Once a Widow (21 page)

The stale acrid smell of the burned pork chops was still in the house and Coral wrinkled her nose in distaste. Then she swallowed four more capsules, two at a time, admiring the lovely pink tint of the glass as she held it against the light before she drank. She wandered out of the bathroom and down the short hall, past her mother’s room with its unmade bed, as usual, and entered her own room. She closed the door, wishing that she could lock it, but there was no key. It was an old house and the only keys that Coral knew of fitted the front and back doors, and the basement door at the side, across the lot line from Mr. Wallenberg’s house. Coral propped the back of a straight chair firmly beneath the knob, after which she raised the window blinds, letting in the moonlight. Then she removed her clothes, all of them, left them in a pile on the floor and lay naked on the bed, her arms beneath her head, a dreamy, seductive smile on her lips. She stirred on the bed and arched her back a little so that her full breasts protruded wantonly, and she sighed with imagined ecstasy, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her breath coming thinly, tied to the already slowered beating of her heart. “Arthur,” Coral said softly. “Here I am. I’m waiting, Arthur.” She moved her hands from beneath her head and ran them lightly and softly over her body.

Coral felt the drowsiness coming, but she did not fight it; she welcomed it, and presently she slept deeply, a smile on her lips. From downstairs came the sound of the television, but it did not disturb her. Coral was accustomed to the interminable music and talking and the television would not have awakened her, even if she could have been awakened. The moonlight grew bright and tenderly touched the body on the bed. Naked on the bed in the moonlight Coral Thatcher was beautiful.

At two o’clock in the morning, after the late, late movie on Channel Nine, Mrs. Thatcher turned off the set and went upstairs. When she took her bottle of sleeping capsules from the medicine cabinet she noticed with quick alarm that the contents were considerably diminished. She kept close count of the capsules, because they cost three dollars and eighty cents, on top of Dr. Shannon’s fee for the prescription, and Coral was sometimes unpleasant about giving her money for her medical needs. Mrs. Thatcher hurried down the hall to Coral’s room and became even more alarmed when she saw that the door was closed, which was very unusual. The door would not open and she pounded upon it, calling her daughter’s name. When she received no response, she ran downstairs and telephoned Mr. Wallenberg, a bachelor who lived next door. Mr. Wallenberg, who had also been watching the late, late movie, came immediately, dressed in pajamas and a faded bathrobe. He succeeded in forcing open the bedroom door, but by then Coral was rigid and quite cold.

Five miles outside of Dayton, Ohio, a young state trooper, bored with a quiet patrol, was parked on a side road just off Route 4. A convertible sped past on the highway well above the legal night limit of fifty miles an hour. The trooper grinned, pleased with this chance for action, and gave chase. He overtook the convertible easily, signaled it to pull over and stop, got out of the patrol car and walked back, his right hand hovering over his revolver holster. You can never tell, he thought, especially at night. But his caution was not necessary. The driver of the convertible was a girl, young, and alone. Her small face was white and scared in the reflected glow from the headlights.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the trooper said, “but you were driving pretty fast.”

The girl’s lips moved, but no words came out.

“Let me see your driver’s license, please.” The trooper was going by the book, but he had already decided to let the girl go with a warning. He held out a hand.

“I—I’m afraid I don’t have it with me.”

“I see,” the trooper said politely. He moved to the front of the car and looked at the license plate. Y-20065. Something clicked in his trained mind. Brown ’49 Plymouth convertible. Girl, young. Suspicion of murder. He moved quickly back to the side of the car. “Get out, Miss. Right now.”

When she didn’t move, he opened the car door, grasped her arm and pulled her out to the road, not roughly, but firmly. Then his hands went over her lightly. No weapons, he decided, and led her to the patrol car, where she sat quietly beside him as he spoke into the radio microphone.

At midnight Rose Ann Deegan sat in a chair beside the desk of Chief of Police Beckwith. Dr. Shannon stood nearby smoking a cigarette. He and the chief looked weary and both needed a shave. Shannon’s beard was reddish, Beckwith’s white. The chief chewed on a dead soggy cigar and said to Shannon, “Well, you’ve heard her story. What do you say?”

“Self defense,” Shannon said. “He was trying to strangle her. The bruises on her throat show that.”

Beckwith nodded. “Also—if she’s telling the truth—she saved your life, and the life of Mrs. Barry, when she walked in on Barry just as he was about to shoot you both.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Shannon said. “I thought I saw a movement by the screen door, but when I went inside the house I didn’t see anyone. Of course, I know now that Barry was hiding in the bedroom closet.”

“With her.” Beckwith jerked his head toward Rose Ann. “She arrived at an unfortunate time for Barry, to say the least. He had to keep her quiet, one way or another. You saw her in the Corvette. She got tired of waiting and came up to the house. It jibes, Clint.”

“Yes.” Shannon glanced at the girl. She sat with her eyes closed, apparently unaware that the two men were discussing her.

Beckwith eyed Shannon narrowly. “All right. You’re the coroner. It is your duty merely to determine the cause of death, but in this case will you testify that in your professional opinion this girl killed Barry in self defense?”

“I will.”

Beckwith sighed and turned to the girl. “Rose Ann.”

She opened her eyes and gazed at him dully.

“We’ll do what we can for you, but you’ll have to stay here until this is cleared up.”

“I want to go home.”

“You will,” Beckwith said in the same gentle voice. “Would you like to telephone your parents now?”

She moved her head slowly from side to side.

“You’d better,” Beckwith said. “I have a daughter about your age and if she were in trouble I’d want to know.”

“They can’t help me,” Rose Ann said. “But I want to go home.” She closed her eyes again and her mouth quivered.

Beckwith sighed again, removed the dead cigar from his mouth and gazed at it with distaste. Shannon moved to the door, thinking of his home and Celia and little Jack. “See you tomorrow,” he said to Beckwith.

“Sure. And thanks, Clint. The coroner has earned his pay today.”

“Tell the taxpayers.” Shannon gave Beckwith a tired grin and went out.

At nine o’clock on Wednesday morning Karen Barry sat in Chief Beckwith’s office and listened quietly while he told her that he regretted the necessity of holding her overnight.

“I understand,” she said.

Beckwith shifted uneasily in his chair, cleared his throat, and lit his first cigar of the day. Then he told her about Rose Ann Deegan and the events leading to the death of Richard Barry. He ended by expressing sympathy to Karen and stated that she was free to leave.

She said, “This girl—is she young? And pretty?”

“She’s young,” Beckwith said, thinking of Rose Ann’s small pale face and bloodless lips. “I suppose she’s pretty.”

“Could—I talk to her?”

“I’m afraid not.” Beckwith could not see any valid reason for a widow to talk to her late husband’s sweetheart, especially since the sweetheart had killed the husband. No good could come from such a meeting. He added a firm, “No.”

Karen shrugged faintly. It really did not matter now, she thought, and already she was making plans for Richard’s funeral. It was the first time she’d been a widow, and it would be difficult explaining to her friends how and why Richard had died. It would be in the papers, of course, especially the Cleveland papers, but she couldn’t help that. Perhaps, after the funeral, she’d go away, to France, Italy, somewhere. Maybe to Florida. She had friends there. She stood up.

Beckwith stood also and said, “One of my men will drive you wherever you wish to go.”

“Thank you.” Karen hesitated, and then said, “There’s someone I’d like to see before I leave town.”

Beckwith’s lips tightened. “If it’s that girl—”

“No, no. This is a young man. His name is George—I don’t know his last name. I met him this summer at the Y.M.C.A., when I was taking swimming lessons. I think he lives at the Y. Would you know who he is?”

Beckwith frowned. “George? Lives at the Y?”

“Yes, and he told me that he works in one of the banks here.”

Beckwith gazed at her curiously. “You must mean George Yundt. Don’t you know that he was one of the men on the boat who brought you back from Snake Island?”

Karen’s eyes widened. “He was? No, I didn’t know. You see, I don’t remember much of anything until I was in the hospital.”

“They tell me George swam ashore and brought you back to the boat.”

“How nice of him. Where can I reach him?”

“He’s here,” Beckwith said heavily, “in the jail.”

“In jail? What for?”

“Well, at first it was for murder and embezzlement—now it’s just for embezzlement.”

“Murder?”

“That was a mistake,” Beckwith said hastily, “a—a misunderstanding.” He was sorry he’d mentioned murder to her, under the circumstances. “But he was stealing money from the bank.”

“Oh,” Karen said. “That’s hard to believe. He seemed like such a—a nice young man. Is he guilty?”

“He confessed.”

“What will they do to him?”

Beckwith lifted his stocky shoulders. “It’s hard to tell. We recovered all the money he took, and with a plea of guilty he might get a year’s sentence, with time off for good behavior. With luck, I would say that George will be out in six or eight months.”

“That isn’t so terribly long, is it?” Karen said brightly. “May I see him?”

“I guess so. May I ask why?”

“It’s a—personal matter. I want to thank him for something he did for me.”

“For helping to rescue you?”

“Yes, although I didn’t know that until you told me. It’s something else.”

“I see,” Beckwith said dryly. “This way, please.” He opened his office door and Karen followed him down a long echoing corridor.

George Yundt was sitting on his bunk reading an old copy of
Time
Magazine. He looked up when Beckwith spoke to him. “George, here’s someone to see you.”

George got slowly to his feet, his eyes puzzled. Who would come to see him? Then he saw a woman appear behind the bars of the cell door. She looked familiar, but for a moment he couldn’t place her. Then he remembered; it was the woman they’d found on Snake Island, the one he’d met at the Y swimming classes. She looked much different now, dressed in a white blouse and pale green slacks and with her short hair neatly combed close to her head. What was she doing here?

Beckwith unlocked the cell door and Karen entered. “Thank you,” she said to the chief. “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” Beckwith said, locking the door again. “An officer will let you out when you’re ready.” He moved away.

Karen’s gaze went over George appraisingly. He’s really a nice looking young man, she thought, tall and blond. She said, “Do you remember me, George?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want to thank you for what you did—you and those other men for bringing me in from that island.”

“You’re welcome. Anybody would do the same.”

“There’s something else,” Karen said. “It was really you who saved my life.”

“It wasn’t just me. It was Mr. Watson’s boat and—”

“I don’t mean that,” she broke in. “When I was in the water alone—never mind how I happened to be in the water alone—and knew that I would drown if I didn’t swim a long distance, to that little island, I remembered what you told me at the Y, about taking it easy, saving my strength. It was hard at first, because I was terrified, but I kept remembering what you said, repeating it to myself, like a prayer. And I made it.”

“Good,” George said. He was faintly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry about—your trouble.”

George shrugged.

“Why did you do it? Did you need the money?”

“Not really,” George said, “but I wanted it for a—a special reason.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

“I’d rather not,” George said. “I’m sorry now, and ashamed of myself. I didn’t think of it as wrong when I did it.”

“Are you married?”

“No, ma’am.”

“My name is Karen, Karen Barry.”

“Mrs. Barry?”

“Yes, but my husband just—passed away.” Karen brushed sudden tears from her eyes. It would be hard to forget Richard, in spite of what he had been, of what he’d tried to do to her.

“I’m sorry,” George said.

“Thank you,” she said simply, and hesitated. A thought was forming in her mind, a thought that she now realized had started to form the moment she’d entered the cell. “Does your family live in Harbor City?” she asked.

“No. I’ve been alone since I was a kid.”

“What are your plans—after you…?” Karen’s voice trailed off.

“You mean after I get out?”

She nodded.

He shrugged again. “Get a job—if I can. Not here, though. I don’t think anyone in Harbor City would hire me now.”

Karen made up her mind. “I’ll hire you,” she said quietly.

He stared at her.

“Can you type?”

“Yes, but—”

“I need a secretary,” she said swiftly, her plan fullblown now, “someone to help with my correspondence and—other things. And I expect to be traveling a lot and it’s such a bother to fuss about passports, plane tickets, things like that. I’m sure you’d be very helpful. You would receive a salary and your expenses would be paid, of course. What do you say?”

George was too surprised to speak. When he found his voice he said, “I—I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Barry. You don’t know anything about me. I’m in trouble right now. You’d be taking a chance.”

“I’ve taken chances before,” Karen said in a suddenly brittle voice. Then she smiled. “And remember, you saved my life. Will you accept? I mean, when you’re—available? I’ll hold the position for you.”