Deep Water (17 page)

       "I came here to tell you something."

       "What?" Vic asked.

       "To tell you that I don't approve of what my husband is doing,

       and that I don't think the way he does. And I—" Her thin hands worked with the leather cigarette case, tremblingly stuck the flap back into place to close it. "I'm very embarrassed by the way he's acting."

       "What do you mean?"

       She looked at him, her blue eyes wide and young and earnest. The sunlight through the window behind her burned like a golden fire in her short, curly hair. She was too slight and undernourished-looking to be pretty, in Vic's opinion, and he was not sure how intelligent she was. "You must know what I mean," she said. "It's terrible!"

       "Yes, I've heard what he thinks—or what he's been saying. I can't say that it bothers me very much." He smiled at her.

       "No, of course. I understand that. But it bothers me because—because it's unjust, and we haven't been in this town very long, and it's going to make people hate us."

       "I don't hate you," Vic said, still smiling.

       "I don't know why you don't. Well, people are beginning to hate Don. I can't blame them. He's talking to people who're your friends—some of them. At least they knew you well—most of them. When Don says what he does, people just—well, either they drop us then and there or they label Don as rude or cracked or something like that." She hesitated. Her hands were trembling again on the cigarette case. "I wanted to apologize to you—for my husband—and to tell you that I don't share his ideas at all on this matter," she said positively. "I'm very sorry and I'm also ashamed."

       "Oh!" Vic said scoffingly. "There's no harm done. Except to your husband probably. I'm sorry, too, but—" he looked at her, smiling—"I think it's very nice of you to come here to tell me this. I appreciate it. I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help you?"

       She shook her head. "I suppose we'll weather it."

       "Who's we?"

       "Don and I."

       Vic walked behind his desk, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor, pleasantly conscious of the fact that his front was absolutely straight now, that there was no bulge at all below his braided belt. In fact, Trixie had had to take the belt back to school and shorten it by about four inches. "I wonder if you and Don'd like to come over for a drink some evening?"

       June Wilson looked surprised. "Why, yes. I'm sure we would." Then she frowned. "Do you really mean that?"

       "Of course I mean it!" Vic said, laughing. "How about tomorrow evening, Friday? At about seven?"

       She was so pleased she was blushing. "I think that'll be fine. Well I'd better go. It's been awfully nice seeing you."

       "I've enjoyed it, too." Vic walked out with her to the car, and made her a bow as she left.

       That evening, when he came home, Melinda said, "So I hear you've asked the Wilsons over for a drink."

       "Yes. You don't mind, do you?"

       "Don Wilson doesn't like you, you know."

       "So I hear," he said boredly. "I thought we might do something to correct that. They seem quite nice." And then Vic went out to get the power mower from the garage. Mowing the sprawling, informal lawn that bounded three sides of the house was his project that evening for the time between seven and dinner that had used to be the cocktail hour.

       The Wilsons came at a casual twenty-past seven on Friday evening. Don made his greeting to Melinda in the same tone that he used to Vic, but his wife was not so secretive. She had a big smile for Vic. June took Vic's armchair, and Don chose the middle of the sofa where he sat slouched with his long legs crossed and out in front of him, a pose of exaggerated nonchalance. His expression was one of contemptuous amusement plus a look of having just noticed a bad smell. Also contemptuous, Vic supposed, were his unpressed trousers and his not very fresh shirt. His tweed jacket had leather elbow patches.

       Vic fixed old-fashioneds—strong and with plenty of fresh fruit in them—and brought them in on a tray. Melinda and June were having a conversation about flowers that was boring Melinda terribly, Vic saw. He served the drinks all around, pushed the bowl of popcorn into the center of the cocktail table, then sat down in a chair and said to Don, "Well, what's new?"

       Don sat up a little. The contemptuous smile was still there. "Don's working in his head," his wife volunteered. "He'll probably be very quiet tonight, but don't mind."

       Vic nodded politely and sipped his drink.

       "Nothing much new," Don said in his growly baritone voice. He was looking at Vic now as the women went on talking.

       Vic slowly filled his pipe, aware that he was being studied by Don Wilson. It was amazing how June Wilson could go on and on about nothing. Now it was dog shows, whether Little Wesley ever had a dog show. Vic saw Melinda take a big gulp of her drink. Melinda had no talent for small talk with another woman. Don Wilson was looking the living room over thoroughly Vic noticed, and he supposed that an inspection of the bookcase would come soon.

       "Well, how're you liking the town?" Vic asked Don.

       "Oh, very well," Don said, his dark eyes glancing at Vic and away again.

       "I hear you know the Hineses."

       "Yes. Very nice people," Don said.

       Vic sighed. He fixed a second round of drinks as soon as possible. Then he asked Don, "Have you seen Ralph Gosden lately?" "Yes. Last week, I think," Don said.

       "How is he? I haven't seen him in quite a while."

       "Oh, I think he's fine," Don said, a bit of a challenge in his tone now.

       Vic felt sorriest for June Wilson. The second drink was doing very little to relax her. She was still making a great effort with Melinda, really going through a kind of fluttering agony, all in the name of social intercourse. Vic decided that the only way Don Wilson might loosen up was if he got him alone, because his wife had probably told him to be on his best behavior tonight, so Vic proposed a tour of the estate.

       Don dragged himself up by sections, still wearing the insulting smile. I'm not afraid to take a turn around the grounds with a murderer, he might have been saying.

       Vic took him into the garage first. He pointed out his snails, and talked about their eggs and their babies with a malevolent fervor when he saw that Don was mildly disgusted by them. He talked volubly about their rate of reproduction and about prodding them in races he staged for his own amusement, making them go over razor blades stood on edge, though he had never tried racing them in his life. Then he told Don about his bed bug experiment and the letter he had written to the entomological journal, which they had printed, and the letter of thanks they had written to him in return.

       "I'm sorry I can't show you the bedbugs, but I got rid of them after the experiment was over," Vic said.

       Don Wilson stared politely at Vic's power saw, then at his herbs, then at the neat rows of hammers and saws that hung on a panel of the back wall of the garage, murderous instruments all, then at a small bookcase that Vic was in the process of building for Trixie's room. Don's face was betraying a certain surprise.

       "Let me get you another drink!" Vic said suddenly, taking Don's glass from his hand. "Wait here. I'll be right back. You've got to see our brook!"

       Vic was back in a few minutes with a fresh drink for Don. Then they started out for the brook behind the house. "This is where I sleep," Vic said as they passed his wing on the other side of the garage, though he was sure Don had heard about his separate quarters. Don stared thoughtfully at the curtainless windows. Vic discoursed for at least ten minutes on the glacial origin of a rise of ground behind the brook and of certain stones which he picked up from the brook's bed. Then he launched into the arboreal life around them. He was careful to keep his enthusiasm on the brink of hysteria, of aberration. Don could hardly have got a word in edgewise if he had wanted to.

       Finally Vic stopped and said with a smile, "Well, I don't know if all this interests you or not."

       "You must be a very happy man," Don said with sarcasm.

       "I can't complain. Life's been very good to me," Vic replied.

       He added, "I was lucky enough to be born with an income, which helps, of course."

       Don nodded, his long jaw set. It was obvious that he hated people with incomes. Don took a swallow from his glass. "I wanted to ask you something tonight."

       "What?"

       "What do you think killed Charley De Lisle?"

       "'What' do I think? I don't know. I suppose it was cramp. Or else he really did get into water that was over his head."

       Don's dark-brown eyes bored into him, or tried to. "Is that all?" "What do you think?" Vic asked, teetering on a loose rock in the bank. He was on lower ground than Don, who towered now some five feet above Vic. Don was hesitating. No courage, Vic decided, not really any guts there.

       "I thought you might have done it," Don said in a casual tone. Vic laughed a little. "Guess again."

       Don said nothing, only continued to stare at him.

       "Some people thought I killed Malcolm McRae, too, I hear," Vic said.

       "I didn't." "Good for you."

       "But I thought it was a very peculiar story to be spreading around," Don added, mouthing the word "peculiar."

       "It's funny that so many people attached importance to it. I think Ralph Gosden was scared out of his wits. Wasn't he?"

       "It's a funny thing for you to get so much pleasure out of," Don said unsmilingly.

       Vic climbed the bank slowly, feeling very bored with Don Wilson."You seem to share an opinion with my wife that I killed Mr. De Lisle," Vic said.

       "Yes."

       "Do you consider yourself psychic? Can you see what isn't there? Or do you just have a writer's imagination?" Vic asked in a pleasant tone.

       "Could you take a lie detector test that you didn't kill him?"

       Don was becoming angry. The three strong drinks had begun to thicken his speech.

       "I'd certainly be willing to," Vic said tensely. Whether his sudden tension was due to boredom or hostility he didn't really know. He thought it was probably both.

       "You're a very odd man, Mr. Van Allen," Don Wilson said.

       "You're a very rude one:' Vic replied. They were standing on even ground now. Vic saw Don's bony hand tighten around his empty glass and he would not have been surprised if Don had suddenly hurled it into his face. Vic smiled with a deliberate blandness at him.

       "Mr. Van Allen, I don't care what you think of me. I don't care if I never see you again."

       Vic gave a laugh. "That feeling is mutual."

       "But I think I will see you again."

       "You can't really avoid it unless you move." Vic waited. Don said nothing, only stared at him. "Shall we join the ladies?" Vic began to walk toward the house, and Don followed him.

       Vic was sorry he had let himself speak sharply to Don—it wasn't really in character—but, on the other hand, one ought to be sensible occasionally, he supposed. It was sensible to let Don see that he could react with anger, normal anger, if he were sufficiently provoked. And as it was now, Vic could sense a subtle backing down in Don Wilson. For all Don's aggression, the evening was not going to him.

       "How about you people staying for dinner?" Vic said affably to June Wilson as he and Don came into the living room. "Well—I think that's up to your wife," June said. "But I think—"

       "Oh, I'll be glad to do the cooking," Vic said. "I think we've got a steak or two in there."

       Melinda, sulking on the sofa, gave him no backing up, however, and Vic knew that dinner was out.

       "I think we should be going home," June said. "I'm getting a little high." She laughed, managed quite a happy laugh. "Melinda told me you made this table, Vic. I think it's 'lovely."

       "Thank you," Vic said, smiling.

       "Sit down, Don," Melinda said, patting the sofa behind her. "Have another drink."

       But Don did not sit down. He did not even reply.

       "Say, where's Trixie?" Vic asked. "Didn't you say she went to a five o'clock movie, honey?"

       Melinda sat up, a startled expression coming through the sullenness. "Oh, my 'God', I was supposed to pick her up in Wesley!" she said with unmaternal annoyance. "What the hell time is it?"

       June Wilson tittered. "These modern mothers!" she said, putting her curly head back. She was nursing her last half inch of drink, and looked as if she would have been glad to stay there sipping and chatting all evening.

       "It's eight-twenty-five," Vic said. "What time were you supposed to pick her up?"

       "Seven-thirty," Melinda groaned, still not getting up from the sofa.

       Vic noticed that Wilson was looking at her with gloomy surprise and disapproval. "Who's she with? Janey?" Vic asked.

       "No-o. The Carter kids from Wesley. She's probably with them. She's probably all right or they'd have called us." Melinda ran her fingers through her hair and reached for her drink.

       "I'll give them a ring in a couple of minutes," Vic said calmly, though his concern made quite a contrast to Melinda's indifference, and he could see that the Wilsons had taken notice of it.

       The Wilsons were looking at each other. There was a silence of a whole minute or so. Then June stood up and said:

       "We really must go. I can see you people have things to do. Thanks for the lovely drinks. I hope you'll come to our house next time."

       "Thanks, Melinda," Don Wilson 'said, bending over the sofa. He and Melinda shook hands, and Melinda used his hand to pull herself up from the sofa.

       "Thanks for coming," Melinda said. "I hope next time you come the house won't be in such an upset."