Once a Widow (15 page)

“Listen, honey,” he said hurriedly, “I’m tied up with some customers and can’t get loose. I’ll either call you tomorrow, or pick you up.”

“But it’s been so long. I haven’t seen you since last Friday.”

“I know. I hate it too, but it can’t be helped.”

“All right.” He heard her sigh. “I’ve got to go now, Dick, but please promise you’ll come tomorrow.”

He hesitated, not knowing what the next day would bring. Then he said, “I promise.”

“Good. I love you.”

“Goodbye, honey.” He hung up, thinking that she’d wanted him to say that he loved her, too, but the words came hard for him, even though he meant them. And this was strange, because he’d murmured the words to many other women and had not meant them at all; they had not expressed what he felt for Rose Ann. He moved to a chair by the window and sat there for a long time, sipping bourbon straight from the bottle.

By noon of the next day Richard was sick to death of his room in the Perry Hotel in Harbor City, Ohio. It reminded him uncomfortably of a time when he’d been forced to hide out for two weeks in L.A. after a job for Alex Kamin. At two-thirty on Tuesday afternoon he brushed his teeth, took a cold shower and dressed. When he was ready to leave he took a last swallow from the bottle, which was almost empty. Why did he feel so jittery? he asked himself. He’d been in worse spots than this. He finished the whisky and went out hurriedly, not pausing to gaze at himself in the mirror as he usually did. He was vain and particular about his appearance, especially before seeing a woman, but today he had other matters on his mind. He arrived at the drive-in just as Rose Ann was emerging from the rear door of the place. She came to the Corvette immediately, looking lovely in a pink sun dress and carrying a matching pink linen purse with a clasp handle, and got in beside him.

“Hi,” he said, smiling sideways at her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it yesterday.”

“I forgive you.” Rose Ann’s small nose lifted and she sniffed. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Just a couple. Do you mind?”

She moved on the seat until she was close beside him. “Yes, I mind. I think we should do our drinking together.”

He put the Corvette in gear. “How about a drink right now then?”

She shook her head. “You know I can’t—not when I must work tonight. If the boss smelled liquor, he’d fire me.”

“A great calamity,” he jeered, swinging the car out to the road. “Tell your boss I said he can go to hell.” In spite of his problems, Richard felt suddenly happy and it wasn’t the whisky. Being with Rose Ann made him happy, a new experience for him. Just being with her. Not laying her, or getting drunk with her. A hell of a thing, terrific. He couldn’t understand it.

“I’ll tell him the first thing,” she said, snuggling against him.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“You decide.”

“Be glad to. How about going to my room and getting in bed together?”

“I’d love it,” she said, going along with the game, “but I’m afraid I might get pregnant.”

“I’ll see that you don’t,” he said, feeling excitement, even though he knew it was just a joke between them, that he didn’t have a chance, not until they were married. She wasn’t coy about it, or teasing. It was just the way she was. Maybe that was why he loved her so much, and why he could wait. He even enjoyed the waiting. And that was a hell of a thing, too.

“I don’t trust you,” she said, and added faintly, “Or—or myself, either.”

He still felt the excitement, but he said lightly, “So we don’t trust each other. That’s nice. Where to, beautiful?”

“Anywhere. Just drive, slow-like.”

He drove, slow-like, and presently they came to the beach resort where he’d picked up the thin blonde earlier in the summer. He’d forgotten the blonde completely, but he remembered her now as he saw the bath house, the open air dance area, the band shell on a raised platform, the wide curving beach beyond, the rows of summer cottages and the concession booths which sold all manner of items—candied apples, ice cream, soft drinks and beer, hot dogs and hamburgers, magazines, newspapers, French fried perch and pickerel with chips, myriad, souvenirs of the Erie coast and islands, post cards and sun glasses, colored balloons on sticks, inflated plastic rafts, huge beach balls, sun tan lotions, wide-brimmed hats, even cameras and film.

Richard and Rose Ann strolled hand in hand past the bath house, stopped at a booth to buy two strawberry ice cream cones, and moved happily along, licking the cones like juveniles, enjoying each other’s company. They tarried at one of the souvenir and curio booths, gazing at the items for sale; painted sea shells, shell necklaces, wooden figurines, earrings, cufflinks, drift-wood carvings, pen knives, items without end, all designed to lure the tourist trade.

“Pick out something,” Richard said to Rose Ann, waving an arm expansively. “I feel rich today.”

“All right, smarty,” she said, “I see something I really need.” Rose Ann pointed to a wooden-handled letter opener with a thin six-inch steel blade. Burned into the handle were the words:
Souvenir of the Erie Islands.
“Buy me that.”

Richard picked up the letter opener, gingerly tested the sharp point with a thumb. “Quite a cute little sticker.” Holding it by the tip of the blade he bowed and presented it to Rose Ann. “With my compliments, Madam.”

She laughed, took the letter opener and placed it in her pink linen purse. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“My pleasure, Madam.”

Her face sobered, and she said softly, “It’s the first present you ever gave me. I’ll keep it always.”

He touched her cheek. “You do that, baby—and think of me when you open letters from other men.”

“There won’t be any other men, not ever.”

“Good.” He turned away abruptly, paid the booth attendant, feeling a sudden tightness in his throat. After today, he thought, he might not ever see Rose Ann again. It depended upon Karen, his wife, and the move she’d make.

They strolled on, finished the ice cream cones, and after a while, when the sun was low and yellow out over the lake, he said, “Where do you want to eat?”

“Anywhere you say.”

“There’s a place the other side of Erie Cliffs called the Shore Haven. Do you feel like seafood?”

“Yes, if you do.”

He took her arm and they returned to the Corvette.

The road to the Shore Haven led by the house at Erie Cliffs. As they passed, Richard turned his head and gazed at the flat sprawling structure where it stood on the edge of the bluff outlined in red against the sun. With a numbing shock he saw a new Mercury station wagon parked in the drive behind the Cadillac in the garage. For an instant his brain refused to function. Then he recovered and began to brake the Corvette. So Karen has been to Cleveland, he thought; the station wagon was one of the two cars they’d left there. That damned Maggie had lied to him. And now Karen was here. Or someone. The Corvette glided down a steep curving hill and when the house and grounds were out of sight Richard swung off the road and stopped; turned off the motor.

“What’s wrong?” Rose Ann asked anxiously.

“What?” For the moment he’d forgotten that Rose Ann was with him.

“Why did you stop?”

“Oh.” He tried to smile at her. “The—the motor sounded funny,” he said, his mind groping.
Was Karen alone at the house? Or maybe it wasn’t Karen. Maybe it was Maggie or Albert, sent to get her clothes. Or something. He had to know what was going on. Now.
Avoiding Rose Ann’s gaze he pretended to turn the ignition key. “She’s dead.” He turned to the girl. “Look, honey, I’m not a mechanic. I’ll have to call a garage. It’s died on me like this before.”

“We just passed a house,” Rose Ann said. “You could phone from there.”

“Yes,” he said, slipping the ignition key from its lock. “You wait here.”

“I’ll go with you.” She placed a hand on the door latch.

“No need for that,” he said hastily, and smiled at her. “You just relax and admire nature. I’ll be right back.” He stepped out to the roadside, pocketing the key, and closed the car door.

She blew him a kiss. “Hurry back.”

“Sure. Sit tight.” He winked at her, turned away and walked swiftly up the hill along the side of the road. When the Corvette was out of sight around the curve he entered the woods and ran until he reached the edge of the lawn bordering the house. There he stopped and peered from behind a thick evergreen. There was no movement around the place, no sign of Karen. From where he stood the terrace was obscured by a high hedge. He hesitated, and then crossed the lawn at a fast walk, keeping as close as possible to a row of small pines. He reached the drive, stooped low and crossed it and crouched beside the station wagon. It was Karen’s all right, he thought, one she had bought shortly before they’d left Cleveland for Erie Cliffs. He straightened a little and peered at the house through the car’s rear windows. The place seemed quiet, deserted, but he knew that Karen, or someone, must be somewhere about, maybe on the terrace or down at the beach.

He left the shelter of the station wagon, circled the far side of the garage, and came to a hedge at the rear of the house from where he could see all of the terrace and part of the beach below. Cautiously he raised his head until he could see over the top of the hedge and instantly saw his wife sitting calmly at the far end of the terrace sipping from a glass. And she was alone.

Richard took a deep breath, and fought a desire to face her, to get it over with. But he had to be certain that no one had come with her. He returned to the front of the house and tip-toed up the steps to the stoop. The front door was standing open and he peered through the screen at the short hall and part of the living room beyond. He saw no one, heard no sound, and cautiously tried the knob of the screen door. It wasn’t locked. He pulled the door open, stepped quickly inside and stood very still, listening. He heard a small sound then, the rustling of the wind in the eaves. He knew the sound well. Here on the high bluff above the lake the wind usually began in the late afternoon and grew stronger during the night. Many times he’d gone to sleep listening to the sound of the wind mingled with the muted roar of the surf.

Now he moved on thick carpeting down the short hall to the empty living room and across it to the open bedroom door, cautiously peered inside. There was no one there and his bed was still unmade, as he’d left it on Monday. He crossed to the closet, slid back the paneled door. It was a large closet, almost a small room, half filled with his and his wife’s clothing hanging from a metal rod on a level with his head. On the floor were shoes and at one end was a small stack of blankets for nights when the Erie wind was chill. Richard stared into the closet and thought irritably,
Why am I looking here? To see if she brought a body guard, for God’s sake?

Still, in spite of his jeering thought, he had to be certain. He left the bedroom silently, leaving the closet door open, crossed the long living room, paused at the door to the kitchen and then entered. There was a whisky bottle on the sink beside a tray of melting ice cubes. He moved to the kitchen window, which overlooked the terrace. He could see his wife, still sitting calmly, but now she appeared to be gazing expectantly toward the highway at the end of the long sloping lawn. Richard knew then that she had not seen him cross the drive from the direction of the woods. She was watching for his car to turn in from the highway. And he knew that she was alone. Good, he thought. He left the kitchen stealthily, making his plan. And then he stiffened at the sound of a car door slamming from in front of the house. He hesitated only a second, and then ran silently across the living room, down the short hall to the front door, where he flattened himself against the wall and peered through the screen. A man was walking away from a new Ford sedan parked beside the Mercury, a fairly young man, tall, with short reddish hair, wearing a light tan summer-weight suit, walking straight for the front stoop.

Richard fled into the bedroom, huddled in the big closet, partially closed the sliding door, and listened grimly as the soft melody of door chimes tinkled through the house. Richard cursed softly and began to sweat. It was hot in the closet. Once more the chimes sounded. He wondered if Karen could hear them from where she sat on the terrace. He listened intently in the silence. The chimes did not sound again and he wondered if the man, receiving no response, had gone away. The man—he remembered him now. He was that doctor—Shannon? The one he’d talked to yesterday morning. What was he doing here? The lying bastard, saying that he didn’t know where Karen was, that she hadn’t told him anything. And now he shows up here, on her doorstep. What in hell was going on? How did the doctor know? Richard felt trapped, defenseless, and wished he had the magnum. But the gun, along with a box of shells, was hidden in a secret place in the garage. A thought hit him; that Thatcher woman—she’d squealed, described him to the doctor. That was why he was here. Damn the bitch, damn her. He should have taken care of her.

Richard waited, listening. He could hear nothing. Maybe the doctor had gone away, he thought. But that couldn’t be—he hadn’t heard the sound of his car starting. He must have walked around the house to the terrace, the meddlesome son of a bitch. Richard stepped out of the closet, peered into the empty living room and crossed swiftly to the front door. The Ford was still there. He ran silently to the kitchen, looked out of the window above the sink overlooking the terrace and the lake. He saw the doctor standing there, talking to Karen. She was looking up at him, listening. He couldn’t hear what the doctor was saying, but he could imagine the words very well.
Mrs. Barry, I’m sorry to say that your husband killed a man last night. He has been identified and…

Richard’s face grew taut with rage. He’d show them! He’d kill them both. He had to now. And then he would run, by car at first, until he was away from Erie Cliffs, and then ditch the car and take a train or a plane. He had almost a thousand dollars in cash. In L.A. Alex Kamin would hide him out, help him. Alex owed him a lot, and he had plenty on Alex, plenty. This had turned out to be the most stupid caper of his life. Let’s face it, Richard, old boy. You had it made, and you let it all go. Why? Why, indeed, Richard? For Karen’s money and for a babe named Rose Ann. She—