by Lee Roberts
Karen’s fingers dug into the warm sand.
At five o’clock she aroused herself, walked out to the end of the dock. Her dive into the clear green water was almost professional, as were her strong overhand strokes as she swam out for fifty feet and then returned. She had looked forward so eagerly to showing Richard that she had learned to swim, had counted on the pleasure and approval in his eyes. She had been about to tell him of her new accomplishment when he’d suggested the outing in the boat, and had decided to delay the surprise. On the boat, just the two of them, would be an ideal time. She’d even planned it as a prank—maybe pretend to fall overboard, and then amaze Richard with her ability. But it was gone now, all gone.
Karen walked blindly toward the house, sudden tears in her eyes. Maggie met her with a huge towel and folded it maternally over Karen’s shoulders as she asked, “Will you be home for dinner?”
“Yes. Have there—been any calls?”
“From the mister? No ma’am.”
Karen’s well-kept white teeth dug at her lower lip. A tear ran down one cheek.
“What’s wrong?” Maggie asked softly. “Would you like to tell me?”
“I—I can’t.” Karen moved swiftly away, clutching the towel. “I can’t tell anyone—not yet.” She entered the house.
Maggie shook her head sadly. Poor woman, she thought. He’s her fifth man, and she’s having trouble with him. Still shaking her head, she went to tell Albert to wash up for supper. They usually ate in the kitchen around five-thirty, unless Karen had guests for cocktails, but Karen and the mister did not eat until seven or after, not supper, but dinner. Maggie hoped that Karen would like the broiled lobster she planned to serve her. She’d bought it especially, knowing it was one of Karen’s favorite foods, and the poor woman, God help her, deserved some pleasure from life, even if it was only Maine lobster with melted butter.
After dinner that Monday night Karen went to Richard’s room and drank brandy which she poured from a cut glass decanter Richard always kept on his dresser. She had been tempted to talk to Maggie, ask her advice and help. She’d appealed to Maggie before, with good results. Maggie was always sympathetic and understanding. But this was different. If she told her what had happened, just how it had happened, Maggie would insist that she go to the police. But that wouldn’t help—it was just her word against Richard’s. She had no proof of anything, not even a motive for Richard’s action. This was something between just the two of them. She drank more brandy.
At eleven o’clock Maggie knocked on the door and then opened it and peeked inside. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Of course.” Karen was distressed at the slight slur in her voice. Maggie would not approve.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine, Maggie.”
“Then I guess Albert and I will go to bed, if it’s all right with you. Good night, ma’am.”
“Wait,” Karen cried. “Maggie, wait.” She began to sob.
Maggie crossed to her mistress quickly, took the glass from her hand, put arms around her, held her close. “There, there,” she said soothingly. “You and the mister have been having trouble. Tell me about it and you’ll feel better.”
“I can’t,” Karen sobbed. “I told you I can’t.”
“All right,” Maggie said calmly. “Shall I turn back your bed for you?”
Karen shuddered. “Don’t leave me, Maggie. You—you’re all I have.”
“I’ll stay as long as you like.” Maggie settled herself on the arm of the chair and patted Karen’s shoulder. Poor woman, Maggie thought, it must be something really bad this time.
Presently Karen’s sobbing stopped. She sighed deeply and touched Maggie’s hand. “Thank you. I—I’ll be all right now.”
“Good.” Maggie stood up. “Ring if you want me.”
“I will.” Karen gazed wanly up at the older woman. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie moved to the door. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
The door closed. Karen poured a little more brandy, lit another cigarette and sat thinking, thinking. At one in the morning her mind was made up and she entered her own room, feeling remarkably fresh and alert, in spite of the brandy. She smoked a final cigarette as she undressed, and then slipped a pale blue lace nightgown over her head, a seductive, transparent gown her husband especially admired. She turned off the light, stretched out on the bed, pulled up the cool silken sheet and smiled upward into the darkness. “Richard,” she whispered. “I love you very much. I think I will kill you tomorrow.”
She awoke shortly before noon, rang for Maggie and began to comb her short tawny hair. When Maggie arrived, she said, “Would you like breakfast now?”
“Just juice and coffee, in the kitchen. I’m driving back to Erie Cliffs. Would you ask Albert to see that the station wagon is filled with gas? You and Albert won’t need it, will you?” Karen smiled brightly.
“No, ma’am. We can use the Buick. Will you be coming back soon?”
“I don’t know,” Karen said, still smiling. “I just don’t know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie left and quietly closed the bedroom door,
Karen bathed in a jade green sunken tub. Afterward she appraised her body in a huge wall mirror. It’s still good, she thought, maybe a little heavy in the chest, but the right bra takes care of that. Her waist was still slender, without even a suggestion of fat, and her long legs were really quite well shaped. She was proud of her legs, with their delicately swelling calves and slim ankles. Perhaps she was a little too hippy, and she hated girdles; she must resume her sessions with the masseur. But taken as a whole it was a good body, well preserved, she thought, hating the phrase, but knowing it to be true. Richard had always admired it.
She gazed at her face in the mirror with a look of horror. I still love him. He tried to kill me and I still love him. What’s wrong with me? Am I a—a monster? Perverted? She pressed her forehead against the smooth cool surface of the mirror and sobs shook her body.
Presently she was quiet. She gazed at her face in the mirror, inspecting the texture of her skin, wincing at the tiny lines around the eyes and mouth, at the tinge of gray which had appeared in her hair during the time at Erie Cliffs, when she could not see her regular hair dresser. She entered her bedroom and sat naked at her dressing table, skillfully applied makeup. In a few minutes the face she saw in the mirror was beautiful, almost the same face of twenty years ago. She didn’t feel old. She felt as young as Richard. Her love for him and the love she’d thought he had for her had made her young again. Richard had been the only one to make her feel that way—young, beautiful, desirable. She thought of his smile, his strong white teeth, his tanned muscular body, the clean smell of his hair and the fragrance of his shaving lotion, and she almost swooned with a surge of desire. Richard, Richard…
Karen dressed carefully, selecting her daintiest frilled panties, a white short-sleeved blouse, a new pair of pale green tailored slacks which she hadn’t worn since they’d left for Erie Cliffs in May, white buckskin beaded moccasins. When she was ready she pirouetted before the mirror, her mouth fixed in a gay smile. When Richard saw her he would certainly repent, she told herself, and she felt excited at the thought of their reunion. There would never be another Richard, not as long as she lived. He was an impulsive boy, and sorry afterward. Hadn’t he called Maggie because he was worried about his wife?
And then the truth hit her. She’d faced it the night before, but today she’d been fighting it, not wanting it, but it was there, like a seeping abscess in her brain. Richard had wanted her dead. He really had. Why, why? Her money? Another woman, a young one? Why, Richard?
Karen’s mouth began to quiver. She went to a dresser and from the bottom drawer took out a small, black, pearl-handled automatic pistol, an Italian Berretta, .25 caliber. It had belonged to one of her ex-husbands, probably Jerry, who had been mad about guns and had taught her
a little about them. In fact, all of her husbands had enriched her in some way. Because of Richard she had learned to swim. Thomas had taught her about the stock market. With Alfredo it had been art and she could now distinguish a Picasso from a Van Gogh. Louis, her second husband, poor Louis, he had taught her to drink in a controlled way before he’d driven his Jaguar (a gift from Karen) over the edge of a mountain road near Nice. He had survived the crash but had been so hideously crippled and disfigured that he’d insisted that Karen divorce him, with a monthly annuity for the rest of his life. She still felt a tenderness for Louis, a Frenchman with the true chivalrous instincts. But Richard was the nicest, the one she’d really loved, still loved, God help her. She wanted to talk to him, she must talk to him, before—before what?
Karen removed the clip from the butt of the little automatic, saw that it was empty, and she remembered back over the years what Jerry had told her about guns; never leave one lying about loaded, never point one at any human unless you intend to shoot. She rummaged in the drawer, found a box of cartridges, filled the clip and snapped it back into the butt. Then she checked the safety catch and placed the little gun in the right hand pocket of her slacks, where it made almost no bulge at all.
Before she went down for her juice and coffee she had a large drink of brandy from the decanter in Richard’s room. It burned her throat, but it also steadied her. She wanted a cigarette, after the brandy, but decided to skip it until she’d had some coffee. It had been Louis who had trained her not to smoke before breakfast. She thought musingly of Louis, of Jerry, Thomas and Alfredo. And of Richard. She thought of Richard intently, of her love for him, as she descended the softly carpeted, curving stairway. She should hate him and fear him, she knew, but her love for him was too great. Richard was her last real love, and that was the hard part. She had wanted to grow old (really old, my dear) with Richard. She would loathe killing him, she was certain.
She was smiling brightly as she entered the kitchen. Her coffee was waiting in a small silver pot on the breakfast table in the sun-filled alcove beside a tall glass of iced pineapple juice. Maggie was not there, and Karen was glad. She did not want to talk to Maggie, not now. Karen smiled at the bright, sunny, empty kitchen, flung back her short, light brown hair from her forehead and drank the juice. It was delicious, cooling and refreshing, blending very well with the brandy she’d had, and the coffee was wonderful, hot and black, the way she liked it. When she was finished she lit a cigarette and stood for a moment gazing out of the window at the smooth green of the rear lawn and the blue lake beyond. She could see the swimming pool, which was ridiculous, really, because the beach was only fifty yards beyond. A raft was anchored out from the shore and a steel diving tower had been erected at the end of the dock, where the water was deep. Richard loved the beach and had spent much of his time there, lying in the sun or diving from the tower. Where had she failed him?
Karen left the kitchen, crossed a wide stone terrace and descended sandstone steps to the black-topped drive leading to the big garage. In the early afternoon sunlight she made an attractive figure in her crisp white blouse, the tight pale green slacks and moccasins. She walked lightly, drawing hungrily on her cigarette, her hair lifting in a breeze from the lake.
Albert was standing by the station wagon, a new Mercury. He smiled at Karen and touched his cap, a brown tweed one he’d worn for years, except when he was acting as chauffeur. “She’s all set, Karen,” he said. “Tell the mister I said hello.” Unlike Maggie, Albert had always called Karen by her first name, because he’d known her since she was twelve years old, long before her parents had died. Albert was ten years older than Maggie, but his face was plump, pink and unlined.
“I will,” Karen said, and as Albert held the car door open tor her she smiled and added, “Thank you, Albert. You and Maggie take care of things.”
“Don’t you worry. Will you be coming home again before Labor Day?”
Karen started the motor, her hand trembling a little as she turned the key, but she retained the smile for Albert and said, “I really don’t know. It all—depends.” She put the automatic shift in place. “Goodbye, Albert.”
Albert smiled, touched his cap and watched her circle the drive and head down toward the open iron gate leading to the street. Maggie joined Albert on the drive and waved. Karen waved back at the two familiar figures with a sudden tightness in her throat and for an instant she fought a desire to stay here at the big house where she’d been born, where she would be safe. But I’ve got to do it, she thought with quiet desperation. I’ve got to face Richard.
She reached the house at Erie Cliffs at four o’clock. As she turned into the drive she had a moment of panic, but as she approached the garage she saw that the Corvette was gone and she became calmer. Richard is not here, she thought. She would have time to compose herself, freshen up, put on some lipstick and that perfume he adored. She decided not to change her clothes, because she needed the pocket of the slacks to conceal the gun. Already she was anticipating the look on his face when he saw her. What would he say? What could he say? Her fear left her and her heart began to pound with excitement. It seemed just ages since she’d seen him—had it only been last Saturday afternoon when he’d thrown her from the boat? Why, why? She remembered floundering about, swallowing water, terrified of the water and the certain knowledge that Richard had left her there to drown. She had almost forgotten that she could swim, but when she remembered she had struck out for the small black island which had seemed so far away.
It had been close, though. Long before she reached the island she was strangling with swallowed water and her arms and legs seemed too heavy to move. One thing saved her; from out of nowhere came the words of a young man she’d met at the Y in Harbor City, when she was completing her swimming course. A nice young man, tall, blond, with eyes almost the same clear blue as Richard’s. A little shy, perhaps, but very polite. He must have been lonely, because he came to the swimming classes every Wednesday morning, even though he was an expert swimmer. Sometimes he helped the instructor, Mr. McClory. What was his name? George something. Worked in a bank, he’d told her. One Wednesday morning as she’d sat beside him on the edge of the pool, he’d said to her: You’re doing fine on the short spurts, but for a long swim just remember to take it easy. Don’t fight the water—let it carry you. Take long easy strokes, and rest between. Don’t get scared. That way, you can swim farther than you think you can…
George, whoever he was, had saved her life. She remembered his advice, not at first, not during those first terrifying moments in the water, but later, when she was certain that she would drown, his words had come to her. She had made it to the island (Thank you, George), but she didn’t remember much afterward, not until she was in the hospital and had talked to that nice young doctor. She had been so sleepy, and nothing had mattered but rest. She had lied to the doctor about not being able to remember, because she wanted to think a little, get her mind straightened out. Even then she knew that she must talk to Richard before she told anyone, or did anything about it.
Karen left the station wagon in the drive behind her white Cadillac parked in the garage and went up to the front stoop. The door was locked and she was forced to get a key which hung on a secret nail in the garage. As soon as she entered the house her nose wrinkled at the odor of dampness and stale cigarette smoke. But everything seemed to be in good order; Richard had always been neat. She opened some windows, listening and watching for the Corvette. She didn’t want him to surprise her—she would surprise him.
She spent a few minutes in the bathroom washing her hands and face, combing her hair. At her dressing table in the bedroom she applied fresh lipstick, noting in the mirror that her bed was neatly made, as it had been before the boat trip on Saturday afternoon, but that Richard’s bed was in disarray, one sheet half on the floor. She stood up and turned, her sharp gaze taking in the room. No signs of a woman, she thought, except her own things. Not that she had really expected any. No mat
ter what Richard was, she had never worried about his faithfulness. Perhaps that was the reason she had loved and trusted him far more than any of her other husbands.
In the kitchen, which appeared to have been used very little, she made herself a bourbon highball, half whisky and half water, with three ice cubes. She would have preferred a very cold double martini, the way Richard made them, but she could not see the drive from the kitchen and was afraid to take the time. She carried her drink to the terrace, moved a reclining deck chair to the far edge at a spot where the sun would be at her back and from where she could see the drive sloping up from the highway. She leaned back in the chair, crossed her long slim legs and supported the glass with her left hand on the broad metal arm. Her right hand rested on her thigh, near the gun in her pocket. Sitting there in apparent repose, with the blue sky and yellow sunlight behind her, she resembled a full-color ad in a glossy magazine devoted to gracious living homes on the beach, smart summer sports wear, cosmetics, perhaps a plug for a certain brand of one hundred proof bonded bourbon whisky. Karen sipped at her drink and waited.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Richard Barry wheeled the Corvette away from the curb in front of Dr. Shannon’s office, his blue eyes smoldering with rage. The son of a bitch knew more than he was telling, he thought. He should have pushed it, made him talk, but he’d been cautious. He was in plenty of trouble as it was. So far he’d been lucky, but it couldn’t last. What the hell had happened? Karen didn’t drown as she was supposed to, and shows up in the hospital. Then she skips in the middle of the night, probably to the house in Cleveland. Should he call there again, or let it ride a while? Killing that old man by mistake had really torn it. That was the Thatcher woman’s fault—the stupid bitch had given him the wrong room number. Maybe he should make a little call on her. But that wouldn’t be cagey—not right now. She could identify him, if she had a chance. What was Karen up to? The damned doctor had mentioned her phone call. It must have been to Cleveland, but Maggie had said she hadn’t seen Karen, or heard from her. It must have been too soon, before Karen had called. But Maggie could have been lying, to cover up. She had always been pretty thick with Karen, almost like a mother. Karen must have gone to Cleveland. Where else would she go? Should he go there now? And maybe find a couple of cops waiting for him? Hell, no. He’d sweat it out a little longer.