old flannel pajamas like Doris Day in
Pillow Talk
. She looked too much like Maggie the Cat in this ridiculous negligee.

That was it! Debra practiced a pose with her hand on her hip. She'd be Elizabeth Taylor tonight. She'd pretend to be wise and experienced, a professional courtesan. She would take the initiative and be sexy and enticing. Mac would be unable to resist her.

Mac tried to calm down as he waited for her. He was more than a little nervous. In a way, he almost wished that she hadn't caught his meaning out there in the living room. What if he failed?

He heard the bathroom door open. She was coming. Mac looked up as she walked to the bed and his heart pounded loudly in his chest. She was gorgeous! That negligee was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

Debra looked so different, he barely knew her. She moved like a practiced seductress as she snapped off the light and slid into bed. She reached out for him and folded her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. She was ripe and beautifully wanton as she pressed her body against his. The heat of her came through the thin silk and he could feel her need surround him, demanding and urgent.

He wanted to, but nothing happened. Mac kissed her back, but something was wrong. Then she reached out to fondle him and he shuddered at her touch. Her motions were calculated and cold. It felt almost as if she had memorized a sex manual and was flipping through the sections, trying one technique after another.

“I need you, Mac.” Her voice was low and sexy. Mac frowned in the darkness. Everything she was doing was right, but he couldn't respond. His frustration grew as she tried, again and again, rubbing against him, grasping with desperate fingers. There were long minutes of agony as she went through all the motions, trying to arouse something that was dead and useless.

“Debbie, stop!”

Finally he pushed her away. There was no life in him, nothing to satisfy her need. She was a woman and he was a eunuch. The farce was too painful to play out any further.

He knew they should talk. Mac tried to find the right words, but his disappointment was too great. He had failed. He turned away from her and hid the source of his agony. He wanted to be alone in his misery.

“Mac, please!” Debra tried to put her arms around him, but he pushed her back. Her pity was the last thing he wanted. Why couldn't she leave him alone? It was clear the whole thing was over between them.

He heard her start to cry, but he was powerless to comfort her. There were no magic words to bridge this gulf. He could not give her what she needed. It was as simple as that. Now she would leave him and he couldn't blame her.

It took a long time before he was able to speak again. His voice was flat and emotionless. “I'll help you move back home in the morning, Debbie. There's nothing for you here. I'm sorry it didn't work out.”

There was a moment of silence. Then she started to sob again. “I don't want to go, Mac. I . . . I love you! I'll sleep in the other room. Or out on the couch. But please, Mac, let me stay!”

Mac rolled over to look at her. She was serious. She really wanted to stay. And she loved him!

“I love you, too, Debbie.” He reached out to hold her. “I just thought you wouldn't want to stay after—”

“Oh, God, Mac. That was all my fault!” Debra's voice was shaking. “I made a terrible mistake. I was Maggie the Cat and I should have been Doris Day!”

Suddenly Mac laughed. Everything was clear now. Debra had been nervous and scared, too.

“You should have been Debbie,” he corrected her gently. “I don't want Doris Day or Elizabeth Taylor. I just want you.”

Mac held her tightly then. They rocked back and forth, laughing and crying.

What they had between them was stronger than this crushing disappointment. It was going to be all right.

“Mac?” Her voice was small and tentative. “This might sound unromantic, but I'm hungry.”

“Me, too.” Mac grinned and pulled her to her feet. “Let's go make triple-decker sandwiches. There's a robe in the bathroom you can wear. That nightgown's gorgeous, but it can't be very warm.”

Debra grabbed Mac's terrycloth robe and slipped it on. She tied it tightly around the waist and turned up the collar. She felt better now, almost her old normal self. She was not cut out to be a seductress. There was no use in pretending. She'd throw the negligee in the garbage tomorrow and concentrate on being just herself.

Mac was working at the butcher block table when she got to the kitchen. Jars of mayonnaise, mustard, and plum jam stood open on the counter. There were three kinds of bread stacked on the table and Debra watched, wide eyed, as he opened a can of sardines.

“Ham? Peanut butter? And sardines?” She shook her head and shuddered.

“Hey! Don't knock it until you've tried it.” Mac grinned and slapped a sandwich together. He put it on a paper plate and handed it to her with a flourish. “‘Years from now, when they talk about this—and they will—remember to tell them it was my idea.' Faye Dunaway.
The Towering Inferno.
Nineteen seventy-four.”

CHAPTER 12

Father Marx knew he should stay away from the meeting. Old habits were strong and he would be tempted to blurt out his problems. When he answered the phone he firmly intended to make some excuse, but Kay's voice was too familiar and comforting to resist.

“I'll be a little late,” he heard himself say. “The statue of the Virgin Mary was smashed last night. I'll have to take care of it before I can leave.”

“Oh, Father! What a shame! Was it vandalism?”

For a moment he hesitated, but Kay had provided the answer. “Yes. Vandalism.”

Father Marx sighed as he hung up the phone. He didn't like to lie, but it was important that none of them guess the truth. They had enough on their minds right now. He couldn't add to their burden.

He found Thomas McCrea in the front of the church. The old man had swept the plaster into a neat pile.

“It's a sad day, Father.” Thomas stepped back and crossed himself. “Did you call the police?”

“No, Thomas. The Lord will deal with it. Divine justice is surer than any law made by man.”

They worked in silence, pushing the rubble into trash bags and carrying it out to the street. Finally it was done, and there was a large empty spot where the statue had been.

“Here's something for your trouble.” Father Marx pressed money into the old man's hand. Thomas lived on a pitifully small pension and picked up odd jobs in the neighborhood. He was always on hand when there was work to be done.

“Will we be locking the doors now, Father, to protect our holy saints?”

It was an old argument and Father Marx was weary of it. Thomas had been trying to get him to lock the church doors for years.

“No, Thomas. We must put our trust in the Lord and not in locks and bolts.”

There was disapproval in Thomas's eyes, but Father Marx refused to back down. It was true that other churches were locked at night. Most priests thought it was a necessary precaution. Locks kept the vagrants out and made the church less vulnerable to vandals and thieves. But Father Marx knew locks barred the parishioners as well as the criminals. They were denied a refuge in time of trouble. And trouble could come at any time, not just in the daylight hours. As long as he was the priest at St. Steven's, the doors would remain open.

“Whatever you say, Father.” Thomas gave a curt nod. “I'll be leaving you then, until the evening Mass.”

The old man grumbled to himself as he walked off. Thomas had been a member of the parish for so long that sometimes he felt he had the right to dictate church policy.

Father Marx rushed to his office to call a taxi. He pulled off his work boots and replaced them with a dress pair. Then he took his heavy camel's-hair coat from the closet. It was cold today. The thermometer outside the window was stuck at five degrees below zero.

It took a long time for the cab to come. Father Marx watched the street so he would be ready. He could see the green plastic trash bags by the curb, waiting for the afternoon pickup. The Virgin Mary lay crumbled inside. Would Thomas change his mind about locking the church doors if he knew that vandals were not to blame?

The taxi driver pulled up and beeped his horn. Father Marx clamped his hat on his head and rushed out into the cold. Now he must think only of the group. His own guilty secret would remain in the hands of the Lord.

 

 

They sat in a tight circle around the coffee table. There were only five of them now. Mac noticed that they unconsciously drew together, as if for protection. They reminded him of frightened deer, forming a circle to fend off the wolves.

“What next?” Nora shook her head sadly. “Our group has been haunted by tragedy since Dr. Elias had to leave us.”

Kay shivered. “It's frightening. Another one of us is dead. I know this is going to sound crazy, but it . . . it's almost like someone is killing us off.”

“That's exactly how I feel!” Debra clasped her hands together nervously. “First Doug. Then Jerry. And now Greg. I keep wondering if I'm going to be next!”

Nora slipped a cigarette into her holder and laughed. “You two make it sound like a production of
Ten Little Indians
. You're just letting your imaginations run away with you.”

“That's probably true.” Mac nodded. “But three fatalities out of a group of eight is really unusual. I think we should check in with each other every night. It'll make us feel more secure. You three call me at my house. If I'm not home, Debbie'll be there.”

“Mac! You got it up!”

There was a shocked silence, and they all turned to stare at Nora. She had the grace to blush.

“I'm sorry. It just slipped out. Vinnie, darling? I need your help. My tongue is possessed by the Devil.”

Debra couldn't help it. She started to laugh. Nora was so outrageous.

“An exorcism?” Father Marx chuckled. “Nora, my child, if I took away your devilment you'd have no personality left.”

“Back to the telephone calls.” Mac grinned sheepishly. “Call me any time. I mean that. Day or night, it doesn't matter.”

“Like a paranoids' hotline?” Kay gave a nervous laugh. “You're right, Mac. That would help. I get awfully nervous when I'm here all alone.”

“You're never alone, Kay.” Father Marx reached out to pat her hand. “God is always with you. And He doesn't charge long-distance rates.”

Kay gave him a tentative smile. Father Marx was doing his best to cheer her even though he had troubles of his own.

“Thank you, Father. I know you must be terribly upset about your church being vandalized, but still you haven't lost your sense of humor. I wish I could be like that.”

“What happened to your church, Father Marx?” Debra leaned forward.

“The statue of the Virgin Mary was smashed last night.” Father Marx looked down at the table so he wouldn't have to meet their eyes. He would have to be very careful not to slip up now.

“People don't have respect for anything anymore!” Nora frowned. “It takes a real sicko to vandalize a church!”

“Did you call the police, Father?” Mac was concerned. “If you request extra surveillance, they'll keep an eye on the church.”

“I think I know who did it, Mac. Believe me, it's not a matter for the police. I'll have to handle this my own way.”

Mac nodded, but he watched Father Marx closely. The priest was hiding something. His hands were folded together so tightly that his knuckles were white, and he stared down at the table, visibly upset. His jocularity had vanished the moment they'd started to talk about the statue, and he acted almost guilty. It wasn't like Father Marx to be secretive about anything.

“I wish I could help.” Debra sighed deeply. “There must be something we can do.”

Nora reached into her purse. “You know I'm not a religious person, Vinnie, but I'd like to start a fund for replacing your statue.”

“Nora?” Father Marx looked up in surprise. “That's very kind.”

“Just don't start trying to save my soul.” Nora laughed. “I want to help you, that's all. If we don't help each other, we'll all go down the tubes.”

“Count me in.” Kay nodded emphatically. “Our accountant said we needed a tax write-off. Charles doesn't know it yet, but he's just made a big healthy contribution.”

 

 

Debra stopped at Byerly's when she got through at the paper. Mac was working until eight and she had plenty of time to get home and fix dinner.
Home? Fix dinner?
Debra laughed out loud as she pushed her cart to the meat case. She was thinking the thoughts of a suburban housewife and she didn't even know how to cook!

The cuts of meats in the case were a mystery. Debra had no idea what to do with a rolled rump or a boneless blade Boston. She'd probably be safer with hamburger or hot dogs, but she wanted to make a special dinner for Mac tonight. It was her way of saying thank you for being there when she needed him.

A Strauss waltz was playing on the store's music system and Debra danced down the aisle to the cookbook section. She picked out an illustrated Betty Crocker edition and put it in her basket. Several people stared at her as she went back to the meat case. For the first time in years, Debra didn't care what they thought. She was happy and that was what counted.

Debra stood at the meat case and paged through the cookbook. There was a complete menu for a family dinner that looked delicious in the illustration. She rang the bell and asked the butcher for the right cut of beef to make a Yankee pot roast. If it didn't turn out like the picture, she'd do an exposé on the General Mills test kitchens!

She found fresh carrots and russet potatoes in the produce section. The book said to arrange them around the meat. The celery was expensive, over a dollar a bunch. No wonder people bought canned vegetables in the winter.

Betty Crocker suggested apple pie for dessert, but Debra didn't feel confident enough to tackle a pie crust. She settled for a gallon of Lady Kemps French vanilla ice cream and a Swanson frozen pie. At least she could claim she baked it herself.

Byerly's bakery was crowded, but Debra took a number and stood in line. She wanted the very best rye bread for Mac. The cinnamon rolls were lying in state at the front of the glass display case. Éclairs dripping with rich glazed chocolate tried to seduce her. The aroma of warm doughnuts did foolish things to her head and suddenly Debra was starving. She'd never be able to hold out until Mac got home.

“A loaf of dark rye, one of those gorgeous éclairs, two great big cinnamon rolls, and . . . that's enough.” Debra laughed along with the girls at the counter. “Put the éclair and the rolls in a separate bag, please. They're not going to make it home.”

Debra checked out and took her plastic claim tag. She started her car and drove to the pickup area. There she had to wait again, in a long line of cars. The new Cadillac in front of her sent up towering plumes of white exhaust in the freezing air.

“I'd better put these in the backseat.” The pickup boy grinned as he brought out her groceries. “Your milk'll freeze in the trunk. Cans even burst when it gets this cold. One of our new guys loaded up a trunk last week and the customer had two cases of popped Diet Pepsi by the time she got home.”

Debra tipped the boy a dollar and smiled at his amazed reaction. She reached into the white bakery bag and took a huge bite of the éclair. She finished it before she got out of the parking lot.

It was rush hour, but Debra didn't mind. She was grinning as she got on the crowded freeway and headed toward Mac's house. It was wonderful to be alive.

It hit her with the force of a physical blow. Greg was dead. Debra's smile vanished and she was suddenly contrite. It wasn't right to feel joyous. She should be mourning for Greg.

Debra shivered. It was growing dark and she snapped on her headlights. The yellow beams picked up the high snowbanks on the side of the road and she felt very alone in the cocoon of her car. Where was Greg now? Did he know she cared? Was he glad she was denying her happiness in honor of his death?

She thought deeply through four miles of traffic. Greg had believed in happiness. He had actively pursued it in his own brief life. Debra reached out to turn on the radio. Then she started to sing at the top of her lungs. She didn't know the song, but that didn't matter. Greg would definitely approve.