"I've a bottle of something awfully good in the kitchen. Calvados. My son gave it to me. Wouldn't you like to sample it?"
And Vic was unpleasantly reminded of the extra pieces of cake that pitying hostesses used to force upon him. He smiled and said, "Thanks very much, my dear. I'm on the water wagon these days."
The butterfly net, which Vic had not held in his hand for years, reminded him of the pleasure he had used to find in pursuing butterflies around the brook behind the house. He thought he should do some more of it.
Twice Vic passed Don Wilson in town, once on the sidewalk and once when Vic was driving and Wilson was on foot. Both times Wilson gave him a sneaking smile, a faint nod, and what might have been described as a long look, and both times Vic had called out "Hi! How are you?" with a beaming smile. Vic knew that Melinda had been over to see the Wilsons several times. Perhaps Ralph Gosden had been there, too. Vic might have proposed asking the Wilsons to the house, except that they rather bored him, and besides he could feel that Melinda considered them her friends now, not his, and did not want to share them with him. Then one afternoon June Wilson came to the printing plant.
She came in shyly, apologized for coming unannounced, and asked Vic if he had the time to show her around the place. Vic said of course he had.
Stephen was standing at the press. He knew the Wilsons, and he greeted June with a surprised smile. Stephen did not stop his work. Vic took note of the way each had spoken to the other, looking for any coolness on Stephen's part, but he couldn't have said that he saw any Stephen was a very polite young man, however. Vic showed June a chase of Greek type, which he was going to make impressions of on tissue paper that afternoon and correct, showed her the storeroom, introduced her to Carlyle, and then they watched Stephen for a few minutes, until June evidently thought the proper length of time had passed, because she suggested that they go into his office. Once in there, June lighted a cigarette quickly, and said in a straightforward way:
"I came here to tell you something."
"What?" Vic asked.
"To tell you that I don't approve of what my husband is doing,
and that I don't think the way he does. And I—" Her thin hands worked with the leather cigarette case, tremblingly stuck the flap back into place to close it. "I'm very embarrassed by the way he's acting."
"What do you mean?"
She looked at him, her blue eyes wide and young and earnest. The sunlight through the window behind her burned like a golden fire in her short, curly hair. She was too slight and undernourished-looking to be pretty, in Vic's opinion, and he was not sure how intelligent she was. "You must know what I mean," she said. "It's terrible!"
"Yes, I've heard what he thinks—or what he's been saying. I can't say that it bothers me very much." He smiled at her.
"No, of course. I understand that. But it bothers me because—because it's unjust, and we haven't been in this town very long, and it's going to make people hate us."
"I don't hate you," Vic said, still smiling.
"I don't know why you don't. Well, people are beginning to hate Don. I can't blame them. He's talking to people who're your friends—some of them. At least they knew you well—most of them. When Don says what he does, people just—well, either they drop us then and there or they label Don as rude or cracked or something like that." She hesitated. Her hands were trembling again on the cigarette case. "I wanted to apologize to you—for my husband—and to tell you that I don't share his ideas at all on this matter," she said positively. "I'm very sorry and I'm also ashamed."
"Oh!" Vic said scoffingly. "There's no harm done. Except to your husband probably. I'm sorry, too, but—" he looked at her, smiling—"I think it's very nice of you to come here to tell me this. I appreciate it. I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help you?"
She shook her head. "I suppose we'll weather it."
"Who's we?"
"Don and I."
Vic walked behind his desk, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor, pleasantly conscious of the fact that his front was absolutely straight now, that there was no bulge at all below his braided belt. In fact, Trixie had had to take the belt back to school and shorten it by about four inches. "I wonder if you and Don'd like to come over for a drink some evening?"
June Wilson looked surprised. "Why, yes. I'm sure we would." Then she frowned. "Do you really mean that?"
"Of course I mean it!" Vic said, laughing. "How about tomorrow evening, Friday? At about seven?"
She was so pleased she was blushing. "I think that'll be fine. Well I'd better go. It's been awfully nice seeing you."
"I've enjoyed it, too." Vic walked out with her to the car, and made her a bow as she left.
That evening, when he came home, Melinda said, "So I hear you've asked the Wilsons over for a drink."
"Yes. You don't mind, do you?"
"Don Wilson doesn't like you, you know."
"So I hear," he said boredly. "I thought we might do something to correct that. They seem quite nice." And then Vic went out to get the power mower from the garage. Mowing the sprawling, informal lawn that bounded three sides of the house was his project that evening for the time between seven and dinner that had used to be the cocktail hour.
The Wilsons came at a casual twenty-past seven on Friday evening. Don made his greeting to Melinda in the same tone that he used to Vic, but his wife was not so secretive. She had a big smile for Vic. June took Vic's armchair, and Don chose the middle of the sofa where he sat slouched with his long legs crossed and out in front of him, a pose of exaggerated nonchalance. His expression was one of contemptuous amusement plus a look of having just noticed a bad smell. Also contemptuous, Vic supposed, were his unpressed trousers and his not very fresh shirt. His tweed jacket had leather elbow patches.
Vic fixed old-fashioneds—strong and with plenty of fresh fruit in them—and brought them in on a tray. Melinda and June were having a conversation about flowers that was boring Melinda terribly, Vic saw. He served the drinks all around, pushed the bowl of popcorn into the center of the cocktail table, then sat down in a chair and said to Don, "Well, what's new?"
Don sat up a little. The contemptuous smile was still there. "Don's working in his head," his wife volunteered. "He'll probably be very quiet tonight, but don't mind."
Vic nodded politely and sipped his drink.
"Nothing much new," Don said in his growly baritone voice. He was looking at Vic now as the women went on talking.
Vic slowly filled his pipe, aware that he was being studied by Don Wilson. It was amazing how June Wilson could go on and on about nothing. Now it was dog shows, whether Little Wesley ever had a dog show. Vic saw Melinda take a big gulp of her drink. Melinda had no talent for small talk with another woman. Don Wilson was looking the living room over thoroughly Vic noticed, and he supposed that an inspection of the bookcase would come soon.
"Well, how're you liking the town?" Vic asked Don.
"Oh, very well," Don said, his dark eyes glancing at Vic and away again.
"I hear you know the Hineses."
"Yes. Very nice people," Don said.
Vic sighed. He fixed a second round of drinks as soon as possible. Then he asked Don, "Have you seen Ralph Gosden lately?" "Yes. Last week, I think," Don said.
"How is he? I haven't seen him in quite a while."
"Oh, I think he's fine," Don said, a bit of a challenge in his tone now.
Vic felt sorriest for June Wilson. The second drink was doing very little to relax her. She was still making a great effort with Melinda, really going through a kind of fluttering agony, all in the name of social intercourse. Vic decided that the only way Don Wilson might loosen up was if he got him alone, because his wife had probably told him to be on his best behavior tonight, so Vic proposed a tour of the estate.
Don dragged himself up by sections, still wearing the insulting smile. I'm not afraid to take a turn around the grounds with a murderer, he might have been saying.
<
br /> Vic took him into the garage first. He pointed out his snails, and talked about their eggs and their babies with a malevolent fervor when he saw that Don was mildly disgusted by them. He talked volubly about their rate of reproduction and about prodding them in races he staged for his own amusement, making them go over razor blades stood on edge, though he had never tried racing them in his life. Then he told Don about his bed bug experiment and the letter he had written to the entomological journal, which they had printed, and the letter of thanks they had written to him in return.
"I'm sorry I can't show you the bedbugs, but I got rid of them after the experiment was over," Vic said.
Don Wilson stared politely at Vic's power saw, then at his herbs, then at the neat rows of hammers and saws that hung on a panel of the back wall of the garage, murderous instruments all, then at a small bookcase that Vic was in the process of building for Trixie's room. Don's face was betraying a certain surprise.
"Let me get you another drink!" Vic said suddenly, taking Don's glass from his hand. "Wait here. I'll be right back. You've got to see our brook!"
Vic was back in a few minutes with a fresh drink for Don. Then they started out for the brook behind the house. "This is where I sleep," Vic said as they passed his wing on the other side of the garage, though he was sure Don had heard about his separate quarters. Don stared thoughtfully at the curtainless windows. Vic discoursed for at least ten minutes on the glacial origin of a rise of ground behind the brook and of certain stones which he picked up from the brook's bed. Then he launched into the arboreal life around them. He was careful to keep his enthusiasm on the brink of hysteria, of aberration. Don could hardly have got a word in edgewise if he had wanted to.
Finally Vic stopped and said with a smile, "Well, I don't know if all this interests you or not."
"You must be a very happy man," Don said with sarcasm.
"I can't complain. Life's been very good to me," Vic replied.
He added, "I was lucky enough to be born with an income, which helps, of course."
Don nodded, his long jaw set. It was obvious that he hated people with incomes. Don took a swallow from his glass. "I wanted to ask you something tonight."
"What?"
"What do you think killed Charley De Lisle?"
"'What' do I think? I don't know. I suppose it was cramp. Or else he really did get into water that was over his head."
Don's dark-brown eyes bored into him, or tried to. "Is that all?" "What do you think?" Vic asked, teetering on a loose rock in the bank. He was on lower ground than Don, who towered now some five feet above Vic. Don was hesitating. No courage, Vic decided, not really any guts there.
"I thought you might have done it," Don said in a casual tone. Vic laughed a little. "Guess again."
Don said nothing, only continued to stare at him.
"Some people thought I killed Malcolm McRae, too, I hear," Vic said.
"I didn't." "Good for you."
"But I thought it was a very peculiar story to be spreading around," Don added, mouthing the word "peculiar."
"It's funny that so many people attached importance to it. I think Ralph Gosden was scared out of his wits. Wasn't he?"
"It's a funny thing for you to get so much pleasure out of," Don said unsmilingly.
Vic climbed the bank slowly, feeling very bored with Don Wilson."You seem to share an opinion with my wife that I killed Mr. De Lisle," Vic said.
"Yes."
"Do you consider yourself psychic? Can you see what isn't there? Or do you just have a writer's imagination?" Vic asked in a pleasant tone.
"Could you take a lie detector test that you didn't kill him?"
Don was becoming angry. The three strong drinks had begun to thicken his speech.
"I'd certainly be willing to," Vic said tensely. Whether his sudden tension was due to boredom or hostility he didn't really know. He thought it was probably both.
"You're a very odd man, Mr. Van Allen," Don Wilson said.
"You're a very rude one:' Vic replied. They were standing on even ground now. Vic saw Don's bony hand tighten around his empty glass and he would not have been surprised if Don had suddenly hurled it into his face. Vic smiled with a deliberate blandness at him.
"Mr. Van Allen, I don't care what you think of me. I don't care if I never see you again."
Vic gave a laugh. "That feeling is mutual."
"But I think I will see you again."
"You can't really avoid it unless you move." Vic waited. Don said nothing, only stared at him. "Shall we join the ladies?" Vic began to walk toward the house, and Don followed him.
Vic was sorry he had let himself speak sharply to Don—it wasn't really in character—but, on the other hand, one ought to be sensible occasionally, he supposed. It was sensible to let Don see that he could react with anger, normal anger, if he were sufficiently provoked. And as it was now, Vic could sense a subtle backing down in Don Wilson. For all Don's aggression, the evening was not going to him.
"How about you people staying for dinner?" Vic said affably to June Wilson as he and Don came into the living room. "Well—I think that's up to your wife," June said. "But I think—"
"Oh, I'll be glad to do the cooking," Vic said. "I think we've got a steak or two in there."
Melinda, sulking on the sofa, gave him no backing up, however, and Vic knew that dinner was out.
"I think we should be going home," June said. "I'm getting a little high." She laughed, managed quite a happy laugh. "Melinda told me you made this table, Vic. I think it's 'lovely."
"Thank you," Vic said, smiling.
"Sit down, Don," Melinda said, patting the sofa behind her. "Have another drink."
But Don did not sit down. He did not even reply.
"Say, where's Trixie?" Vic asked. "Didn't you say she went to a five o'clock movie, honey?"
Melinda sat up, a startled expression coming through the sullenness. "Oh, my 'God', I was supposed to pick her up in Wesley!" she said with unmaternal annoyance. "What the hell time is it?"
June Wilson tittered. "These modern mothers!" she said, putting her curly head back. She was nursing her last half inch of drink, and looked as if she would have been glad to stay there sipping and chatting all evening.
"It's eight-twenty-five," Vic said. "What time were you supposed to pick her up?"
"Seven-thirty," Melinda groaned, still not getting up from the sofa.
Vic noticed that Wilson was looking at her with gloomy surprise and disapproval. "Who's she with? Janey?" Vic asked.
"No-o. The Carter kids from Wesley. She's probably with them. She's probably all right or they'd have called us." Melinda ran her fingers through her hair and reached for her drink.
"I'll give them a ring in a couple of minutes," Vic said calmly, though his concern made quite a contrast to Melinda's indifference, and he could see that the Wilsons had taken notice of it.
The Wilsons were looking at each other. There was a silence of a whole minute or so. Then June stood up and said:
"We really must go. I can see you people have things to do. Thanks for the lovely drinks. I hope you'll come to our house next time."
"Thanks, Melinda," Don Wilson 'said, bending over the sofa. He and Melinda shook hands, and Melinda used his hand to pull herself up from the sofa.
"Thanks for coming," Melinda said. "I hope next time you come the house won't be in such an upset."
"Why, I didn't notice any upset," June said, smiling.
"Oh, it's one damned thing after another," Melinda said.
The Wilsons trickled out of the door, with backward glances from June and promises to telephone very soon. Vic was glad that June considered the cocktail visit a success, but she wouldn't, of course, after her husband had told her their conversation. Probably Don wouldn't tell her that conversation. He'd just tell her that he thought Vic Van Allen was cracked, judging from the snails in the garage and from his insane enthusiasm for glaciers.
"Doesn't he ever talk
?" Vic asked.
"Who?" Melinda had got herself another drink, straight on the rocks.
"Don Wilson. I couldn't get a word out of him."
"No?"
"No. Shouldn't I call up the Carters? What's his first name?" "I don't know. They live in Marlboro Heights."
Vic made the call. Trixie was fine and wanted to spend the night. Vic talked to her and made her promise to go to bed by nine o'clock, though he didn't think she would stick to it.
"She's fine," Vic said to Melinda."Mrs. Carter said they'd drive her over sometime tomorrow morning."
"What're you so merry about?" Melinda asked.
"Why shouldn't I be? Wasn't it a pleasant evening?"
June Wilson bores me stiff."
"Don bores me. We should've switched around. Say, it isn't very late. Why don't we drive over to Wesley and have dinner at the Golden Pheasant? Wouldn't you like that?" He knew she would, and knew she would hate admitting that she would, hate going with him instead of with some imaginary man, whom she was probably even then imagining.
"I'd rather stay home," Melinda said.
"No, you wouldn't," Vic said kindly. "Go and put on your blouse with the gold thread. I think the skirt is fine."
She was wearing a green velvet skirt, but as if to show her insolence toward him or perhaps June Wilson, she had topped the skirt with her old brown sweater, sleeves pushed up, and nothing around her neck. Comparable to Don's old trousers, Vic thought. He sighed, waiting for her inevitable turning away to go to her room, to put on the new blouse with the gold thread, just as he had suggested. Melinda swayed a little, her greenish eyes staring at him, and then she turned away, pulling her sweater over her head before she was even out of the room.
Why did he really do it, Vic asked himself, when he would have preferred staying home with a book? Or working on Trixie's bookcase? Patiently, with unflagging good humor, he tried to draw her out at the restaurant, tried to get a smile from her by describing twelve methods of summoning a waiter. Melinda only stared off into space—though she was staring around at other people, Vic knew. Melinda derived a great deal of pleasure from watching other people. Or was she looking to see if her detective was here? Not very likely, since he had proposed the Golden Pheasant and he didn't think the detective, if any, would trouble to follow their car at night. A detective would be hired to worm what he could out of their friends, he supposed. So far, no stranger had turned up in their set. Vic thought the Mellers or the Cowans would have mentioned a curious stranger if they had been questioned by one. No, Melinda was only staring at other people. She had a faculty which he really admired of being able to dream, to live vicariously for a while, in other people. He might have said something about this to her, but he was afraid that tonight she would take it as an insult. Or she would say, "What else can I do with the life I've got?" So he talked of something else, of the possibility of going to Canada before the weather got cold. They might make some arrangement for Trixie to stay with the Petersons for ten days, Vic said.
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