Once a Widow (19 page)

She must get away from here, before anyone saw her. She had to think, decide what to do. Run, she thought. Run home to your room, rest, think. No one knew she had been here, no one would find out. There are cars here, but no people. They must be around somewhere, perhaps down on the beach. That green sedan—it was the same as the nice man had driven, the doctor from Harbor City who had offered to help when she had been waiting in Dick’s car down the road. She couldn’t take the Corvette. It belonged to Dick, and besides she didn’t have the keys, even if she could get it started, and she couldn’t go back and search for the keys in Dick’s pockets. Had something really been wrong with the car? She shuddered violently. Dick, Dick. Was it true what had happened? Had she dreamed it, a nightmare?

Rose Ann felt weak, dizzy. She wanted to scream, but stifled the impulse and ran down the long curving drive. When she reached the edge of the road she stood still, thinking wildly that she must get back to Harbor City somehow and that she must get control of herself. She sucked in a deep uneven breath and began walking along the side of the road, away from the house and the black memory of what had happened in the closet with Richard. As she walked, she took a handkerchief from a pocket of her dress and wiped the blood from her mouth. The walking helped; her breathing grew calmer and her heart slowed to an almost normal beat. She passed the Corvette at the bottom of the hill beyond the pine woods, turning her head away as she did so. She did not want to look at the rakish little yellow car, and it was very strange. She had loved the car, and she had loved Richard. The car was a part of Richard.

After a while, when she was more than a half mile down the road, she heard a car approaching. She turned, holding a hand to her throat, concealing the swelling there and the dark bruises from Richard’s fingers, and with the other hand made the classic motion with a thumb. The car was a new Buick. It slowed and stopped. An elderly man was behind the wheel and a gray-haired, pleasant-faced woman sat beside him. Rose Ann summoned a smile, holding the hand to her throat, and tried to control her expression and her voice, which was a little thick because of her swollen tongue. “Going to Harbor City?” she asked.

“Sure thing, honey,” the woman said. “Hop in.”

“Thank you.” Gratefully Rose Ann opened the rear door of the car, got inside and leaned back in the seat.

As the Buick moved away, the elderly man behind the wheel spoke without turning his head. “It’s a long walk to the city, Miss.”

“I—I know,” Rose Ann said with a rueful little laugh. “My girl friend was supposed to meet me in her car at the beach—I can’t imagine what happened to her. So I started to walk. It’s very kind of you to pick me up.”

“Don’t mention it,” the man said.

The woman turned briefly and smiled at Rose Ann, who smiled back, her hand still covering her throat, and then gazed out of the side window. The woman and the man began talking about a certain house for sale in Harbor City which they were apparently thinking of buying. It seemed they had been discussing the house before they’d stopped to pick up Rose Ann. They paid no more attention to the girl in the rear seat until they reached the edge of Harbor City, when the woman asked, “Where do you want to get out, honey?”

“At the next corner, please,” Rose Ann said. When the car stopped, she said, “Thank you very much” and got out, closing the door.

“You’re welcome,” the woman said, and before the car pulled away Rose Ann heard her say to the man, “But, Bert, I still don’t like an oil furnace…”

Rose Ann hurried to the house where she had her room. It wasn’t until she was behind her locked door, on the bed with her face buried in the pillow, that she remembered her purse, lying on the floor of the closet in the house at Erie Cliffs. Her wallet was in it, containing her Social Security card, driver’s license, a little money, a snapshot she’d taken of Dick. She sat upright, her eyes wild. What had she done? She’d stabbed Dick, left him there, dying, maybe dead. And she loved him, was going to marry him. But he had terrified her so. After she’d seen him with the gun it had all happened so quickly. She remembered her terror in the closet, Dick’s whispers—what had he said to her? What had happened back there in that dark closet? She shouldn’t have run away. That had been wrong. She should have called the police, faced it. And the purse was still in the closet, pointing directly to her.

Rose Ann got up from the bed, left her room and went down the hall to the bathroom, where she washed her face in cold water, combed her hair and applied fresh lipstick. Her throat was swollen and ugly with dark bruises, and there was no way to hide them, not even with a high-necked sweater. And her tongue was still thick, and sore from the bite of her teeth. Why had he acted that way? If he was in some kind of trouble, he could have told her and she would have understood. But he had looked so strange, so—so evil, standing there with the gun pointing.

She went down the stairs and out to the parking space beside the garage where she’d left her old Plymouth convertible. She must go back to that house, she thought. She must face it, no matter what.

Dr. Clinton Shannon stood in the wind on the terrace with his arms about Karen Barry and gazed at the screen door leading into the house. Had he seen a movement there, or not? Gently he pushed the woman away from him. “Stay here,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”

She raised a tear-streaked face. “Don’t leave me!”

“No one’s going to hurt you.” He left her standing in the wind and crossed the terrace slowly, approaching the screen door from an oblique angle. As he neared the door, he took the little automatic from his pocket, jerked open the action, made certain that a cartridge was ready to fire. Then, holding the gun, he moved along the side of the house until he was beside the screen. There he stopped and listened. He thought he heard a sound from inside the house, a kind of muffled scurrying, but he wasn’t certain. It could have been the wind. He hesitated, then opened the screen door and stepped inside. He stood in a small passageway. A door on his left led into a kitchen. Straight ahead was the expanse of a living room. He moved into it slowly, peered about. It was a beautiful room, furnished expensively and with taste. At the far end, toward the highway, was a short hall leading to the front door. Through the screen he saw his car parked by the station wagon. Beyond, down the slope at the edge of the lawn, was the highway. On his left an open door revealed a bedroom. Inside were twin beds, one neatly made, the other rumpled, with sheets trailing to the floor. He peered into the room, saw that it was empty. He turned and retraced his steps, looked into the kitchen. Then he returned to the terrace. As the screen slammed gently behind him he thought he heard a faint thumping sound from inside the house. He paused, frowning and listening. The sound was not repeated. He decided that it had been the wind, probably blowing a tree branch against the roof. He turned and faced the woman.

She was standing as he’d left her, staring at him, the wind blowing her short not-quite-blond hair. He went to her. “It’s all right. There’s no one inside.”

“But where is he?” The wind whipped the words from her lips.

Shannon shrugged. “Hard to tell. I think we’d better call the police.”

“Police?” Her voice was shrill.

Shannon nodded grimly. “Your husband tried to kill you, didn’t he?”

She nodded violently, hugging her elbows, and glanced fearfully about. Her lips moved, but the words were lost on the wind.

“What?” Shannon said loudly.

“He—he must be near.” Her eyes rolled.

“Yes.” Shannon grasped her arm. “Come on.”

She allowed him to lead her into the house. When they reached the living room she sank into a deep chair and leaned her head against the back, her eyes closed. “I—I need a drink,” she whispered. “Something.”

“In a moment. Where’s the phone?”

“There’s one in the kitchen—and in the bedroom.”

Shannon entered the bedroom, sat on one of the twin beds, the one that was neatly made, and lifted a phone from a stand which also bore a small radio. He dialed the operator, asked for Chief of Police Chad Beckwith in Harbor City. In a moment a man’s voice said, “Police department.”

“Is Chief Beckwith there?”

“Not right now. Can I help you?”

“Where is he?”

“At his home, sir.”

“Can you give me his home number? This is Dr. Shannon.”

“Sure, Doc. It’s Cherry 2-1165.”

“Thanks.” Shannon hung up and dialed again, aware that he was still holding the small automatic. When Beckwith’s deep voice answered, the doctor said, “Chad, this is Clint. Now, listen; I’m out at Erie Cliffs, at the home of that woman they found on Snake Island—the one who skipped the hospital Sunday night. Her husband—”

“What the hell you doing out there? How did you find her?”

“Shut up,” Shannon said irritably. “Her husband tried to drown her, she says, and he may be hanging around here. Anyhow, his car is parked down the road with a girl in it. I thought I recognized the car and stopped and talked to the girl and learned that the guy’s name is Richard Barry, the same man who came to see me at the office yesterday morning—the Snake Island woman’s husband. The girl said she’s engaged to marry him, that they had car trouble and that he came here to call a garage. But he’s not here—just the woman. She claims she’s his wife. She was waiting for him with an automatic pistol, loaded. I don’t like it, Chad, and I’m pretty certain that this character called Richard Barry killed Lew Sprang Sunday night—by mistake. He thought he was in his wife’s room, but it was dark, and—”

“Hey,” Beckwith broke in, “slow down, and listen to me. I’ve been trying to reach you. Coral Thatcher called me a while ago to confess that she lied to us yesterday morning. She said a man, a stranger, did come into the hospital around eleven-thirty Sunday night. He asked for the woman’s room number and gave Coral a yarn about how she might be his missing sister. Coral thought she was still in room 102 and let the man take a look, even though she knew it was against the rules. The guy went to the room—Lew Sprang was in there then, you know—stayed maybe a minute or two, and then scooted, fast. What does this Richard Barry look like? Did the wife tell you?”

“Yes. Tall, young, black curly hair, blue eyes.”

“Check,” Beckwith said. “And I’ll bet he was wearing a gray coat and a dark blue shirt. You think he’s hanging around, huh? Nearby?”

“He must be. I told you his car is parked just down the road.”

“With the girl in it?”

“I suppose she’s still there.”

“All right. Can you leave the wife long enough to go get her?”

“I don’t know. She’s pretty upset—and scared stiff of her husband.”

“I’ll bet. Use your own judgment, but I’d hate to have that girl get away. She must be in cahoots with Barry. I’m leaving now. Erie Cliffs is the hell and gone out of the city limits, but I’ll call Sheriff Lambert and he’ll cooperate. This job is my baby, Clint.”

“And mine, too,” Shannon said. “You go up the hill past the woods and it’s the first house on the left.”

“I’ll find it. Clint—uh—will you be okay until I get there?”

“Sure.” Shannon hefted the little automatic.

“All right,” Beckwith said and hung up.

Shannon got to his feet, thinking that he’d better take Mrs. Barry with him if he went down the road to get the girl. As he turned away from the phone his gaze crossed the partially open closet door. He paused, staring into the closet. There was something peculiar there, and for a second he didn’t know what it was. There were clothes hanging in the closet and shoes on the floor, men’s and women’s. He stared at the shoes. One of them, a man’s tan cordovan, was not resting beside the others as it should have been. The back of the heel was on the floor and the toe was pointing straight up. Shannon had never seen an empty shoe lying on the floor in that position. He moved closer, curious, thinking that perhaps the shoe was propped that way amidst the others. It was dark in the closet and he slid the door wide open. Then he knelt on one knee, brushed aside the hanging clothes.

He saw Richard Barry then and knew at once that he was dead. The wooden handle protruding from the cardiac region told him all that he needed to know—that and the half open eyes, already glazing. There was no reason to check for a heart beat, but Shannon did it anyhow, automatically, his gaze going over the body. He thought of Mrs. Barry’s description of her husband; young, blue eyes, black curly hair. The edges of white teeth showed behind partly opened lips. The body was still warm, but already cooling. Shannon guessed that he’d been dead only a short time, less than an hour. On the floor beside one of the dead man’s legs was a small pink linen purse, its clasp open. Shannon did not touch it.

He sighed, stood erect, quietly closed the closet door, left the bedroom and entered the living room.

Karen Barry, still slumped in the chair, gazed at him dully. Shannon hesitated, took a deep breath and then said, “Mrs. Barry, I’ve found your husband. There is no need for you to be afraid of him any more.”

She sat upright. “You found Richard? Where? I—I don’t understand.”

“I think you do understand,” Shannon said, watching her. “He’s dead.”

She stared silently, her mouth working.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Richard is—dead?”

“You know he is. Did he come here and threaten you?”

“No, no!” She sprang to her feet and stood rigidly. “It can’t be true. Where is he? I want to see him.”

“You know where he is—in the bedroom closet.”

She ran toward the bedroom, but Shannon moved quickly, grasped her by one arm and held her firmly. Her fingers clawed at his hand as she tried to free her arm. She began to struggle violently and the doctor was forced to hold her with both hands. She screamed, the piercing animal scream of a human out of control, and fought Shannon viciously. He wished he’d brought his bag from the car. This woman needs a hypo, he thought, fast. He did the next best thing. He slapped her sharply on the cheek. Her screaming stopped abruptly and she sagged against him.