Читать книгу The Impetuous Mistress - George Harmon Coxe - Страница 8

RICK SHERIDAN never remembered too many details of the night he spent in the state police barracks. He told his story twice more and answered countless questions before a statement was typed and offered for his signature, and between such sessions there were times when he was left alone in the little office for considerable periods. Once a uniformed officer brought him a sandwich and coffee and later someone got him cigarettes from the machine in the hall. The sky was getting light in the east when they told him he could go, and as he passed the office at the front of the building Nancy called to him.

The furniture indicated that this was probably the office of the commanding officer but there was no one behind the desk at this hour, only Nancy and an attractive, dark-haired policewoman. They were having coffee and sitting close together in friendly fashion, and for a moment Rick just looked at them in open-eyed amazement.

“Nancy,” he said. “Have you been here all this time? I thought you were home hours ago.” He looked at the policewoman and continued indignantly. “What’s the idea of holding her here all night?”

“They didn’t, Rick.”

“She wanted to wait,” the policewoman said. “Would you like some coffee?”

Such cheerful hospitality took the edge from his concern and he mumbled his thanks as he refused. Nancy put her cup aside and stood up. “Thanks awfully, Alice,” she said and shook hands with the woman as though they were good friends; then she was walking out the door with Rick, her arm locked with his.

“She’s really very nice,” she said.

“Who?” said Rick, his thoughts on more serious matters.

“Alice. She told me about her work. Some of it sounds fascinating.”

He gave her arm a shake. “Look, baby,” he said, having no time for her impressions of Alice, “when did you finish? When did they say you could go?”

“About two or a little after. They asked a million questions, mostly the same ones over and over.”

“Did they offer to take you home?”

“Oh, yes. But I told them I’d rather wait for you.”

Rick shook his head. He sighed and let his breath out. To himself he said, What a girl. Aloud he said: “How did you know they were going to let me go at all?”

“I didn’t. They told me they didn’t know about that but I thought if they did let you out in time I’d rather ride to town with you. If they didn’t—well, someone has to deliver that True-Fruit art to Ted Banks this morning, and I could do it for you.”

They were at his car by then, and when he had opened the door he stopped to take her hands in his and smile down at her. When he saw the green eyes soften and smile back at him he sighed again.

“You’re wonderful,” he said. “I love you. . . . Get in. How about a shower and some breakfast?”

“I’d love it.”

In the light of day the living room showed obvious signs of the official invasion. Traces of dusting powder smudged the woodwork here and there, the ashtrays were filled to overflowing, and one wastebasket held a half dozen used flashbulbs. When Nancy started to straighten up Rick stopped her, saying he would call Mrs. Furman, the cleaning woman who came regularly three mornings a week.

“You can take your bath first if you still want it. I’ll get the coffee started and squeeze some oranges.”

During the night the breeze had shifted to the easterly quadrant, cooling itself before moving inland, and it was bright and pleasant at five minutes of eight as Rick drove up the ramp to the parkway. Little had been said since they left the house and presently Nancy voiced a thought that had been bothering Rick for some time.

“What are you going to do about Ricky?”

He could make no immediate answer to the question but he could see in fancy the camp buildings in the pine grove at the edge of the Adirondack lake. It was not the de luxe sort of camp that is advertised in some of the better magazines but it had been highly recommended by two of Rick’s friends, and he had been impressed by the man who had directed the camp for more than twenty years and by the number of college boy counselors who worked there each summer.

The values that Rick wanted his son to know were taught here in a simple and direct way and each camper had work to do. His allowance was limited and parental visits were discouraged except on Sundays; punishment, when necessary, took the form of additional chores and loss of privileges. His son had thrived on such a regime and Rick remembered the last Sunday that he had driven up there with Nancy, who had come bearing a gift.

When he had thanked her, Ricky had eyed the candy box curiously and then, glancing up, had asked if he could open it now.

“Of course,” Nancy said, and they watched him loosen the ribbon and lift the lid to find three layers of brownies neatly fitted inside.

“Boy,” he said joyously. “Brownies. Homemade, too.”

“Sure they’re homemade,” Rick said.

Then, as though aware of his obligations, Ricky extended the box. “Will you have one, Nancy?” he said, remembering that she had asked him to call her by her first name.

Nancy said no, that they were for him, and Rick, very proud now but finding a small lump in his throat, rumpled his son’s blond hair.

“Just be sure you share them with your tentmates.”

“Oh, sure, Dad,” the boy had said. “All the guys do.”

Rick’s thoughts jerked back to his problem when he heard Nancy’s voice. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I wasn’t listening.”

“I—I was wondering if you’d like me to tell him. I could get the day off and drive up there—”

“No,” Rick said. “I want to talk to him but he may be off somewhere. They’re always having projects of some kind up there.” He drove another silent mile and said: “I think I’ll talk to Pop Wayne, the camp director, first. He understands a boy’s mind better than I do and Ricky thinks he’s the greatest guy in the world.”

“Next to you.”

“And I can see what Pop says and then fix it so I can call back again and talk to Ricky.” He hesitated, his thoughts depressed and uncertain. “Right now I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t know when the funeral will be or what Mr. Brainard wants to do or whether I should tell Ricky to come or tell him to stay.”

“Couldn’t you—well, sort of leave it up to Ricky? He’s nearly thirteen.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“You can probably sense how he feels about it when you talk to him. It might be kinder to let him remember his mother the way he last saw her but I don’t think I’d be insistent no matter what he decides.”

They fell silent after that and it was not until they were on the outskirts of the city that he spoke of the other matter which could no longer be ignored.

“I’ve got to have help, Nancy.”

“About Ricky?”

“About me. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Unless the police find out who killed Frieda I may have to stand trial for murder.”

“I don’t believe it. How can—”

“And even if I don’t,” he said, ignoring the outburst, “I’ll always be under suspicion. Suppose they don’t try me? Suppose they don’t try anybody? The fact is, somebody did kill her. If this thing isn’t cleared up Brainard is going to keep on thinking I did it and got away with it. I certainly had good motives. People are going to keep wondering. How can Ricky be sure when he grows up? How would you like to be the wife of a guy whose first wife died in an unsolved murder?”

“But I know you didn’t do it.”

She hesitated, and a sidwise glance told him that the thought had frightened her.

“Your friends will know you couldn’t have done it,” she said, but her argument was more stubborn than convincing.

“We’ll go to parties and even if people aren’t wondering they’ll remember what happened. We’ll never know for sure what they’re thinking and it’ll always be there beneath the surface. And that’ll be the best that can happen. I may even be in jail tomorrow and—”

“Please, Rick,” she cried. “Don’t talk like that.”

“But it’s true.” He rapped the wheel with the heel of his hand. “So long as the police figure me as the prime suspect they’re bound to try to clinch the case. Let’s not kid about it. I’ve got to get something working on my side while I’ve still got time.”

She leaned back in the seat, shoulders slumping and her hands limp in her lap. After a while she said:

“Do you know anyone you can talk to?”

“I’ll call Neil Tyler, my lawyer, first and see what he says. I might as well get him prepared. Maybe he can recommend a good private investigator.”

“All right,” she said quietly. “And I can get time off from my job if there’s any way I can help.”

He put his hand on her knee and squeezed gently. “That’s better,” he said, and with the words, felt a little better himself.