Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  “Shove it,” he said.

  The quiet in their suite was as deep and cool and luxurious as the cut-velvet pile carpet. Edison flung himself into a chair and demanded a bourbon on the rocks. Anne moved to the credenza to pour the drink from the set-up tray, taking ice from the bucket left ready. She handed it to him in silence, then moved into the bedroom. He heard her in there, moving around, going into the bathroom.

  Edison took a deep swallow of his drink, then set the glass on a side table and stripped off his jacket. He threw it on the floor and loosened his tie. God, he needed a shower. After standing around in the heat all afternoon, he smelled like a boar hog.

  He wanted to relax, but that was something that was getting harder and harder to do these days. It was a crock of shit that he had to give up smoking for the image. Maybe he’d take a pill after a while. He got to his feet, picked up his drink, and walked to the window. The view was of a courtyard of sorts on the roof of a lower floor, a small area with potted trees and chairs in groups on a floor of aggregated rock. Boring as all hell. He shoved the drapes aside and propped himself against the wall, staring down.

  Rebecca Benson. Riva Staulet. He still felt as if somebody had kicked him in the stomach. Or, more likely, the balls. He thought he had forgotten. He had sure as hell tried hard enough.

  God, but she had been sweet, the tenderest little piece of tail he had ever had. That had been some summer, his last as a free man. He had thought he was such hot shit with his Chevy convertible and his line of baloney for the girls, but he hadn’t known the half of it.

  That day down at the pond…Old Boots had been so afraid he was going to shock the Benson sisters. Guess he had, at that, but they were so ripe and ready for it that it had been irresistible. It had gone all over him when they laughed at him. He had sworn to himself that he would have all three of them before the summer was over. He’d never told anybody that, not even Boots. He would never have understood. Edison did, though. He had had something to prove to himself. He had needed to prove he could win to make himself feel good, to prove he could get past people’s defenses and make them like him enough to give him what he wanted in spite of themselves. He had to make them love him. At least for a while. After he had what he wanted of them, it didn’t make any difference how they felt.

  Beth had been easy. Hell, she had used him as much as he had used her. She had been ready to get her own back against her husband overseas, ready for a little excitement and some of the rolling around in the hay she had gotten used to as a new wife. The other one—what was her name? Mary? Martha? No, Margaret, that was it—had been the pious type. Everybody knew that that kind was sometimes the hottest. She had been all giggles and coy smiles, pretending to be outraged when he had kissed her though she had liked it fine and given him all sorts of encouragement. He’d have gotten into her panties, too, all right, if there had been time.

  There hadn’t been.

  He still broke out into a cold sweat every time he thought of the night that summer had ended for him. His convertible had been in the shop, so he had borrowed his uncle’s car. He’d been riding around, drinking beer and trying to keep cool, him and Boots and two or three others. They had found the sawed-off shotgun under the car seat where his uncle kept it, what with things being so unsettled with the civil rights mess. It was Boots and one of the other idiots who had started playing around with it, yelling about going down in the woods to spotlight rabbits and deer.

  When the truckload of blacks had overtaken and then passed them, they had all thought it was a big laugh to wave the gun at them and give chase. It hadn’t seemed such a bad idea to Edison, either. The driver of the truck had been that brassy Yankee bitch. He had put a move on her one night at the movies, and she had called him a white-assed mama’s boy and told him to run along home. It had felt fine to put a scare into her, to show her he wasn’t as wet behind the ears as she thought.

  They had gone after the truck, and the bitch at the wheel had tried to lose them by flooring the accelerator. They had chased the truck up hills and around curves on two wheels, down back roads, and up and down the streets of the residential section on the edge of town. Then the Yankee woman had gotten tired of running. She had brought the truck to a squealing halt, backed it up, swung it around in a tight turn, and headed it toward his uncle’s car. She had damn near run them off the road, sitting behind the wheel grinning fit to kill. The boys in the car had cussed and yelled, and he had turned around in a cloud of dust in somebody’s front yard, then given chase again. Once more, the bitch had turned the truck around, coming toward them.

  Somebody had yelled, “Shoot at ‘em! Make ‘em duck! That’ll make ‘em grin out of the other sides of their faces!”

  The shotgun had been shoved into Edison’s hand since he would have the best shot at the driver. He had held the thing awkwardly in one hand, steering with the other, as he waited for the truck to come closer. He had seen the brassy civil rights bitch’s face in the glare of his headlights as she laughed at him. He had raised the barrel of the gun and pulled the trigger.

  He had meant to shake her up. That was all, as God was his witness. He hadn’t even aimed at her, not really. But the oncoming truck’s windshield had exploded into a thousand pieces and the woman’s face had sprayed blood. The truck had veered off the road and across a lawn before slamming into the side of a house.

  Edison had stomped down on the accelerator and gotten out of there, gotten clean out of town and into the country. The boys in the car had cussed and screamed at each other. It had been Boots who had directed Edison down past the Benson house and onto the old logging road that led to the pond. Most of the boys, including Boots, had gotten out there and walked home.

  Edison had just sat there in the car for a long time, until his hands stopped shaking. Finally he had driven back to his uncle’s house and parked the sedan in the garage. He had taken the shotgun and cleaned it carefully, then put it back where he had found it. When that was done, he had let himself into the house, fallen into bed, and dropped instantly into a soundless sleep.

  Beth’s death, on top of the other one, had torn him up as nothing had before or since. He had looked at her, lying so waxen and lifeless in her coffin and, knowing his child had died with her, been wrenched by guilt. He had thought he was drowning in pain, more pain than he ever wanted to feel again, more than he would ever allow himself to feel again. It was little Rebecca—Riva—who had taken him out of it.

  He had driven her home from the funeral home that night, and they had sat out in front of the house in his car for some time. They had talked of Beth and how she had been, how much she had enjoyed living, how terrible it was that she was gone. They had both cried a little and comforted each other until Edison had nearly convinced himself that he had loved Beth a little and was devastated at her loss, just as he told Rebecca. They had rambled on in that vein until he had gotten a hold of himself, until he had noticed the way Beth’s little sister’s breasts lifted under her blouse and caught the fragrance of her hair. He had become so engrossed then in the way she looked and how much he wanted to reach out and grab her that he had ceased to pay any attention to what she was saying.

  Then he heard.

  “What?” he said, and the word sounded stupefied to his own ears.

  “I said,” she repeated, “do you think I was right not to tell the federal men about the car I saw going down to the pond? Do you think I’ll get in trouble for keeping quiet?”

  Christ. He had to think. He sat up straighter. “Who—who else have you told?”

  “Nobody. At first I didn’t think too much about it. Since then, there hasn’t been time, what with Mama in the hospital and Bethie—well, there just hasn’t been time.”

  “What about Margaret?”

  “She wasn’t there. I got up to see about Beth by myself. But I know the car had something to do with that woman being shot, now that I think about it. Whoever was in it was in too big of a hurry, and they’re sayi
ng it was last seen heading south, toward our place. I’d hate to think there was something I could do to help catch the ones who killed her but just stood by and did nothing.”

  “You don’t really know that there was a connection between the car and the—the killing. It was probably a couple out looking for a place to park.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but something about the way that car took off down into the woods bothers me.

  He made an airy gesture in the darkness. “Forget it. Ten to one, the whole thing will blow over. It’s best not to get too involved with the government.”

  “You really think so? That’s your—your legal opinion?”

  His legal opinion. God, wasn’t that sweet? She already thought of him as a lawyer. “That’s it,” he said, and sat up in the seat, stretching so that when he relaxed again his arm lay along the seat behind her. He couldn’t depend on her to accept what he said without question, so it would be just as well if she had other things to think about.

  He leaned toward her, inhaling the warm sweetness of her that was made up of sunshine and starched clothes, a trace of apple-blossom cologne, and the headiness of young female. She turned her head to look at him in the darkness. The light gleaming from the bare bulb in the porch ceiling of the house caught in her wide eyes. For an instant, Edison felt a shaft of purest terror. Her look was so full of sorrow and innocent wisdom that it was as if she could see right through him.

  He had to close those eyes. He pressed his mouth to the fresh curves of her lips, which were as gentle and moist as a child’s. He put his hand on her breast, squeezing the soft yet firm flesh under the cloth; there welled up in him the hot urge to take her quickly, roughly, on the car seat.

  He didn’t do it. He didn’t because she pushed away from him.

  “I—I thought you loved Beth.”

  “I do, I did. But you’re so much like her it’s almost like having her back again. Except that you’re something more, something so sweet and precious that I know you could make me forget.”

  “Forget Beth?”

  Her tone held horror. He had to say something quick. “No, no, never that, but you could help me bear the pain and the shame.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers with a sigh that was not entirely faked. When she did not draw away, he kissed her again, slowly, thoroughly.

  This time she was less abrupt. Still, she dragged her lips from his and eased away from him, then got out of the car. He opened the door on his side and stepped out to join her, walking her to the front door. There was plenty of time, he told himself.

  There had been. He had gone with her to the funeral, standing with his head bowed, penitent, in the sun. He had driven with her to bring her mother home from the hospital and stayed to entertain the older woman and help Rebecca and Margaret cook supper. He had stayed in town, in fact, until it was past time for his classes to begin at Tulane, and still he could not bring himself to go.

  He had been afraid.

  He had been afraid of what Rebecca knew and of what she could see inside him when she looked into his eyes. He had been afraid of what she might say if he wasn’t around to stop her, afraid of what she might tell her mother or her sister that would set the police on his trail and take away his future. And he had wanted her as he had never wanted anything in his life. He had wanted her not only because she was something sweet and somehow special, but because if she gave herself to him it would show she trusted him, liked him, did not think him too terrible to love.

  One night he had been so terrified that, instead of taking her home after they had been to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream sundae, he had turned the car down the logging road and parked beside the pond. Turning to her, he had said the words that had been hovering on the end of his tongue for days.

  “Marry me.”

  “Oh, Edison, you don’t mean it. You have years more of college, and I—”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m only fifteen.”

  “Old enough,” he said, and kissed her, tasting her lips as if they were candy with a soft center hidden inside her mouth.

  “Mama will never sign the papers,” she murmured when she could speak.

  “We can go across the state line. There’s no waiting period in Arkansas; they don’t even ask for birth certificates.”

  “But Mama would be so hurt, so surprised. It might kill her.”

  “She’ll be a little hurt at first, but you know she likes me, and she’ll be glad to think you’re settled with a lawyer for a husband.”

  “Margaret would have to take care of her alone.”

  “Margaret’s a born martyr; she’ll love it. Besides, she’s going to marry Boots any day now, and they can live with your mother.” He punctuated his arguments with kisses and caresses. He could feel the swift beat of her heart in her chest like the struggles of a small, trapped animal. Under his hand the nipple of her breast was firmly budded. He could sense the curiosity under her confusion. Girls were always curious.

  He whispered love words without knowing what he said, distracted by the urgent throbbing of the member between his legs. With one hand, he unbuttoned his shirt, then took her hand and pressed it to his hairy chest, smoothing her palm over it until she began to explore on her own.

  How small her waist was, yet how full and soft her breasts. Though there was wiry strength in her, she seemed so slim in his arms that he had the feeling he could take her without too much effort. Regardless, he was afraid to frighten her, did not, in truth, want to frighten her. Sweet, sweet, she was the sweetest little cherry he had ever tasted.

  As he opened her blouse, her breasts made him catch his breath, they were so pink and blue-white and perfect. He ached with appreciation as he took the nipples into his mouth one after the other. The soft little sounds she made maddened him so that he sucked too hard and made her cry out, then had to soothe the pain.

  The skin of her thighs was so silky on the inside. She was so small, yet so warmly moist under her panties. There were some soft protests that had to be overcome at that intimate touch, but he knew how, knew where to rub, gently, gently.

  Tight, she was so tight, so perfect. He felt inflamed, his brain on fire. And the steering wheel was gouging his back. Catching his breath, he pulled her up from where she was lying half under him on the seat. He opened the door on his side and helped her out, then leaned the seat forward and urged her into the backseat of the car.

  “Edison, no,” she whispered, trying to turn away. “I…don’t want to do this. Take me home. Please.”

  He knew just how much attention to pay to such last-minute objections. He pushed her inside. She stumbled, then fell across the seat. He slid in beside her, slamming the door after him. Then he reached for her and fastened his mouth on hers while searching for the open front of her blouse. He cupped her breast, then bent his head to suckle at the nipple.

  Her breathless protest destroyed his control. He thrust her back, fumbling under her skirt and pushing it up with his arm even as he dragged her panties down her legs. With his knee across hers, he unfastened his own zipper and pushed down his pants and briefs. Then he was upon her, nudging his knee between her legs, spreading her, positioning himself at that small, diamond-shaped opening. With a hard thrust, he pushed inside. He heard her cry out, felt her arch under him trying to shudder away. He paid no attention, intent only on the hard throb of his blood and the tight, engulfing heat of her. He shoved deeper, twisting his hips, shivering with pleasure. Unable to stop himself, he bucked and rammed then, thrusting, pushing her legs wider, her knees higher, until with a harsh, rasping grunt he buried himself in her depths.

  It was moments later before he realized she was shaking as if with a chill, her chest heaving with suppressed tears. For a fleeting instant, he felt like a bastard, then it was gone. He petted her and gave her his handkerchief and whispered apologies and all the other words he knew she wanted and needed to hear. He helped her straighten her clothes and he
r hair, when all he really wanted to do was snatch up her skirt and have her again. Finally he held her arm while she climbed back into the front seat, then took his place beside her and revved the engine. He turned the car around, heading out away from the pond. Reaching out, he put his arm around her, held her close against him on the seat. At the main road, he turned in the direction of Arkansas. There was no more argument.

  Edison Gallant, standing in a hotel suite in New Orleans, took another long drink of his bourbon. He had taken care of the danger Rebecca, dear Riva, had posed to him once, and he could do it again. It would tickle the hell out of him, in fact, to go about it in the same way. The high-and-mighty Mrs. Staulet would learn the mistake she had made in trying to jack him around. Just thinking about it gave him a hard-on.

  Behind him, Anne emerged from the bedroom. She had taken a bath and put on a rose silk robe with matching slippers. She was flushed and carried the scent of the Chloe bath powder she used. She did not look at him but kept her lashes lowered and her face expressionless.

  Edison’s mouth hardened. He hated that withdrawn act, and Anne knew he hated it. It reminded him of his mother, who always used to retreat into coldness when she was annoyed with him. His wife ought to have known better than to ask stupid questions. If she didn’t like the answers she got, it was her own fault.

  He drained the glass in his hand and moved to the credenza to replenish it. He looked over his shoulder at Anne, who had picked up a magazine. His voice neutral, he said, “Riva Staulet is a stunning woman, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.” The answer was cool.

  “She has it all; looks, a first-class business head from all accounts, high social standing, and now money since old Staulet packed it in.”