“He was always in school of one sort or another even when we lived together.”
“That’s beside the point. I want the vacation time.”
“You or your father?”
“Don’t quibble, Rick.”
Rick sat down opposite her, his throat dry and an unwonted anger beginning to stir inside him.
“All right, Frieda. What exactly do you want?”
“I want Ricky. I want custody. So he can be with me—or Father, if you insist—when I want him.”
He stared at her an incredulous moment, hearing the cool concise phrasing and understanding every syllable. Yet even then he could not accept the statement. She had not moved, and her small face was smooth and unlined. Except for the fact that she was not dressed for the city she might have been sitting in her office discussing a book contract with a writer, as befitted her position as a partner in the book publishing firm of Brainard & Eastman—Brainard being her maiden name.
“Oh, no, Frieda,” he said.
“Naturally you’ll have reasonable visitation rights.”
“When it’s convenient for you.”
“Those are your words, not mine.”
He took a breath and glanced at the brandy bottle. He had to work this out without stripping his emotional gears, and yet he knew he could not match her assurance and present self-control because she was talking contracts and rights and he was talking about a twelve-year-old, tow-headed boy who was never very far from his droughts, a boy who returned his love and admiration and still thought his father was a real great guy.
He tried again, unaware that his inflection was growing caustic, not knowing that what he considered simply a lack of affection for his wife was in reality a well-developed dislike.
“Since when have you taken all this interest in motherhood?”
For the first time annoyance flickered in her blue eyes.
“What do you mean by that? I am his mother.”
“You bore him, if that’s what you mean. But what about the other things a child needs? He was three months old when I got back from France and even then you had a full-time nurse.”
“Why not? I could afford it then. Does that imply—”
He cut her off because the things in his mind could no longer go unsaid.
“Once he stopped being a baby how many times did you tuck him in bed or listen to his prayers or read to him or tell him stories? It was always me or the nurse, wasn’t it? From the time he could toddle you had him in nursery school. He came home to a nurse. You didn’t have the time; you couldn’t be bothered—”
“Oh, shut up!”
He stood up, avoiding her glance, knowing that her temper, like his, was getting frayed and unpredictable. He stepped to the table and poured some brandy into the glass, swished it absently and gulped it as if it were water.
Still holding the glass he stared out the window into the night, a moderately tall man with a lanky, loose-muscled look and straight dark hair that was sometimes stubborn. His brows were straight and black over the brooding brown eyes and his bony face was tight above the solidly set jaw. In those silent moments there was no outward movement of his body except the uncontrollable tremor in his hands, but he could feel the stiffness in his knees and an internal shakiness that spread out from the pit of his stomach. Finally he put the glass aside and turned back to his wife.
“Why, Frieda?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Why what?”
“The sudden possessiveness about Ricky? Because you know a divorce is important to me and you want to be vindictive—though God knows why you should be? Or is this your father’s idea? Does he want to mold the boy the way he tried to mold you?”
She had herself in hand again and her voice was clipped. “Do you think you and Nancy can give him a better home than Dad and I?”
He started to ask her just how often she expected to be at home and then reconsidered because her question had merit. Twice Nancy had driven with him to camp to see the boy and they had quickly formed a mutual admiration society. This much he knew, just as he knew that in his daydreams the past few months he had seen Ricky and Nancy in this house together; he had even planned the layout so that an extra room or two could easily be added.
“Perhaps not in material things,” he said. “But one thing we could give him that your father has never been capable of, and that is understanding and affection.… No,” he said as he moved away from the table. “No deal. Visitation rights are not enough, Frieda.”
“Very well.” She tucked her bag under her arm and straightened her back. “In that case you and Miss Heath will have to accustom yourselves to the idea of sleeping together without benefit of clergy. Not that you haven’t already tried it.”
He started for her as she finished; then stopped as she jumped to her feet to face him. The words that came to him died in his throat as a cold fury possessed him. In that instant he hated this woman and the cold bright glints in her eyes told him that hate was returned. He made one more effort to preserve his self-control.
“Then let’s fight it out the other way. There’s one ground for divorce in New York State, so let’s see whose skirts are clean.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, and for that instant her glance wavered. “Are you—”
“I mean I’ve heard things here and there and if this is the way you want it I’ll get some private detective and find out how accurate the rumors are. Let’s see what a judge will say about this custody business once the facts are in.”
“Try it!” she shouted, her voice shrill. “Just you try it.”
“I intend to,” he yelled, and took a breath, standing with, his face no more than a foot from hers, seeing the ugly distortion of her features and knowing his own expression must be equally twisted and stiff. “And if your conduct the past couple of years hasn’t been one hundred percent virginal—which I damned well doubt—”
She hit him then, an open-handed, swinging blow that caught him on the cheekbone, and for the first time in his life he retaliated.
There was no thought process involved. At that moment he was beyond thinking. He felt the sting of the blow and instantly his own hand moved in an instinctive reflex action, as automatic as a skilled boxer counterpunching.
He saw her head rock as his palm caught her cheek, watched her stagger off balance and sit down on the edge of the divan and then skid off to the floor. She landed in a sitting position and there she stayed, more bewildered, than hurt, her mouth open and her eyes incredulous.
For a long and silent moment as the shock immobilized them he stared down at her, horrified, the sickness rising in him as he realized what had happened. Then he wheeled and headed for the door as she found her voice.
The screams that followed him were hysterical, the words incoherent. He kept his eyes on the door, not daring to look back. Somehow he knew that if he listened or hesitated or tried to argue again the fury that possessed him might drive him to further violence.
It was fear that drove him on, the certain knowledge that he must get away before it was too late. He reached the door and stumbled into the night and the screams were muted. He passed the convertible and found the highway and turned left, his mind still tormented and the sickness rising in his throat.
He was vaguely aware that next door Tom Ashley’s house was dark and the garage empty. He was conscious enough of his surroundings to move to the side of the road when he heard an approaching car. He walked fast, driving himself in an effort to steady his nerves and erase the physical shakiness that still gripped him. When, finally, he could begin to think again he began to ask questions, some of them aloud.
Why? What happened that he could do such a thing?
Never before had he ever touched his wife in anger and it had not always been easy. There had been many scenes and arguments in his past, not so violent but equally devastating to his state of mind. Two or three times before she had slapped him when his rebuttals were
sound and her exasperation got the best of her. But this—
Was it because in earlier days his self-control was better and pride prevented any retaliation? Or was his forbearance due to the fact that never before had their contentions seemed so important? Was it the things she had said about Nancy, the inference made? The thoughts of his son and the deep-seated resentment of this new request for custody?
His steps slowed as reason returned and the shakiness disappeared. There were no conclusive answers to his questions and presently hope came again. What had happened was over. He was ashamed and he would apologize. Frieda might not forget, but the fact that she had come to discuss divorce indicated that she was interested. There could be personal reasons, quite aside from Ricky, where none had existed before. If so, a compromise was possible.
Suppose he agreed to custody during vacations, holding out for one month in the summer. That would be better than nothing. Ricky would be thirteen in another couple of months. In three years he would be sixteen, nearly a man, and by then he would have some choice as to where, and with whom, he spent his vacations. Such thoughts were mildly cheering and he stopped at the side of the road, seeing the string of moving lights in the distance and realizing this must be the parkway.
Then he thought of Nancy and the instructions he had given her.
Wheeling, he started back, legs stretching. He had no idea how long he had been walking, but he had an idea about how far he had come. Hurrying now in the still night air, he could feel the perspiration come and his shirt was damp beneath his belt. Rounding a curve a car coming toward him swung wide and he stepped from the macadam. Another car not far behind gave him more room, and when he glanced over his shoulder after it had passed he thought it looked familiar.
It was moving too fast for him to read the license plate and he had the vague impression that a man was driving. But it was a convertible like his wife’s. The general color scheme was similar, too, and as he plowed ahead, he hoped it was Frieda’s. For there was no telling what she might do when she was angry, and although he had told Nancy not to stop if she saw Frieda’s car, he did not want to encounter his wife again so soon.
He was panting slightly as he made the final turn into the straight stretch that led past his house. Ashley’s place was still dark and a minute later he could tell that the convertible was gone. There was only his small sedan in the driveway as he cut across the lawn to the front door.
As he turned the knob he hesitated, to glance back at his car to make sure Nancy was not in it and then he went inside and through the little entryway. At first glance he thought the room was empty and started to call out; then, his gaze lowered, he saw the crumpled figure on the floor in front of the divan.
The next long seconds had no place in Rick Sheridan’s memory then or later. What he did was automatic and without conscious thought because the conflict in his mind was too great.
In that first instant, as the shock hit him, he froze in his tracks, his body immobile and cold all over. He did not remember that he had left Frieda on the floor screaming at him; all he knew was that his car was outside, that the convertible was gone, that the woman on the floor had a white suit and blond hair.
There was no doubt in his mind. The first impression told him with a horrible certainty that Nancy must have come in while Frieda was still here and that Frieda, already gripped in a fit of fury and frustration, had killed her.
He wanted to cry out and his throat stayed closed. He put out a hand to steady himself. He pushed with that hand, forcing himself to move and, weak-kneed, he kept moving.
“Nancy!” he cried, his voice a ragged whisper. “Nancy.”
Then, somehow, he was on his knees, the wonderment growing in him that the white suit he had seen from the doorway was in reality not a suit but a dress. The hair was blond but not as long as Nancy’s. The face, in profile, was too dim.
Only then did he realize his mistake and know beyond all doubt that this was Frieda, and now, as some odd relief mixed with his horror, he saw the bruise on the throat, the scarf that had been cruelly twisted to leave a thin blue line in the skin.
The eyelids were closed and still. The distorted face had a bluish tinge beneath the tan, and the painted mouth was open. The straw handbag was open beside one outstretched hand, its contents spilled. It was when his glance moved on that the shadow of some movement caught the corner of his eye, and now, swiveling on one knee, he saw Nancy standing in the doorway to the inner hall, her eyes wide, her palms pressed hard against the sides of her taut white face.
Chapter 3
For the next few agonizing seconds there was no sound in the room and neither of them moved. Out on the highway a car raced past and the sound of a girl’s laughter drifted through the open door and served to break the spell that death had woven. Rick found he was holding his breath and let it out. He swallowed to loosen his throat.
“Nancy,” he said huskily. “My God, Nancy!” He pushed up from the floor and his knees were stiff. “Nancy,” he said again, his voice quiet now, and with that she uttered a small cry and ran to him and flung her arms about him and held on hard.
“Oh, Rick,” she wailed. “I was so frightened.” He could feel her tremble against him, hear the muffled sobs as she buried her face in his shoulder and reaction shook her. For a little while longer he did not know what to do or what to say. His glance came to the straw bag and he found himself checking the contents—the lipstick and keys and tissues; the cigarette case and gold lighter; the compact which had been jarred open to spill traces of powder on the rug.
Finally he took a breath and put his hands on her shoulders. He pushed gently and when she lifted her face he saw the dark lashes were matted and the green eyes wet. Still holding her shoulders he pushed her still farther from him and steadied his voice with an effort.
“What happened?”
“I—don’t know, Rick. There wasn’t any car outside and I thought—”
She swallowed and tried again.
“She was like that when I came in. I didn’t know what happened. I didn’t touch her but I saw her face.… Her face, Rick,” she said, her voice breaking again. “All twisted and blue and—”
“All right.” He made his voice sharp to blot out such memories and make her concentrate. “I know how you must have felt, but right now we’ve got to think. Come here.”
He led her to the nearest chair and pushed her gently back into it. He stepped over to the table and poured some, brandy into the clean glass. He told her to take a swallow and waited until she had obeyed.
“Now,” he said. “Think, darling. How long were you here?”
“Not more than a few minutes.”
“How many? Four, five?”
“About that.”
“Which way did you come from, the Sound side?”
“The other way.”
“You didn’t see anyone near here or any car?” He watched her shake her head, seeing the color coming back into her cheeks and aware from her frown that she was trying to think. “So you came in and found her just like that. You didn’t touch her. Was there anything else—”
He stopped as a peculiar look came into her eyes. “Maybe I just imagined it,” she said slowly. “But I was standing there looking down at Frieda and not knowing what had happened or why and I thought I heard something.”
He waited, some new tension intermingling with his thoughts. “Like what?” he said.
“Like—well, it might have been a door closing.… Please, Rick, I’m not even sure I heard it. I could have imagined it; I could have imagined almost anything the way I felt.”
“But you thought it was a door. Then what?”
“It sounded as if it came from somewhere out back and I started to look. I don’t know what made me. If I had stopped to think, if I’d had any sense, I would have screamed and run out the front door.”
Rick swore under his breath, not knowing whether all this was imagination or not but understanding that s
he had done a very foolish thing. In spite of himself his mind raced on to conjure up the frightening picture of what might have happened, and the question he asked had but one answer.
“You didn’t see anything? Or hear anything more?”
“I went down the hall to the back door. I didn’t dare look into the bedrooms. By then I was too busy telling myself it must have been my imagination. I was standing there by the hall doorway when I heard the front doorknob rattle and I didn’t stop to think it might be you. I didn’t know who it was. I just ran back into the bedroom.”
Rick understood this much, for he too had jumped to conclusions about the body on the floor when he found the convertible gone and his sedan standing in its place. Now, aware that this was not the time for speculation, he took the glass from Nancy and asked if she wanted more brandy before he put the bottle away.
“No.… What’re you going to do?”
“Call the police.”
“Yes, I guess you have to.” She stood up and took the bottle and glasses from him. “I can put that away. I’ll rinse the glasses.”
When he had been connected with the state police barracks he said what he had to say and then, as he put the telephone down, he realized that there was another call he had to make.
Frederick J. Brainard knew his daughter was coming here at nine. In the course of investigation the police would notify him. They would get his opinion of Rick Sheridan, would hear of a relationship that had been unfailingly unpleasant, would know why he wanted a divorce. Better then to tell him the shocking news by telephone and let him come tonight.
He had to look up the number and when he had his connection he had to identify himself before Brainard could be summoned. Even then Rick could feel the hostility in the blunt voice.
There is no easy way to break such news, no kind words to lessen the shock. Rick did as best he could, speaking hesitantly, using the words that came to him and hearing the spoken questions and reactions that were first unbelieving, then suspicious, and finally crushed.
“But strangled,” Brainard said when he could accept the fact that his daughter was dead. “How could this happen? Who did it?”
The Third Mystery Page 17