Verdict Suspended

by Nielsen, Helen

  She couldn’t stop him. Jaime left the cottage and covered the distance to Steve’s house in great strides. The back door was open. He came through a glassed-in service area and stopped at the doorway of Steve’s kitchen. Steve was a bachelor. He lived alone and had his housekeeping done by a day worker. The kitchen was a long, pantrylike room as meticulously arranged as a ship’s galley; and in such a kitchen Albert Trench was conspicuous and awkward. He was doing something with an electric appliance. He looked up warily as Jaime entered the room.

  “We need ice at the cottage,” Jaime said. “The refrigerator wasn’t turned on.”

  “I work for Mr. Quentin now,” Trench replied.

  “Mr. Quentin is giving the party.”

  Trench was a good houseman, perhaps the last of his breed. A completely unservile servant. His face was a narrow mask of disdain as he opened the refrigerator and took out a tray of cubes. Silently he filled an ice bucket, fixed the lid in place, and turned toward the door where Jaime stood waiting.

  “If you’ll let me pass,” he said, “I’ll get this up to Mr. Quentin.”

  “Why did you quit, Trench?” Jaime asked.

  “Miss Dodson was my employer. She’s dead,” he said.

  “And you won’t work for me?” “The ice—” Trench demanded.

  “Damn the ice! What is it, Trench? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, sir. I want a change.”

  “You dislike my wife—is that it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sheilah disliked her. What did she tell you about Greta?”

  “Nothing, sir. Only what you heard me testify at the trial. Now, if I can just get past—”

  Trench, still holding the ice bucket, eased through the doorway and walked the length of the service area. He had reached the outer door when Jaime’s voice stopped him.

  “Trench,” he said loudly, “you didn’t testify at a trial. You testified before a coroner’s inquest at which I was not found responsible for Sheilah’s death!”

  Trench looked back at him—still poised, still bland. “Yes, sir. I know,” he said. “And you can’t be held in double jeopardy, can you?”

  “What does that mean?” Jaime demanded.

  Had Trench’s mouth been capable of anything so frivolous as a smile, it would have smiled then. “It’s a legal term, sir,” he answered.

  The door opened from the outside and Greta, a wifely worried expression on her face, entered the house. Trench glanced at her, nodded coolly, and went outside. Puzzled, she turned to Jaime. He seemed strange and far away.

  “Please,” she said, “what is it? What did Trench say?”

  Jaime’s mouth could smile—bitterly. “Welcome home, Jaime,” he said.

  They did go, finally: Cy, Tilde, last of all Steve. There was a tag end of daylight left, and enough late summer sun for a quick dip in the sea. The ugliness of Albert Trench was forgotten for a little while. After the swim they lay on a stretch of sand still warm from the huge red eye of the sun, which now slid slowly behind a soft, rising wall of fog. When the lights began to come on the cove was ringed with artificial stars. Greta scrambled to her feet and wrapped a huge beach towel about her slim body until only her shoulders and ankles showed bare.

  “It’s chilly,” she said. “Race you to the cottage.”

  Jaime laughed. “Bundled up like that, you couldn’t race a turtle.” He came lazily to his feet, and then his smile faded. Greta followed the direction of his gaze. The glass peak of Sheilah’s house held the last rays of the sun until it seemed the ridge was a mass of flame.

  “At night,” Jaime reflected, “when the lights were on, Sheilah’s house could be seen for miles. I’ve sailed in by it after a day’s fishing.”

  “We’ll open the house again,” Greta said.

  “I’m not sure that I want to.”

  “Why? Because of what Steve said? In a little while—”

  “No,” Jaime said shortly. “Not because of what Steve said.”

  “Then it must be that silly Trench.” An idea quickly became proven fact to Greta. She knotted the towel in one hand and took Jaime’s arm with the other. She began pulling him along the rock steps leading up to the cottage.

  “Don’t you understand, Jaime? Trench is lost. For years he’s built his life around Sheilah and that house. Any change in routine is a shock to a man of his age.” Greta was taking the steps two at a time.

  “At your age,” Jaime panted, “you think anyone over thirty is ancient.”

  “Only you, darling, for getting upset over nothing. So Trench doesn’t like us? What shall we do about it—break down and cry?”

  There was only one thing to do about it. At the cottage door, Jaime caught her in his arms and silenced her teasing with a kiss. It was a hard kiss, so much harder than he intended that he drew back surprised at his own tension.

  “I get carried away,” he confessed. “You’re the only person I’ve ever known who made me feel strong.”

  “Would you fight for me?” Greta asked.

  “Slay dragons.”

  “No dragons—only demons. Tiny, nasty little demons.”

  Jaime didn’t understand. Greta smiled and pushed open the door.

  “Now, get dressed,” she ordered.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s too late in the season to go down to the village in bathing trunks.”

  “Down to the village? You sound like a wife.”

  Greta was busy switching on lamps. She’d dropped the towel, and that was an improvement. “I am a wife,” she answered, “and one of my first duties is to prepare my husband’s breakfast in the morning—but I can’t, you see, because the cupboard’s bare. I checked.”

  “And so I have to go to the village and shop, is that it?”

  Greta had advanced to the shower. She switched on the light and adjusted the mixing valve. “That is exactly it, sir. Now, take your shower and I’ll write a list—”

  “Oh no!” Jaime protested. “Not a list. I’ve got a memory like a herd of elephants.”

  “All right. We need bacon, eggs, butter, coffee, sugar, milk—”

  Jaime ducked his head out from under the shower. “Honey,” he said, “I have an idea. Why don’t you write a list?” And then he slammed the shower door, quickly.

  It was completely dark when Jaime left the cottage. There was a direct path to the driveway—he could avoid further contact with Trench.

  Greta had teased and coaxed until he was gone, and didn’t grow grave until she was under the shower washing away demons of her own. There were certain times when Jaime was strange—certain looks, certain vague-nesses. She turned the shower spray harder. Demons could be stubborn. It was only when she’d finished and stepped into a voluminous terry cloth robe that she became aware of the prowler. At first she didn’t believe it. There were dogs at some of the houses along the beach. A curious dog could go visiting. She knotted the belt of the robe and went to the door. It was a slab door with no panes for viewing. She listened again. It wouldn’t be Trench, surely. If so, she was just at the right stage of nerves to tell him off.

  She opened the door. The living-room light plunged down the path ahead of her and pinned a tall figure against the hedge. Not a dog—a man. Greta’s eyes strained at the darkness, and then her tension relaxed.

  “Why, Steve,” she said, “whatever are you doing?”

  Chapter 5

  Steve, looking rather sheepish, emerged from the shadows.

  “I’m sorry you heard me,” he said. “I didn’t want to frighten you.”

  “I’m not frightened,” Greta declared. “I’m puzzled. What are you sulking out there for?”

  “I heard Jaime leave.”

  “So?”

  “I knew you must be alone. I was making the rounds.”

  Greta didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed; but when Steve came forward into the light she could see he was deadly serious.

  “Making the rounds?” she e
choed. “Am I behind the times, Steve? Is sentry duty required of a good host?”

  “Under certain circumstances, yes. May I come in?”

  “I wish you would,” Greta said. “I feel naked standing here in my robe. I just hopped out of a shower.” Steve came inside and she closed the door. He seemed uncomfortable, like a small boy caught prowling where he didn’t belong. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

  “No. Nothing, thanks,” he answered. “I’m not staying long…. Where did Jaime go?”

  “To the village for groceries.”

  “Groceries!” Steve was disgusted with himself. “I knew I forgot something. And I wanted everything to be right for you.”

  There was a cigarette box on the coffee table. Steve went to it and opened the lid. It was full. He took one, dutifully, as if he had to find some excuse for staying. He lighted it and turned to see Greta watching him with solemn eyes, her hands buried deep in the pockets of the robe.

  “Everything is right,” she said, “maybe too right. Steve, what are you keeping from me?”

  “Nothing, Greta. Not a thing.”

  “Then why did you come here as soon as Jaime left?”

  “Greta, I told you—”

  She crossed the room and took the cigarette from his hand, leaving him to forage in the box for another. “You wanted to see me alone, didn’t you?” she asked.

  Steve grinned. “All right, I’m not a good liar. I did want to see you alone. Greta, how is it?”

  “Marriage to Jaime? Wonderful!”

  The words came too quickly. Steve studied her skeptically over the flame of the lighter. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I meant—how is Jaime?”

  Greta sat down at one end of a deep divan and tucked her feet under the tails of the long robe. She wasn’t amused or annoyed. She was curious, and curiosity made her careful.

  “Happy,” she answered.

  “No bad aftereffects?” Steve asked. “The inquest was a harrowing experience. I’ve worried about you both.”

  “I’ve been working hard to see that he doesn’t think about it.”

  “But he’ll have to, Greta.”

  “Why? It’s over!”

  “No, it isn’t. Sheilah’s murder is unsolved. Don’t you realize what that means?”

  Greta’s chin rose defensively. “No. I may be dense, but I don’t think I do.”

  “You aren’t dense,” Steve said, “you’re in love. Just because Jaime was released, it doesn’t mean the crime is wiped off the books. Someone killed Sheilah.”

  “A prowler,” Greta said quickly.

  Steve’s eyes brightened. “A prowler … Why didn’t you think of that when you opened the door a few minutes ago? Why weren’t you afraid? You weren’t, you know.”

  Greta sat very still and small, the cigarette forgotten in her hand. “I don’t know,” she reflected, “I should have thought—”

  “Yes, you should have. I did.”

  “Is that why you were out there?”

  “One of the reasons. But before you start scolding me again, I’ll admit that I did want to talk to you about the house. Sheilah’s house.” Steve paused to watch Greta’s reaction. She was puzzled. He sat down beside her on the divan. “I want you to help me talk Jaime into selling,” he said.

  “Selling?” Greta repeated. “But why, Steve?”

  “I’ll tell you why. Going back there’s no good for Jaime. He’s sensitive. That house will hold memories … some of them very bitter.”

  “But it’s better to face that now—”

  “No,” Steve insisted. “Greta, I’m sorry, but I disagree. You saw the way he reacted to Trench this afternoon. He’s on edge, and there’ll be more incidents of this sort as long as he’s at Cypress Point.”

  “But, Steve, where would we go?”

  “I don’t think it’s advisable for Jaime to go too far away at present. I’m sure Ryan wouldn’t want him to leave the state. But I have connections along the coast. I can get Jaime a job in another city. In six months—a year, perhaps—the whole thing will be forgotten. But for the next few weeks it’s likely to be very unpleasant.”

  “Gossip, you mean?”

  Steve leaned down and snuffed out his cigarette in an ash tray on the coffee table. Smoke and a long ash still hung forgotten from Greta’s fingers. He took the stub from her and dropped it in the tray without the slightest awareness on her part. She was waiting for his answer.

  “Gossip,” he admitted, “and investigation. Constant reminders—no chance to forget or build up resistance to attack. The inquest fixed no blame on Jaime, but there’s a tougher jury—”

  Greta tossed her head angrily. “We don’t care what people say!”

  “I’m not thinking of what people say. I’m thinking of the jury in Jaime’s mind.”

  “Jaime!” This suggestion was new and troubling. Greta’s eyes demanded explanation.

  “He did black out,” Steve reminded. “There’s a piece of his story missing—and that leaves room for doubt. Aggravated doubt can make a mind sick. Jaime needs a new life, Greta. New work—”

  “He has me!” she protested. “And there’s no danger. Trench said something to him about double jeopardy.”

  Steve shook his head gravely. “Trench has a lay man’s knowledge of law, I’m afraid. There was no trial, Greta. If Jaime had been tried and acquitted, I could have filed a plea against double jeopardy and he would be safe. But that isn’t what happened. The case is still very much open.”

  “You can’t think that Jaime killed Sheilah!” Greta’s shock was genuine. She had no suppressed fears; no flaw in her loyalty to Jaime.

  Steve had difficulty meeting her eyes. “No, of course not!” he said. He took hold of her by the shoulders and held hard. “Please, don’t get upset,” he begged. “I didn’t come here to hurt you. I don’t want anything to hurt you!”

  When Greta could think of herself again, she could feel the strength of his hands and draw back, slowly and comprehendingly, against the cushions.

  “You’re not surprised, are you?” Steve asked.

  “No … I don’t think I am.”

  “You shouldn’t be. I envied Jaime from the day I met you … and you’re good for him. The best thing that’s come into his life. That’s why I had to tell you this. What I think—what anyone in Cypress Point thinks—isn’t important. Jaime is the man with the burden.”

  It was true. Greta listened and absorbed the thought until she was certain it was true. “Sometimes we know things without realizing that we know them,” she said. “That’s what’s preying on Jaime’s mind—the time after the quarrel that he can’t remember.”

  “And it’ll get worse if he stays here,” Steve said.

  “But I’m not sure I can make him leave. Jaime wants the house. He spoke of it this evening—”

  “I’m only asking that you try, Greta. I can’t sell without Jaime’s permission. He’s the heir. He knows nothing about business, but you can surely trust me to make a good deal.”

  Greta was sober and subdued. Small worry lines pinched her forehead. “I’ll have to approach Jaime in my way,” she said.

  “I leave the details in your capable hands.” Steve came to his feet. He looked down, smiling. “Not so grim, now,” he said. “I didn’t come to spoil the honeymoon…. And remember, if you need me for anything, anything at all—” Then he laughed, sharply. “I sound maudlin. I’m going up to the house now. You get something on your feet before you catch a cold.”

  Cypress Point had begun its development in the booming twenties, shrugged off the depression, and languished during the war years. In the postwar boom, land values soared and what had been a small and exclusive coastal resort town started to take on civic pride. It had no industry, but a brisk business in tourists, artists, architects, and year-round residents who valued privacy, good food, and string quartets. Along the main street various specialty shops were established, as well as one or two supermarts; but throug
h the changing times it was the independent and unchangeable market, owned by an equally independent and unchangeable Chad Winters, to which the long-term residents went for foodstuffs and gossip.

  Chad Winters was a native of Maine. Some thirty years ago he’d gone as far west as possible without fins, and altered his way of life in no manner whatsoever. Chad would be a native of Maine in Tokyo or Paris. He was a spare beanpole of a man with a narrow, cynical face that lengthened continuously as his hairline slipped past the meridian. He wore rimless glasses and a white shirt with a hard collar and a black, snap-on tie; and he knew every item of stock in his store, including the Spam and Argentine beef left over from the era of rationing. He carried gourmet items, such as Maine lobster flown in by jet on order, and sold sowbelly by the slab and crackers by the tin. He was a listening man, an opinionated man, a man of stubborn loyalties.

  He was on duty by himself, occupied with a customer who couldn’t find the carbonated water, when Jaime reached the store. Jaime took a cart and started to work on Greta’s list. It struck him that this was the first time he’d done this sort of thing, and he began to feel very married and even a little conspicuous. The feeling was heightened at the frozen food locker when he encountered a Cypress Point matron in a rough tweed coat, who reacted to his presence with a slightly startled expression and then hurried on down the aisle. Jaime tried to fasten a name to her face. Sheilah would have known it instantly, plus a biographical profile. Sheilah’s mind was a miracle: perfectly organized, efficient, controlled. It was as if she had been born with the intuitive knowledge that every individual on earth had something to contribute to her own well-being, and she had only to learn the knack of acquiring that contribution in such a manner as to make the giver believe he was the receiver. It was a talent Jaime didn’t possess. The woman in the aisle was a stimulus for the imagination: a mystery, a poem, possibly a tragedy in shabby tweed; but he couldn’t have remembered her name or legal description for sixty full seconds. It never occurred to him that she could be an object of profit.

  Or of loss.

  When Jaime approached the check-out stand, no one was in sight except Chad Winters. It was almost closing time, and he was tallying receipts from the cash register. He didn’t look up. Jaime waited for a long time and then said: “Can’t that wait, Chad? I have a new wife who’s anxious to go domestic.”