If Arnold Thayer thought he could go behind her back, he would have opportunity to think again. Margaret Landcraft noted this obvious fact in passing, while she said, “Other end, man. Take advantage of what wind there is, for God’s sake,” to the one of the caterer’s men who was setting up a pedestal fan at an end—the wrong end, of course—of the buffet table. The fan, very large, leashed by fifty feet of flex to an outlet on the terrace, was intended to discourage flies, providing a headwind. (Or, depending on the flies, a tail wind.) There would be flies all the same; flies were a part of nature; on a stock farm they sometimes seem the largest part of nature. There was one now on one of the turkeys. Well, the people here tonight were used to flies.
Mrs. Landcraft looked across the turkey—and the hams, the cold roasts of beef, the bowls of salad, the hooded brazier in which hot dishes were being kept tepid—and regarded, from some distance, her daughter-in-law and her daughter-in-law-to-be. Like all of them nowadays, Mrs. Landcraft thought, they dressed to be looked at. No wonder they were. Especially that-wife-of-Harvey’s. Bonita—of all the improbable names! What kind of parents would they be who named a girl Bonita? With a name like that, they had only themselves to blame if she turned out no better than she should be; turned out, specifically, to be in the chorus of a television musical, with the legs—of which she so evidently was proud—visible in their entirety to anyone who could turn a knob.
Bonita turned from the bar, standing so that the westering sun was behind her. Nothing, so far as Margaret Landcraft could see, under that skimpy white dress. And with the light slanting as it did, Margaret Landcraft could see enough—too much. Her own son’s wife! Her oldest son’s wife! The wife of the son who should be, and who wasn’t, devoting himself to Deep Meadow Farm. Mrs. Landcraft shook her head—apparently at the turkey. What a disappointment Harvey was!
Evelyn wasn’t, or didn’t seem to be, quite so bad. She wasn’t wearing many more clothes, but nowadays none of them did. Her name was not one Mrs. Landcraft would have chosen but, at least, it was better than Bonita. (“Bonny,” of all things!) And the Merritts were a good enough family; a family with roots. Not as long in Putnam County as the Landcrafts, naturally. That would have been too much to expect. And certainly not as long as the Wades, who had been there since the Revolution (And of whom Margaret Landcraft appeared to be the last. Her brother was married and childless; he was also close to seventy, so that little was to be expected.)
If Wade, in whom the name continued to live, although misplaced—if Wade had to get married, he could have done worse, perhaps. This girl of his was flighty now, but she would—at least, one could hope she would—settle down. She’d never take a real interest in the herd, probably. But Wade didn’t either. That Margaret Landcraft faced, as she had for several years. What would happen to Deep Meadow when she died hardly bore thinking of.
Margaret Landcraft thought of it only briefly. She was sixty-two, but what was sixty-two, when one lived a healthy life out of doors, and kept up one’s interests? Sixty-two was an age at which men became presidents of the United States, and of large corporations. Obviously, women, who notoriously lived longer than men, had no reason, at sixty-two, to feel older than middle-aged. Grandfather Wade had lived into his nineties—and been as cantankerous as ever to the end.
Margaret said, “There, man!” pointing, to a waiter who could not, although he was looking directly at it, see the unoccupied table space which would easily accommodate the bowl he carried.
“Everything’s ready now, Mrs. Landcraft,” Mr. Pringle, who was supervising the catering in person,, said from behind her.
“See it is,” Mrs. Landcraft said. “Tell them. Not that some of them won’t drink half the night anyway.”
She went around the table, moved toward the area of the bar, where the population was most concentrated.
“She bears down,” Bonita told Evelyn. “She’s been glaring at us for minutes, you know.”
“Yes,” Evelyn said. “Perhaps she was just—abstracted.”
Bonita Landcraft made a small sound, not distant from a snort.
“Not her,” Bonita said. “Not she. She’s been saying to herself, ‘That-wife-of-his.’ She’s been thinking how she’d love to get something on me—something really juicy, something that would open Harv’s eyes. Don’t I know!”
“I suppose she is a little like that,” Evelyn said. “She—”
“A little!” Bonita could not wait to say it. “A little? Watch yourself, lady. You’ve had warning—more than I had. Don’t sell mamma short. For heaven’s sake—look at her!”
Evelyn did, literally, although knowing Bonita had intended more.
Margaret Landcraft was beyond doubt formidable. She strode toward them. She’s as tall as Wade, Evelyn Merritt thought. Why does she wear that dress?
The dress was pinkish; it probably was pink linen; it had been, conceivably, intended as a golf dress. It was, alarmingly, alien to the woman who wore it. From its sleeves—which were of precisely the wrong length—muscle-corded arms projected as if they sought escape. Above its round collar, which under other circumstances might have appeared demure, Mrs. Landcraft continued—neck as muscular as arms, long face long-weathered, gray hair cut short, cut almost in a masculine brush. Formidable, almost masculine and yet—no, by no means masculine. The sinewy arms depended from a body which, in hearty curves, was as feminine as a body might well be. And Mrs. Landcraft’s legs—stockinged in the heaviest of nylon, feet shod for utility—were as smoothly contoured as a girl’s and, unexpectedly, as slender.
“She must have been very handsome when she was younger,” Evelyn said.
“In a large way,” Bonita said, and then grinned suddenly, with unexpected frankness. “Yes, I’ll give her that. However it hurts, I’ll—But for me, Evvie would have died of thirst.”
This was to Wade, and to Harvey, who came to join them.
“I doubt it,” Harvey said. “She’s a big girl now. Spreading your wing again, Bonny? Mother henning?”
“Not me,” Bonita said. “Form a hollow square, boys. Women and children first. It’s a wonderful party, Mother Landcraft.” The last was louder. “And Life really came.”
“Glad you think so,” Margaret Landcraft said, with no evidence that she meant a word of it. She looked at Bonita as if she had not been looking at her before. “I do hope you don’t catch cold,” Mrs. Landcraft said. “It turns cool after the sun goes down, this time of year. In the country.”
“You mustn’t worry, dear,” Bonita said, all concern. “I never do. Do I, Harv?”
“Never,” Harvey Landcraft said. “She never does, mother.” He was more firm about it than one is usually firm about so little. “Don’t you think she’s looking well?”
“Very,” Mrs. Landcraft said. “I merely felt that perhaps she was not very warmly—”
“Yes,” Harvey said. “We both understand. Can’t I get you something?”
“Not now,” Mrs. Landcraft said. “Food’s ready.” She raised her voice. “Food when you want it,” she said, generally. A number nodded and smiled and continued to drink. “Try to get them started, Wade,” Mrs. Landcraft said. She was abrupt.
“Yes’m boss,” Wade said. “Dinner’s served, Evvie.” But he had an almost full drink in his hand, and he sipped from it, and showed no immediate intention of doing more.
His mother looked at him and waited. She was not pleased; her tanned, ruddy face grew perceptibly more ruddy. She looked at her younger son intently, but of this Wade seemed unaware. Then she turned her intent, her insistent, gaze on Evelyn Merritt, and pointedly waited. An offer herself to “get them started” hesitated on Evelyn’s lips, and she stopped it there. “Watch yourself, lady.” So she merely smiled, pleasantly, pointedly unaware of stress.
Mrs. Landcraft continued to wait, and the waiting time passed slowly, grindingly. But finally she merely made a sound, which was not a word, and turned and went off among her guests. She strode off.
/> “They’d better snap into it,” Bonita Landcraft said to no one in particular. “If they know what’s good for them they—”
“O.K., Bonny,” her husband said. “O.K. The point’s made.”
“Oh hell,” Wade said. “I’ll pass the word. Come along, Evvie?”
“The point’s unmade,” Bonita said.
But at that, Evelyn shook her head. She put a hand on Wade’s arm, went beside him to pass the word.
“On the whole,” Bonita said to her husband, “I guess she’s right at that.”
“You’re very subtle,” Harvey said. “Or something. You do rub her the wrong way, Bonny.”
“I?” Bonny said. “More rubbed against than rubbing.”
“She’s all right,” Harvey said. “Likes to have her own way. So do you, come down to it.”
“Like to have my own man,” Bonita said. “Not anybody’s son. See what I mean, darling?”
She was told she was clear enough, that she made too much of it.
“What the hell?” Harvey said. “A couple of times a year.” He smiled suddenly. “So you never catch cold, don’t you?”
“Well, almost never,” Bonita said. “And thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Probably,” Harvey said, “you were standing with the light behind you. A matter of legs.”
“So?” Bonny said, and the quick grin came again. It was, Harvey thought, a grin which ought to go with freckles. “Just because Angus have none to speak of?” She sobered. “The point is she hates me. She’ll hate Evelyn when she and Wade are married. That’s the point. It’s not a funny point, darling.”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Harvey said. “Hate, I mean. Anyway, it’s not you exactly.”
“What, then?”
Harvey was silent a moment. Then he shrugged.
“Possibly,” he said, “she thinks that if you weren’t around—and Evvie wasn’t—we could all settle down and concentrate. Here, I mean. On the Deep Meadow Herd. On getting a grand champion of all grand champions.”
“Wade doesn’t give a damn,” Bonita said. “You’re one of the best around in video. Doesn’t she—?”
“No,” Harvey said. “She doesn’t. She never will. And—it’s something we have to worry about a couple of times a year, isn’t it?”
“Oftener than that. But, yes, I suppose so. I think I’d like—” She looked at the bar, now only desultorily in action. “No,” she said. “I guess not. As you said, the point’s made—whatever it was. Let’s eat.”
A line was forming, now, at one end of the buffet table. Evelyn and Wade were in it. They dropped back to join Harvey and Bonita at the end. The four filled plates, found a table at which four could sit. They had half finished when an ample woman in a print dress walked across the lawn toward them. She held a plate in one hand and an old-fashioned in the other. She had white hair in a coil, and a firm pink face and small blue eyes. She said, “Hello, folks. Room for one more?” There was great cheer in her voice.
“Hi, Florrie,” Wade said. “Lots of room. Get you a chair.” He was standing by then, as was Harvey. “Florrie Haskins,” Wade said. He named the others. “Missis Haskins,” Harvey repeated and the pink-cheeked woman said, “Miss, young man,” and put her plate down. She retained her glass and took a deep drink from it. Wade came back with a chair. They sidled chairs together and made room.
“What’s the matter with the big ’un?” Miss Florence Haskins asked, and, with some intentness, speared a piece of cold turkey.
“Prince?” Wade said. “The matter?”
“Peaked,” Miss Haskins said. “Don’t tell me, Wade. Off his feed?”
“Come off it, Florrie,” Wade said, and grinned at her. “You’re jealous.”
“Sure I am,” Miss Haskins said. “Good beef. Yours?” She chewed, contentedly.
“No,” Wade said. “There’s nothing the matter with Prince.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “I just came from the barn. Look.” She indicated her feet, in brown oxfords, fashioned for support. The oxfords were, stained. “Went in his stall. Pushed him around. He’s peaked.”
“Listen,” Bonita said. “This is Deep Meadow Prince you’re talking about. A big bull? You pushed him around?”
Wade and Miss Haskins looked at her with surprise which seemed honest. Harvey widened his eyes, lifted his eyebrows. “City girl,” he told them all. Bonny said, “No, really?”
“Prince is as gentle as a kitten,” Wade said. “Children can push him around, Bonny. Children have.”
“The milk of bovine kindness,” Harvey said. He saw disbelief in his wife’s brown eyes. “Really,” he said. “Likes to have his ears scratched. Phlegmatic type.”
“I suppose,” Bonita said, “he likes to smell flowers?”
“Probably,” Wade told her. “He’s never said, but probably.”
Bonita looked at Evelyn, who nodded. She looked at Florence Haskins.
“Sure,” Florrie said. “Quiet as they come. Most of the doddies are.”
“Look,” Bonita said. “He’s a bull. He must weigh—oh, tons.”
“A ton and a bit,” Wade said.
“And,” Bonny said, “people push him around?”
Florence Haskins laughed at that. She said people pushed. “He doesn’t give much,” she admitted.
Bonita Landcraft studied four faces, with the air of one who suspects a point missed. She looked longest, most enquiringly, at Evelyn Merritt, and Evelyn smiled, and nodded quickly, reassuringly.
“All right,” Bonny said. “It sounds funny to me.” She considered. “Of course,” she said, “I don’t meet many bulls.” She returned to her plate.
“He doesn’t weigh over two thousand now,” Florence Haskins said. “Or not by much. You can’t tell me, Wade.”
“Oh,” Wade said. “That’s what you meant. Yes, Alec’s fined him down a bit. Vet said he needed it.”
“Peaked, if you ask me,” Florrie Haskins said. “Not what he was.”
“You hope,” Wade told her. “Florrie’s the Rocking River Herd,” he told the others. “Got a bull she claims is as good as Prince. Only—Prince won the big one. Right, Florrie?”
“With some of the judges you run into—” Florence Haskins said, and stopped. “All right, Wade,” she said. “I’d get a new vet. Or a new—” Again she broke off. “It’s your herd,” she said. “Or Margaret’s.”
“Hers,” Wade said. “And Ballard’s good. You know that, Florrie.”
“Sure,” Florrie Haskins said. She speared the coiled pinkness of a shrimp and her plate was empty. She looked at her glass, and saw it empty too.
“Get you something?” Wade asked. She hesitated, shook her head. She waved a hand, unexpectedly small, in front of her considerable abdomen. “Got to remember,” she said. She stood up, and the men stood. They were told to sit down. “Want to walk around a little,” Miss Haskins said, and walked, carrying her glass. She walked toward the bar, and lights went on in a string above it.
“Saw her start,” Wade said, amusement in his voice. “Quite an old girl, Florrie. Got quite a herd, too. Up in Dutchess. Bigger than ours, but no grand champion. Irks her a bit.”
“Look,” Harvey said, “there isn’t anything wrong with the old boy, is there? He’s where the money is, you know.”
Wade looked across at him, smiling slightly, the smile not quite straight.
“I do know,” he said. “No, he’s all right, Harv. Trimmed down a bit, as I told Florrie. Perhaps a little more than—” He broke off. “The vet and Ballard know their business,” he said. “Mother agrees with them, which settles it.”
It was a few minutes before eight that the lights went on over the bar; that two of Mr. Pringle’s waiters began moving from table to table, lighting candles in hurricane chimneys. (But the evening was so still that unprotected flames would hardly have flickered. Nor had the temperature fallen appreciably as the shadows lengthened.) Beyond the hills the sky had burned, then smou
ldered. People sat at tables still, and smoked and drank; they walked in the dusk, and cigarettes formed little groups, like congregated fireflies. The groups formed, dissolved, reconstituted. The conversation was of cattle, of sales of the previous spring and those set for late winter; of shows past and still to come.
It was afterward difficult to establish the whereabouts of anyone between eight or thereabouts and eleven forty-five. Those who were asked had answers ready enough, but the answers were vague. Wade Landcraft and Alec Ballard, the farm manager, had “circulated.” Harvey had, with another drink, talked for some time with a man he had run into, and not quite clearly got the name of, and had talked about sports cars. Arnold Thayer had visited the barns, with two other breeders, and they had left the barns at a quarter of ten. They agreed about that; but afterward they had separated. Thayer had sat for a time, for long enough to smoke a cigar, in a chair at one end of the terrace and then, since he was staying overnight at the Landcrafts’, had gone up to his room. He had gone up, he thought, at a few minutes after eleven.
Bonita Landcraft and Evelyn could confirm part of that—could confirm, at any rate, that someone had sat in a terrace chair and smoked alone. But as to time, they could tell little. And Bonita, at a time also not definite but considerably before eleven forty-five, had got up from the chair in which she had been sitting, talking to Evelyn beside her, and remarked that when a girl had to go she had to go. Bonita had thereupon gone. Evelyn, relaxed, with a forgotten drink, had sat on, thinking of Wade. She had been almost dozing at eleven forty.
The time became important because, at eleven forty-five, Deep Meadow Prince bellowed furiously from his box stall in the nearest barn—bellowed and kept on bellowing. After a time, lesser bulls in the other barns bellowed too. They made a great noise in the soft night.
It was rather theatrical that, at almost the same time, thunder began to roll behind the hills which lay protectingly around Deep Meadow Farm.
II
Captain M. L. Heimrich of the New York State Police read the New York Times, ate a sandwich and drank thick black coffee in the barracks of Troop K in Hawthorne. The news in the Times was, as usual, depressing; the situation of mankind continued to deteriorate. Captain Heimrich was mildly cheered by the thought that, when he finished lunch, he would start on a brief leave, which he could use. The case he had just completed had been tedious—a hit and run with complications, involving people unrelievedly dull, hackneyed homicide and motives as obvious as methods. It had, nevertheless, taken time and much plodding; Heimrich felt as if, for two weeks and more, he had been slogging along a featureless road, ankle-deep in dust. He proposed now to lie somewhere on sand, now and then to dunk himself in ocean.
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