Once a Widow (14 page)

Karen dressed carefully, selecting her daintiest frilled panties, a white short-sleeved blouse, a new pair of pale green tailored slacks which she hadn’t worn since they’d left for Erie Cliffs in May, white buckskin beaded moccasins. When she was ready she pirouetted before the mirror, her mouth fixed in a gay smile. When Richard saw her he would certainly repent, she told herself, and she felt excited at the thought of their reunion. There would never be another Richard, not as long as she lived. He was an impulsive boy, and sorry afterward. Hadn’t he called Maggie because he was worried about his wife?

And then the truth hit her. She’d faced it the night before, but today she’d been fighting it, not wanting it, but it was there, like a seeping abscess in her brain. Richard had wanted her dead. He really had. Why, why? Her money? Another woman, a young one? Why, Richard?

Karen’s mouth began to quiver. She went to a dresser and from the bottom drawer took out a small, black, pearl-handled automatic pistol, an Italian Berretta, .25 caliber. It had belonged to one of her ex-husbands, probably Jerry, who had been mad about guns and had taught her a little about them. In fact, all of her husbands had enriched her in some way. Because of Richard she had learned to swim. Thomas had taught her about the stock market. With Alfredo it had been art and she could now distinguish a Picasso from a Van Gogh. Louis, her second husband, poor Louis, he had taught her to drink in a controlled way before he’d driven his Jaguar (a gift from Karen) over the edge of a mountain road near Nice. He had survived the crash but had been so hideously crippled and disfigured that he’d insisted that Karen divorce him, with a monthly annuity for the rest of his life. She still felt a tenderness for Louis, a Frenchman with the true chivalrous instincts. But Richard was the nicest, the one she’d really loved, still loved, God help her. She wanted to talk to him, she
must
talk to him, before—before what?

Karen removed the clip from the butt of the little automatic, saw that it was empty, and she remembered back over the years what Jerry had told her about guns; never leave one lying about loaded, never point one at any human unless you intend to shoot. She rummaged in the drawer, found a box of cartridges, filled the clip and snapped it back into the butt. Then she checked the safety catch and placed the little gun in the right hand pocket of her slacks, where it made almost no bulge at all.

Before she went down for her juice and coffee she had a large drink of brandy from the decanter in Richard’s room. It burned her throat, but it also steadied her. She wanted a cigarette, after the brandy, but decided to skip it until she’d had some coffee. It had been Louis who had trained her not to smoke before breakfast. She thought musingly of Louis, of Jerry, Thomas and Alfredo. And of Richard. She thought of Richard intently, of her love for him, as she descended the softly carpeted, curving stairway. She should hate him and fear him, she knew, but her love for him was too great. Richard was her last real love, and that was the hard part. She had wanted to grow old (really old, my dear) with Richard. She would loathe killing him, she was certain.

She was smiling brightly as she entered the kitchen. Her coffee was waiting in a small silver pot on the breakfast table in the sun-filled alcove beside a tall glass of iced pineapple juice. Maggie was not there, and Karen was glad. She did not want to talk to Maggie, not now. Karen smiled at the bright, sunny, empty kitchen, flung back her short, light brown hair from her forehead and drank the juice. It was delicious, cooling and refreshing, blending very well with the brandy she’d had, and the coffee was wonderful, hot and black, the way she liked it. When she was finished she lit a cigarette and stood for a moment gazing out of the window at the smooth green of the rear lawn and the blue lake beyond. She could see the swimming pool, which was ridiculous, really, because the beach was only fifty yards beyond. A raft was anchored out from the shore and a steel diving tower had been erected at the end of the dock, where the water was deep. Richard loved the beach and had spent much of his time there, lying in the sun or diving from the tower. Where had she failed him?

Karen left the kitchen, crossed a wide stone terrace and descended sandstone steps to the black-topped drive leading to the big garage. In the early afternoon sunlight she made an attractive figure in her crisp white blouse, the tight pale green slacks and moccasins. She walked lightly, drawing hungrily on her cigarette, her hair lifting in a breeze from the lake.

Albert was standing by the station wagon, a new Mercury. He smiled at Karen and touched his cap, a brown tweed one he’d worn for years, except when he was acting as chauffeur. “She’s all set, Karen,” he said. “Tell the mister I said hello.” Unlike Maggie, Albert had always called Karen by her first name, because he’d known her since she was twelve years old, long before her parents had died. Albert was ten years older than Maggie, but his face was plump, pink and unlined.

“I will,” Karen said, and as Albert held the car door open tor her she smiled and added, “Thank you, Albert. You and Maggie take care of things.”

“Don’t you worry. Will you be coming home again before Labor Day?”

Karen started the motor, her hand trembling a little as she turned the key, but she retained the smile for Albert and said, “I really don’t know. It all—depends.” She put the automatic shift in place. “Goodbye, Albert.”

Albert smiled, touched his cap and watched her circle the drive and head down toward the open iron gate leading to the street. Maggie joined Albert on the drive and waved. Karen waved back at the two familiar figures with a sudden tightness in her throat and for an instant she fought a desire to stay here at the big house where she’d been born, where she would be safe.
But I’ve got to do it,
she thought with quiet desperation.
I’ve got to face Richard.

She reached the house at Erie Cliffs at four o’clock. As she turned into the drive she had a moment of panic, but as she approached the garage she saw that the Corvette was gone and she became calmer. Richard is not here, she thought. She would have time to compose herself, freshen up, put on some lipstick and that perfume he adored. She decided not to change her clothes, because she needed the pocket of the slacks to conceal the gun. Already she was anticipating the look on his face when he saw her. What would he say? What
could
he say? Her fear left her and her heart began to pound with excitement. It seemed just ages since she’d seen him—had it only been last Saturday afternoon when he’d thrown her from the boat?
Why, why?
She remembered floundering about, swallowing water, terrified of the water and the certain knowledge that Richard had left her there to drown. She had almost forgotten that she could swim, but when she remembered she had struck out for the small black island which had seemed so far away.

It had been close, though. Long before she reached the island she was strangling with swallowed water and her arms and legs seemed too heavy to move. One thing saved her; from out of nowhere came the words of a young man she’d met at the Y in Harbor City, when she was completing her swimming course. A nice young man, tall, blond, with eyes almost the same clear blue as Richard’s. A little shy, perhaps, but very polite. He must have been lonely, because he came to the swimming classes every Wednesday morning, even though he was an expert swimmer. Sometimes he helped the instructor, Mr. McClory. What was his name? George something. Worked in a bank, he’d told her. One Wednesday morning as she’d sat beside him on the edge of the pool, he’d said to her:
You’re doing fine on the short spurts, but for a long swim just remember to take it easy. Don’t fight the water—let it carry you. Take long easy strokes, and rest between. Don’t get scared. That way, you can swim farther than you think you can…

George, whoever he was, had saved her life. She remembered his advice, not at first, not during those first terrifying moments in the water, but later, when she was certain that she would drown, his words had come to her. She had made it to the island (Thank you, George), but she didn’t remember much afterward, not until she was in the hospital and had talked to that nice young doctor. She had been so
sleepy,
and nothing had mattered but rest. She had lied to the doctor about not being able to remember, because she wanted to think a little, get her mind straightened out. Even then she knew that she must talk to Richard before she told anyone, or did anything about it.

Karen left the station wagon in the drive behind her white Cadillac parked in the garage and went up to the front stoop. The door was locked and she was forced to get a key which hung on a secret nail in the garage. As soon as she entered the house her nose wrinkled at the odor of dampness and stale cigarette smoke. But everything seemed to be in good order; Richard had always been neat. She opened some windows, listening and watching for the Corvette. She didn’t want him to surprise her—she would surprise
him.

She spent a few minutes in the bathroom washing her hands and face, combing her hair. At her dressing table in the bedroom she applied fresh lipstick, noting in the mirror that her bed was neatly made, as it had been before the boat trip on Saturday afternoon, but that Richard’s bed was in disarray, one sheet half on the floor. She stood up and turned, her sharp gaze taking in the room. No signs of a woman, she thought, except her own things. Not that she had really expected any. No matter what Richard was, she had never worried about his faithfulness. Perhaps that was the reason she had loved and trusted him far more than any of her other husbands.

In the kitchen, which appeared to have been used very little, she made herself a bourbon highball, half whisky and half water, with three ice cubes. She would have preferred a very cold double martini, the way Richard made them, but she could not see the drive from the kitchen and was afraid to take the time. She carried her drink to the terrace, moved a reclining deck chair to the far edge at a spot where the sun would be at her back and from where she could see the drive sloping up from the highway. She leaned back in the chair, crossed her long slim legs and supported the glass with her left hand on the broad metal arm. Her right hand rested on her thigh, near the gun in her pocket. Sitting there in apparent repose, with the blue sky and yellow sunlight behind her, she resembled a full-color ad in a glossy magazine devoted to gracious living homes on the beach, smart summer sports wear, cosmetics, perhaps a plug for a certain brand of one hundred proof bonded bourbon whisky. Karen sipped at her drink and waited.

Richard Barry wheeled the Corvette away from the curb in front of Dr. Shannon’s office, his blue eyes smoldering with rage. The son of a bitch knew more than he was telling, he thought. He should have pushed it, made him talk, but he’d been cautious. He was in plenty of trouble as it was. So far he’d been lucky, but it couldn’t last. What the hell had happened? Karen didn’t drown as she was supposed to, and shows up in the hospital. Then she skips in the middle of the night, probably to the house in Cleveland. Should he call there again, or let it ride a while? Killing that old man by mistake had really torn it. That was the Thatcher woman’s fault—the stupid bitch had given him the wrong room number. Maybe he should make a little call on her. But that wouldn’t be cagey—not right now. She could identify him, if she had a chance. What was Karen up to? The damned doctor had mentioned her phone call. It must have been to Cleveland, but Maggie had said she hadn’t seen Karen, or heard from her. It must have been too soon, before Karen had called. But Maggie could have been lying, to cover up. She had always been pretty thick with Karen, almost like a mother. Karen must have gone to Cleveland. Where else would she go? Should he go there now? And maybe find a couple of cops waiting for him? Hell, no. He’d sweat it out a little longer.

He’d promised to pick up Rose Ann at three o’clock today. Maybe it’ll be the last time I’ll see her, at least for a long while. I love her, honest. I really do, can you imagine that, sucker? Love is just a sticky careless word. But now I know what it means, I guess. And to think there are a million other babes waiting, panting. But not Rose Ann. Sucker, yokel, chump, square. Two and a half hours until three o’clock. A hell of a long time since Friday afternoon.

When Richard was out of the city he drove slowly along the lake highway leading to Erie Cliffs, trying to decide what to do next, how to pass the time until Rose Ann would be free. He thought of going to the house at Erie Cliffs, knowing that he must return there, sooner or later, if only to case the joint. If Karen was not in Cleveland, it was possible that she’d returned to the Cliffs to wait for him—not alone, he was certain, not after what he’d tried to do to her out by Snake Island. Of course, he could take a chance, bluff it out, lay it on thick about his wife’s health, her mental condition, build it up. Who could say for sure that a psycho had not imagined that her husband had tried to drown her? It would be only her word against his. There were no witnesses, no evidence, not even a motive as far as Karen knew. She would have a hell of a time making such a story stick. But she was up to something—if she wasn’t, he’d have heard from her before now. Everything was too goddamned quiet. Even so, he wasn’t as worried about Karen as he was about clobbering that old character by mistake (Oops, sorry, sir, I thought you were my wife). That caper could get him into trouble. And it was all that Thatcher woman’s fault. Richard’s full, well-shaped mouth tightened with suppressed rage. If she hadn’t screwed up the room numbers…

When he was five miles out of the city he made up his mind. He would not go to the house at the Cliffs and he would not see Rose Ann, not today. It would be too risky. He still had the room at the Perry Hotel and he would hole up there until things simmered down a bit. He swung the Corvette into a side road, turned around and drove back to Harbor City. In his room at the hotel he had a few lonely drinks and had his lunch sent up. Afterward he lay on the bed in a kind of semi-stupor until a quarter of three, when he aroused and phoned the drive-in where Rose Ann worked. There was a short wait, because she was busy with a customer, and then he heard her clear, happy voice. “Dick!”