You Might As Well Die (34 page)

“Mrs. Parker,” Midge said, surprised and bewildered. “What are you doing here?”

Benchley hobbled up to stand beside Dorothy, blocking the sun with his hat. “We could ask you the same thing. As a matter of fact, we will. What are
you
doing here?”

Clay got up from his knees—and now they saw the glitter of the gold ring in his hand. “I brought Harriet up here to propose,” he said breathlessly. “Look around you. The sun, the sky, the magnificent city spread in all directions. The marvel of construction under your feet, holding you up to the heavens. Can you picture anything more beautiful?”

Dorothy and Benchley turned to each other, silently mouthing,
Propose?

Clay took a step closer to Midge. “I can think of only one thing more beautiful.” He took her hands and looked deeply into her eyes. “You.”

Midge smiled in return, clasping Clay’s hands enthusiastically.

A muffled grunt came from Houdini in the tool chest. But with the rustling wind, Midge and Clay didn’t hear it. Dorothy and Benchley ignored it, for now.

Benchley chuckled. “Well, I guess we have egg on our faces.” He gently grasped Dorothy’s hand and began to back away. “We didn’t know you came up here to propose. We’ll leave you to it, then.”

Midge and Clay gave them a puzzled look.

“So,” Midge asked, “why did you think we came up here?”

Benchley stopped and stood uncomfortably. He fanned himself with his hat, though it wasn’t particularly warm. “Oh, nothing much.”

Now Dorothy chuckled. “It’s kind of a funny story—when you think about it.”

“What story?” Midge asked.

“Wait a minute,” Clay argued to Midge, playfully yet petulantly. He wrapped his hands around hers, enveloping them in his. “You’ve had my proposal, my dear Harriet. Now, what’s your answer?”

“My—my answer?” she stammered.

“Your answer,” he insisted with a smile.

Dorothy coughed quietly. She and Benchley took another step backward. “We’ll just leave you two lovebirds to yourselves—”

“Wait,” Midge said, distracted, turning toward Dorothy. “Why
did
you follow us up here?”

“Well, the fact is . . .” Dorothy was reluctant to explain. “The fact is, we thought your Mr. Bertram Clay here might not be quite so fond of you after all.”

“Not fond of Harriet?” Clay sputtered. “My heart belongs to her!”

“Yes, dear,” Midge said to him sweetly and just the slightest bit impatiently. “That’s lovely how you keep repeating that so often.” She turned back to Dorothy and Benchley. “What do you mean, not so fond?”

Benchley cleared his throat. “We—that is, Mrs. Parker and I, as well as Mr. Houdini”—he gestured to the tool chest—“who I’m sure will make a magnificent escape from that box at any moment . . . We had the strange idea—and a rather funny one when you think about it, as I’m sure you will—that your Mr. Clay here had come up here to . . . Well, he had designs to . . .”

“To kill you,” Dorothy said with as much cheer and humor as she could muster. “To throw you off the roof. Isn’t that a laugh?”

Even with the sun in their eyes, they could see Clay stiffen. Midge lowered her hands from his but didn’t quite let go—he wouldn’t let her let go.

“No,” Midge said seriously. “I don’t think that’s funny at all. Perhaps you’d better leave.”

Dorothy tried to explain. “We let our imagination get the best of us, I’m afraid. You see, when we came to your house that morning, the day before Ernie was murdered—”

“Murdered?”
Midge said sharply.

Oh damn!
Dorothy bit her lip.
O’Rannigan did warn me not to say that to anyone
.
Of course Midge wouldn’t know! It’s not exactly public knowledge.

Now Midge let go of Clay’s hands. She staggered toward Dorothy and Benchley, her voice still shrill. “What do you mean,
murdered
?”

Another muffled cry and then a thump came from the tool chest.

“Harriet dear,” Clay pleaded, reaching toward her. “Let’s stop this tomfoolery—”

A loud voice called across the rooftop. “Mrs. Parker!”

Dorothy and Benchley knew that voice. They turned to face Robert Sherwood running full tilt at them. As he ran, he held up a small brown paper bag. A hefty older woman in a voluminous flowered dress came pounding after him, her ash blond wig askew on her big, sweaty head.

“Mrs. Parker!” Sherwood yelled again, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I have her. She did it. She killed Ernie. She has the motive—and the muscle!”

Then Sherwood made the same error as Houdini. He stumbled against the low tool chest, landing on top of the lid with a thud. Inside, Houdini emitted a muffled groan.

Viola’s mother thundered to a stop at the foot of the tool chest, breathing heavily. Sherwood spun around to face her, as helpless as a turtle on its back.

“I heard that.” She gasped for air, holding one chubby hand over her bosom. “But I had no wish to kill Ernie. He was like a son to me.”

Something here certainly doesn’t add up,
Dorothy thought. “Then who—?”

“Who do you think?” Viola’s mother pointed a thick finger to her right, to Abraham Snath. “It was him! Look at him. A sleazy lawyer. A villain through and through. He’s been horrible to my poor Viola.”

Snath?
Dorothy had nearly forgotten all about him. He must have sidled up as she and Benchley talked with Midge and Clay.

“Me?” Snath cried, his hands out, pleading. “Why would I, of all people, kill Ernest MacGuffin? I lost a fortune when they found him dead!”

Midge made a small cry.

Snath stomped his foot—then winced because it was still tender. “How I wish Ernie were still alive. I wish a dozen of him were alive!”

“A dozen?” Clay said disgustedly. “One MacGuffin was plenty. Matter of fact, one MacGuffin was more than enough.”

Everyone turned toward Clay.

“What do you mean, one MacGuffin was more than enough?” Dorothy asked.

Clay didn’t answer right away. He looked at Midge with devotion, anxiety and—was it guilt?—written on his face.

Oh no,
Dorothy realized,
I was right about Clay all along. He
did
kill Ernie.

“Bertram, what do you mean?” Midge asked. When he didn’t answer, she turned to Dorothy, her voice rising. “What did he mean?”

“Tell her,” Dorothy said to Clay. The look in Clay’s eyes almost made Dorothy’s heart want to break. Did she look at Benchley that way—so desperately, so piteously?

And now Dorothy fully understood. Clay didn’t kill Ernie for money, or anger, or revenge, or jealousy. Clay murdered Ernie for love—his crazy, foolish, undying love for Midge.

Midge choked on her words. “Did you—?”

Clay looked at her morosely. “I did what I had to do, for us to be together.”

Midge didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Clay moved toward her. He held her hands. “I love you, my darling. I’ve loved you for years. I’d do anything for you. Anything for
us
to be together. Forever.”

Dorothy didn’t like Clay standing so close to Midge—and both of them so close to the building’s edge.

“B-but—” Midge stammered.

“But nothing, my love,” Clay said, silencing her with a finger to her lips. Then his voice turned angry. “He wasn’t worthy of you. He called himself an artist. But he was just another money-grubbing hack. An artist lives for love and beauty. That’s me! People see me and they think I’m merely an engineer. No!
I’m
the artist.
I’m
the romantic!”

“Y-you?” Midge repeated, dazed, unable to take all this in.

“Yes, a romantic! A hundred times, yes!” Clay said, clutching her hands even tighter, his eyes pleading. “My heart soars now. It floats on your love. I spent years thinking about you, devoted to you, imprisoned by the thought of you. I built this building as a monument of my love for you. And then—” Tears filled his eyes.

Midge couldn’t respond.

“Then what?” Dorothy asked, impatient for Midge to understand. “Tell her.”

Clay’s gaze never wavered from Midge. “Then when I read in the newspaper that Ernie had jumped off the bridge, I thought my heart would burst. A second chance with you! I found you as soon as I could.” He was nearly weeping. “And then—and then my dream came true. You thought so, too! You were so happy for us to be reunited after so many years apart. And so was I. So very happy.”

“I thought—” Midge mumbled.

Clay’s eyes darkened. He shot a fierce glance at Dorothy and Benchley. “But when these two jackasses showed up at your house and said that Ernie was still alive—well, it was more than I could bear! I wouldn’t let him take you away from me again. Not again! So I dragged him here just as soon as I could. And what a spineless jellyfish he was. He squirmed and he squealed. I tried to bring him up to the roof, but I couldn’t get him farther than the sixth floor—the coward! So I threw him out the window like a piece of trash. Oh, my darling, had you seen him, you’d have been so ashamed that you ever took his name. He didn’t care about you. I had seen him around with some dirty little blonde—”

Viola’s mother made an angry guttural sound. She took half a step toward Clay.

“That’s it, lady,” Dorothy muttered. “Sic him!”

Then Viola’s mother collapsed in a dead faint, landing squarely on top of Sherwood.

Sherwood groaned with the crush of the woman’s unconscious body, the air flattened right out of him. Inside the tool chest, Houdini emitted a stifled, bewildered yelp.

Clay didn’t look up. He gazed only at Midge. His voice softened again, his eyes welling up. “Our path is clear now. Marry me, my darling Harriet. Marry me and make me the happiest man alive!”

Midge tore her hands away from his. She backed away in fear. Backed away too close to the building’s edge, Dorothy thought.

“No, Bertram,” Midge said like a vow. “Never. Never will I marry you.”

“No?
Never?
” he gasped. His face became a storm of emotions—love, devotion, anger, fear, confusion.... He stepped toward her.

“I could never marry you.” She backed away from him again. “You killed my husband.”

“Your—your
husband
? But you were through with him. You told me so.”

“But I didn’t want him dead. Ernie still provided for me, and I still cared for him.”

Betrayal was etched painfully on Clay’s face. “You still
cared
for him? Even after we were together?”

“Yes,” she said. “I was no longer in love with him, I suppose. But I still loved him.”

Clay was shattered, his voice as edgy as broken glass. “How can you say you loved him? You’re with me now! You agreed to take an ocean liner away with
me
!” He moved one step closer to her.

Hmm, ocean liner,
Dorothy thought.
Houdini had guessed it right.
She’d have to tell him later.

“I can’t go with you now,” Midge sobbed. “I can’t ever be with you.”

Clay’s face turned as pale as a ghost. He clutched at her arm. She was inches from the building’s edge. Seventy stories below, the traffic was barely audible. She tried to pull away.

“If you won’t be with me in this life,” he pleaded to her, “be with me in the next one. Together—forever!”

Clay wrapped his arms around her middle, pinning her arms to her sides. He stepped toward the precipice, ready to pull her over with him. Midge screamed. She pulled one arm free, reaching out.

Dorothy was closest to her. She grabbed Midge’s hand. Midge held hers tightly, desperately.

Clay spun around with a malevolent look at Dorothy. He released one arm from Midge and grabbed Dorothy by the shoulder, trying to shove her backward.

Benchley stepped forward and gripped Clay’s forearm with both his hands.

The four were locked together, teetering just one step away from the building’s edge.

Too close,
Dorothy thought. She felt the wind whip upward. Saw the tiny black ribbon of street far, far below. Fear seized her. This was Ernie’s view, just before he died.

She looked desperately at Benchley. He turned his gaze away from Clay and met her eyes. Then . . . he smiled.

What the hell,
she thought.
Dear, sweet Benchley!

Suddenly, something red flew right by her vision. It struck Clay on the forehead with a loud, dull knock. His head whipped back with the force of it.

Clay’s hand released its pressure on Dorothy. Benchley let go of Clay’s arm. Midge, also freed, collapsed to Dorothy’s side.

Dorothy turned to see where the object had come from.

“Tremendous shot!” Harpo jumped up and down. “You croqueted that ball with his brain.”

Woollcott proudly rested his croquet mallet on one shoulder. “Yes, quite a sticky wicket, if I say so myself. Yet I lost the ball.”

Dorothy turned back around. Clay faced her, his heels on the brink of the precipice, horror on his face. He slowly teetered backward over the abyss, his arms pinwheeling.

Midge jumped up to pull him back. She reached out to grab him. But it was a moment too late. She reached too far. He clutched at her hands. She screamed.

In a terrifying instant, she and Clay disappeared together over the edge. They were gone.

Dorothy held her breath. She couldn’t look down. But she couldn’t
not
look down. She glanced at Benchley.

Benchley nodded. He understood. He moved cautiously to the edge and peered down. Then he chuckled. “I guess that’s the last time she’ll fall for him.”

Dorothy was aghast.

Benchley turned to her, a smile of relief on his face. “Don’t worry. They’re safe. Take a look.”

She stepped forward tentatively, grabbing Benchley’s arm for safety. She looked down.

One floor below, Midge and Clay lay on the narrow platform of a wooden scaffold. Midge turned and looked up at them—shock and wonderment on her face. She had landed on top of Clay. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape. One leg seemed to be twisted at an unnatural angle.