Once a Widow

by Lee Roberts

  He saw Richard Barry then and knew at once that he was dead. The wooden handle protruding from the cardiac region told him all that he needed to know—that and the half open eyes, already glazing. There was no reason to check for a heart beat, but Shannon did it anyhow, automatically, his gaze going over the body. He thought of Mrs. Barry’s description of her husband; young, blue eyes, black curly hair. The edges of white teeth showed behind partly opened lips. The body was still warm, but already cooling. Shannon guessed that he’d been dead only a short time, less than an hour. On the floor beside one of the dead man’s legs was a small pink linen purse, its clasp open. Shannon did not touch it.

  He sighed, stood erect, quietly closed the closet door, left the bedroom and entered the living room.

  Karen Barry, still slumped in the chair, gazed at him dully. Shannon hesitated, took a deep breath and then said, “Mrs. Barry, I’ve found your husband. There is no need for you to be afraid of him any more.”

  She sat upright. “You found Richard? Where? I—I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do understand,” Shannon said, watching her. “He’s dead.”

  She stared silently, her mouth working.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Richard is—dead?”

  “You know he is. Did he come here and threaten you?”

  “No, no!” She sprang to her feet and stood rigidly. “It can’t be true. Where is he? I want to see him.”

  “You know where he is—in the bedroom closet.”

  She ran toward the bedroom, but Shannon moved quickly, grasped her by one arm and held her firmly. Her fingers clawed at his hand as she tried to free her arm. She began to struggle violently and the doctor was forced to hold her with both hands. She screamed, the piercing animal scream of a human out of control, and fought Shannon viciously. He wished he’d brought his bag from the car. This woman needs a hypo, he thought, fast. He did the next best thing. He slapped her sharply on the cheek. Her screaming stopped abruptly and she sagged against him.

  Shannon led her to a chair. She sank into it, covered her face with her hands, and began to sob brokenly. Shannon waited a moment, and then said quietly, “Mrs. Barry, you don’t have to talk now if you don’t want to, but I have one question; you had the gun—why didn’t you use it, instead of the knife, or whatever it is you did use?”

  She tilted her head and her eyes blinked wetly behind spread fingers. “W-what?”

  “Never mind,” Shannon said wearily. He looked at his wrist watch. Ten minutes past six. Beckwith should be here pretty soon, he thought, and then he could go see Mrs. Westerby, make his calls in town and return to the office. And he wanted to call Celia, who would be wondering what had happened to him. He was tempted to go to the phone in the bedroom, but was afraid to leave the woman. In her condition there was no telling what she’d do, if she had the opportunity. He thought of the girl waiting in Richard Barry’s car, but he couldn’t leave the house now. He’d have to stay here until Beckwith and the sheriff arrived. He gazed at Karen Barry.

  She was quiet now, leaning back in the chair with her eyes closed. Her cheeks were still wet with tears and from time to time a long shuddering sigh escaped her. The doctor eyed her uneasily. First it had been violent hysteria, and now she seemed to be in a sort of coma. He said, “Are you all right?”

  Slowly she opened her eyes. “Yes, I’m all right.” Her hands clenched into fists. “I’m trying to be all right.”

  Shannon waited, watching her.

  She said, “Who—who killed him? How?”

  “There is no need for you to talk about it now.”

  “I want to talk about it.”

  “Try and relax,” Shannon said, wishing that Beckwith would arrive.

  “Tell me.”

  Shannon hesitated, and then said quietly, “He was stabbed in the chest with some sort of knife.”

  She gasped, as if the knife were in her own chest. Then she said in a low voice, “You think I killed him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t. I loved him.”

  “You were waiting for him with a gun in your pocket.”

  “I know. I was—afraid. I—I didn’t know what to expect when I saw him, or what I’d do. But I didn’t see him.”

  Shannon moved to her, leaned down and placed fingers on her left wrist. Her pulse was rapid, but not abnormally so. She gazed up at him with a weak smile. “I—I’m fine now, Doctor.”

  Shannon nodded, thinking that as a doctor his primary concern should be for her physical and emotional condition. But he was also the coroner. He sighed, stood erect and gazed through the window at the drive and highway beyond. It was not for him to decide whether or not the woman had killed her husband, or to judge her. She may have been justified, he thought. It could have been self defense. What was keeping Beckwith?

  Karen Barry said, “You told me there was a girl in Richard’s car. Do you suppose she’s still there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you go and see?”

  “I can’t.”

  Her lips twisted. “I won’t run away. I’d love to meet her.” She started to push herself up from the chair. “Let me go with you.”

  “No,” Shannon said.

  It was then that he heard the car in the drive, the sound of a door slamming. He turned toward the window, saw Chief Beckwith walking away from a police cruiser. A young officer sat behind the wheel. Another car turned into the drive, a black sedan with huge white letters on its side: SHERIFF. It stopped behind the cruiser and a tall uniformed figure got out and followed Beckwith.

  Shannon did not move from his position near Karen Barry. When Beckwith pounded on the screen door, the doctor called, “Come in, Chad.”

  Rose Ann Deegan drove swiftly along the road to Erie Cliffs, her hair blowing in the wind. The sun was almost gone, but it would not be dark for at least another hour. She had made her plan. She would return to the house, knock on the door. If no one answered, if the people who owned the cars in the drive were still absent, she would go inside quickly, get her purse from the closet (but can I stand to see Dick lying there?) and then it would be over. But what if he were still alive? What would she do then? Try to help him, or what? Her throat still ached horribly from the pressure of his fingers and it was difficult for her to swallow. She shivered at the memory of what had happened in the dark closet. If she had not used the letter opener he would have killed her, strangled her to death, really. Why, Dick? What happened?

  She was almost there. If the people had returned to the house she would pretend that she had the wrong address, or something, and leave quickly. There would be nothing else for her to do, except to tell the truth and take her chances. Maybe that would be the best way anyhow. If Dick had already been found, the purse would point directly to her. But if he hadn’t been found, and the house was still empty…

  Rose Ann drove on, her thoughts confused. Her plan was no good any more; she really did not know what she would do. She rounded a curve and swung upward through the pine woods toward the house on the bluff. The yellow Corvette was still parked by the side of the road. Seeing it there brought a sudden tightening to Rose Ann’s throat and she was crying silently when the house came into view. She slowed the convertible, aware of the rapid beating of her heart. Because of the trees and shrubbery on the front lawn she did not see the cars parked by the garage, the Harbor City police cruiser and the sheriff’s car, not until she’d turned into the drive. Panic struck her then. She braked the Plymouth, backed out to the highway, and raced toward Harbor City. Above the roar of the motor she moaned over and over, “What’ll I do, what’ll I do…?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  By nine o’clock Richard Barry had been fingerprinted and tagged and was reposing in the Harbor City morgue, his naked body covered by a white plastic sheet. The keys to the Corvette had been found in his jacket pocket along with the wicked .357 magnum and the car was now in
the police garage. In spite of the fact that Rose Ann Deegan’s purse had been found in the closet where Richard had died, Karen Barry had been arrested on suspicion of murder and had been placed in the women’s section of the city jail, without bail. She should really have been held in the county jail, because Richard’s death had occurred outside the city limits, but it was full and in addition the facilities for women were limited. Karen had made no protest and had been quite calm until the cell door was locked. Then she had become hysterical. Dr. Shannon had given her a sedative and instructed the police matron on duty to give her more if necessary.

  Rose Ann Deegan had fled, bag and baggage. Her landlady, a Mrs. Whiting, agreed with Chief of Police Beckwith that Rose Ann’s departure had been quite sudden. She stated that the girl had requested her to notify her employer at the drive-in that she would not be back, and to extend to him her regrets for leaving without notice. Mrs. Whiting was perplexed and more than a little hurt; Rose Ann had been an ideal tenant, cheerful and pleasant and very neat, and never any trouble about men in her room. She had grown quite fond of Rose-Ann during the summer. No, Mrs. Whiting had never seen any man answering Richard Barry’s description. If he had brought Rose Ann home at any time it must have been after she, Mrs. Whiting, had gone to bed. As far as Mrs. Whiting knew, Rose Ann did not have any gentlemen friends. She was a serious girl, saving her money so that she could return to college in the fall. Had she given a reason for leaving so abruptly? No, sir, but the poor girl seemed very upset about something. Her rent was paid for a week in advance and she hadn’t asked for a refund. She had just packed and left.

  “We have her purse,” Beckwith said. “It contains a little money, a few toilet articles and a wallet with her driver’s license and Social Security card. If you should hear from her, please let us know.”

  “Of course I will. Is—is Rose Ann in some sort of trouble?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Beckwith said grimly. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Whiting.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure. What kind of trouble?”

  Beckwith ignored the question, thanked Mrs. Whiting again and left.

  By nine-forty P.M. a state-wide Wanted broadcast was out for Rose Ann Deegan, twenty years old, one hundred and ten pounds, five-foot-four, black hair, blue eyes, driving a 1949 brown Plymouth convertible, license Y-20065. Suspicion of murder. If apprehended, notify the Island County sheriff’s office or the Harbor City police department.

  In the tiny bare office at the city morgue. Chief Beckwith said to Dr. Shannon, “I sent a man after Coral Thatcher. She won’t like it, but she’ll have to look at the body. She’s the only person who can tell us if it’s the man who came to the hospital and went into Lew Sprang’s room.”

  “Yes,” Shannon said, “and if it’s the same man, you can stop looking for Lew Sprang’s murderer.”

  “It’ll still be circumstantial,” Beckwith said.

  “I’ll be satisfied,” Shannon said grimly. “We’ll see what Coral says.”

  The office door opened and an elderly, pudgy policeman said, “Chief, we got that Thatcher woman outside.”

  “All right.” Beckwith stood up. “Coming, Clint?” Shannon nodded and followed Beckwith out to a long bare room brightly lighted by overhead fluorescent tubes. A whitecoated attendant, looking sleepy and bored, stood by a table bearing Richard Barry’s covered body. A short distance from the table Coral Thatcher waited calmly, a young officer at her side. When her mother had called her down from her room she had been surprised to see the policeman waiting in the hall, but she hadn’t been upset. Nothing mattered, not really. But her mother had been quite upset. Coral had sweetly ignored her excited and accusing questions and had gone with the policeman without protest. Now she gazed with a kind of serene detachment at the long, sheet-covered object. It’s a body, she thought, remembering Arthur Standish in a casket on a November afternoon.

  Chief Beckwith said kindly, “I’m sorry to ask you to do this, but it’s necessary. Do you understand?”

  “Certainly,” Coral said, nodding her head. “I understand perfectly.”

  Beckwith nodded at the attendant, who carelessly flipped back the sheet, exposing Richard Barry’s head and naked shoulders. Beckwith said, “Coral, have you ever seen this man before?”

  Coral gazed at the still face, the closed eyes, the thick black hair curling over small flat ears, and once more she was on the rectory lawn in the moonlight. She smiled and nodded again, remembering. “It’s Arthur,” she said.

  Beckwith shot a quick puzzled glance at Shannon, who moved to Coral’s side and said to her “Who is Arthur?”

  “Why, Arthur Standish,” Coral said distinctly. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Shannon said gently, “This man’s name is Richard Barry. Have you seen him before?”

  “Of course I have. He came to the hospital Sunday evening and I gave him permission to visit the patient in room 102.” She turned to Shannon and smiled. “I did not mean that he is really Arthur Standish—he just reminds me of Arthur, a—an old friend of mine.”

  “I see,” Shannon said, and added, “Coral, I’m sorry you didn’t come to my office last evening. I looked for you.”

  “I changed my mind,” Coral said, still smiling. “I’m fine now.”

  “Good. But if you should need me, please feel free to come at any time.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Coral said primly. “May I go now?”

  Shannon glanced at Beckwith, who nodded silently. The attendant covered Richard Barry and lit a cigarette. Beckwith said, “That does it. Thanks for coming down, Coral.”

  “You are entirely welcome,” Coral said in the same prim, precise voice. “I am glad to be of assistance.” As she turned away and left with the young policeman she was aware that Dr. Shannon and Chief Beckwith were talking together in low tones, probably about her. Had she acted strangely? Perhaps she had, a little. It had been silly of her to mention Arthur Standish. Why had she done that? She knew, of course, that the poor dead man back there was not Arthur.

  She sat quietly in the rear seat of the cruiser while the policeman drove her home and did not speak, except to say, “Thank you,” when she got out at the curb before her house. The young policeman touched his cap and drove away. Coral stood in the darkness and gazed at the house. The only light inside was the flickering reflected glow from the television screen in the front room. The sound of music and too-loud voices spilled out through the open windows and front door to the street.

  Coral knew that her mother was still sitting in there, her avid gaze on the screen, probably eating a fried egg sandwich. She did not want to face her mother, to answer her inevitable, insistent questions, but she knew that she could not escape. She’d get it over with, and then she would be free, forever. And maybe she could forget that the dead handsome man back there in the morgue had killed Mr. Sprang, and that it was her fault. Mr. Grange had said it was her fault.

  Suddenly Coral wondered how the man had died; she had not thought to ask. Poor man, poor Arthur.

  Coral entered the house and her mother pounced upon her instantly. She was eating a fried egg sandwich. Coral told it all, patiently, wearily, and ended by saying she’d lost her job at the hospital. Her mother was still spitting bitter recriminations as Coral went up the stairs, away from the blare of the television and her mother’s shrill voice. Everything is all in order, Coral thought. The household bills are paid, except for a small account at the corner grocery, and her life insurance was paid until the next quarter. Everything is fine, Coral thought, just fine.

  In the bathroom she opened the medicine cabinet over the wash bowl and took out her mother’s bottle of sleeping capsules. It was more than half full of the small yellow tubes, and Coral laughed softly. More than enough. She took a pink plastic glass from a rack beside the cabinet and filled it with cold water. Then she shook two of the capsules into the palm of her left hand, smiled at them, put them in her mouth, raised the pink glass, dra
nk, swallowed. She repeated this operation four times and then paused, holding the pink glass against the bulb over the cabinet. Pink, like the fog, she thought, the lovely pink fog. Rest and peace—and Arthur. Goodbye, Mr. Grange, and Mr. Sprang (I’ll see you soon, Mr. Sprang, I hope), and Dr. Shannon (Hi, Thatcher) and Miss James and Mrs. Andrews, and Chief Beckwith and that poor, dead, handsome man who looked like Arthur (are you waiting, Arthur?). Goodbye, Mom, goodbye. Hello, pink people, hello. Is everyone happy here? My name is Coral Thatcher.

  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.