Deep Water (14 page)

       Vic went into the kitchen and scrambled an egg with cream for Melinda. He put a little curry powder in it, because she sometimes liked that on bad mornings. He brought it to her and sat down on the couch beside her. "How about a bite of egg?" he asked.

       No response. She took another sip of her drink.

       "It's got a little curry in it." He held some ready on a fork for her.

       "You go to hell," she murmured.

       Trixie came back in overalls, with her glider. "What's the matter?" she asked Vic.

       "Charley's dead, that's what's the matter! He's drowned!"

       Melinda yelled, getting up from the sofa. "And your father killed him!"

       Trixie's mouth fell open. She stared at Vic. "'Did' you, Daddy?"

       "No, Trixie," Vic said.

       "But he's 'dead'?" Trixie demanded.

       Vic frowned at Melinda. "Did you have to say that?" he asked her. His heart beat fast with anger. "Did you have to say what you did?"

       "You should always tell a child the truth," Melinda retorted.

       "He's dead, Daddy?" Trixie asked again.

       "Yes, he drowned."

       Trixie looked round-eyed at the news, but not in the least sorry, Vic thought. "Did he hit his head?"

       "I don't know," Vic said.

       "'No', he didn't hit his head," Melinda said.

       Trixie stared from one to the other of them for a moment.

       Then she went out the front door, in a quiet way, to play. Melinda went to the kitchen to replenish her drink—Vic heard her kick the bottom pantry door shut—then she came back and crossed the room and went into her own room.

       After a minute Vic got up and put the scrambled egg slowly down the sink with hot water. He thought he felt very much like Trixie. Something, he realized, must be holding back his reactions of guilt or horror at what he had done. It was very strange. Lying sleepless on the Cowans' sofa, he had waited for fear to come, for panic, for guilt and regret, at least. He had found himself thinking of a pleasant day in his childhood when he had won a prize in geography class for making the best model of an Eskimo village, using half eggshells for igloos and spun glass for snow Without consciously realizing it, he had felt absolutely secure. Secure from detection. Or was it that he believed he wouldn't be afraid if he were detected? He had such slow reactions to everything. Physical danger. Emotional blows. Sometimes his reactions were weeks late, so that he had a hard time attaching them to their causes.

       The telephone rang. Vic went into the hall to get it.

       "Hello?" Vic said.

       "Hello, Vic. This is Evelyn. I hope I didn't wake you from a nap?"

       "Certainly not."

       "How's Melinda?"

       "Well—not so well. She's having a drink in her room." "I'm sorry, Vic—about last night."

       Vic didn't quite know what she meant. "We're all sorry."

       "Dr. Franklin called us. They're going to have a coroner's inquest tomorrow in Ballinger at two-thirty and we're all supposed to be there. I suppose somebody'll notify you, anyway. It's in the courthouse."

       "All right. Thanks, Evelyn. I'll remember."

       "Vic—have you had any phone calls—about this?"

       "No."

       "We have. I—Phil didn't think I should say anything to you, Vic, but I think it's better if you do know. One or two people well, let's say one—said that they thought it was just possible that you had something to do with Charley's drowning. I don't mean they said it outright, but they implied it. You can imagine what I said. But I thought I should tell you that I do think there's going to be some whispering, Vic. It's too bad a lot of people noticed Charley and Melinda acting—you know as if they had quite a crush on each other. But a lot did, Vic."

       "Yes, I know," Vic said a little wearily. "Who was it who talked to you?"

       "I don't think I should say. It isn't fair, and it really doesn't matter, you know that."

       "Was it Don Wilson?"

       A slight hesitation. "Yes. You know, we don't know him very well, and he certainly doesn't know you. It'd be bad enough from someone who knows you, but he has no right whatsoever."

       Vic had hoped it was Don Wilson. He had hoped that was all Don Wilson had to say. "Let's let it go. He's got a bad chip on his shoulder."

       "Yes. Something's wrong. I can't say that I like him. I never did. We had them to the party just to be friendly, you know" "Yes. Well, thank you for telling me, Evelyn. Is anybody else saying anything—"

       "No. Certainly not like that, but—" The soft, earnest voice stopped and Vic waited again, patiently. "As I said, Vic, several people commented on the way Melinda behaved with him, asked me if I thought anything had been going on. I told them no."

       Vic squeezed the telephone in embarrassment. He knew very well that Evelyn knew better.

       "You know, Melinda's always getting these enthusiasms for people. Especially a pianist. I can understand it."

       "Yes," Vic said, marveling at the human capacity for self deception. It had become so much a habit for their friends to ignore, to wink at Melinda's behavior they could almost believe now that there was nothing to wink at. "How is Phil?" Vic asked.

       "He's still pretty shaken up. It's the first accident we've ever had in our pool, you know. And such a horrible one. I think Phil feels somehow personally responsible. It wouldn't take anything to make him fill the pool in, but I think that's a little unreasonable."

       "Of course," Vic said. "Well, thank you very much for calling me, Evelyn. We should all feel a little better after the inquest tomorrow It'll help settle everything. We'll see each other at two-thirty in Ballinger, I suppose."

       "Yes. If there's anything we can do today to help you, Vic—I mean with Melinda, don't hesitate to call us."

       "Right, Evelyn. Thanks. Bye-bye."

       "Good-bye, Vic."

       He had said that about the inquest's helping to settle everything with an absolute, unthinking confidence in his own safety, he realized. His friends would be there—Phil Cowan and Horace Meller and their wives. He trusted their confidence in him. But for a moment he questioned himself about Horace: Horace had been unusually quiet after they had dragged Charley out of the pool, and also in the kitchen. Vic tried to recall his expression—intense, shocked, and at the last he had looked haggard, but Vic did not think he had seen any shadow of doubt in his face. No, he could rely on Horace. Melinda might accuse him in front of the coroner tomorrow, but Vic really didn't think she would. It took a kind of courage that he didn't think Melinda had. Underneath all her wildness she was rather a coward and a conformist. She would know that all their friends would turn against her if she accused him, and Vic did not think she would want that. She might fly into a tantrum, of course, and accuse him, but if she did, everybody would know it was a tantrum and know why. If anybody examined her character, that was about the end of Melinda. He did not think Melinda would want to subject herself to a scrutiny of her private life.

       Vic came back from the plant a little before one on Monday, in time for a quick lunch and the drive to Ballinger before two-thirty. Melinda had spent the morning out—probably with Mary or Evelyn, Vic thought—because he had called her from ten o'clock onward to tell her about the inquest at two-thirty. She refused to eat any lunch, but she did not take a drink until just before they left the house at two. For all her sleep, there were circles under her eyes, and her face looked pale and a little puffy—appropriate for the mourning mistress of a dead lover, Vic thought. She did not reply to anything he asked her or said to her, so Vic gave it up.

       The inquest took place in the red brick courthouse on the main square of Ballinger. There were several straight chairs and two desks in the room, at one of which sat a male secretary who took down in shorthand everything that was said. The coroner's name was Walsh. He was a handsome, serious man of about fifty, gray-haired and erect. Everybody was present and punctual, the Mellers, the Cowans, himself and Melinda, and Dr. Franklin, who sat with folded arms. There were first the factual circumstances to be narrated and confirmed, and then everyone was asked if in his or her opinion the death was caused by accidental circumstances.

       "Yes," Phil Cowan replied firmly.

       "Yes," Evelyn said.

       "I believe so," said Horace, as firmly as Phil.

       "I believe so," Mary echoed.

       "Yes," Vic said.

       Then it was Melinda's turn. She had been staring at the floor. She looked up frightenedly at the coroner. "I don't know."

       Coroner Walsh gave her a second look. "Do you believe anything or anyone other than accidental circumstances was responsible for Mr. De Lisle's death?"

       "I don't know," Melinda said expressionlessly.

       "Have you any reason for thinking that any person is responsible for Mr. De Lisle's death?" he asked.

       "I know that my husband didn't like him," Melinda said, her head bowed.

       Coroner Walsh frowned. "Do you mean that your husband had a quarrel with Mr. De Lisle?"

       Melinda hesitated.

       Vic saw Phil frown with annoyance and shift in his chair. Dr. Franklin looked merely sternly disapproving. Evelyn Cowan looked as if she wanted to get up and shake Melinda by the shoulders and give her a piece of her mind.

       "No, they hadn't quarreled," Melinda said. "But I think my husband didn't like him just because I liked him."

       "Did you see your husband," Coroner Walsh began patiently, "make any move at all against Mr. De Lisle?"

       Another hesitation. "No," Melinda said, still staring with a curious shyness at the floor, though her naturally loud, clear voice had made the "No" sound very positive.

       Now the coroner turned to Dr. Franklin. "Doctor, in your opinion was Mr. De Lisle's death due to accidental circumstances?"

       "I have no reason to think otherwise," Dr. Franklin replied.

       Dr. Franklin liked him, Vic knew They had become very well acquainted when Trixie was born. Dr. Franklin hadn't the time or the temperament to be very sociable, but he always had a smile and a few words for Vic when they encountered each other in town.

       "You noticed no marks on the body that might indicate a struggle of any kind," the coroner said rather than asked. An atmosphere of general disapproval of Melinda was thickening in the room.

       "There were very faint red marks around his shoulders," Dr. Franklin said in a somewhat weary tone, "but these could have been made in pulling him out of the pool. Or perhaps during the artificial respiration which Mr. Van Allen administered."

       Coroner Walsh nodded deeply in confirmation. "I saw the marks. Your opinion seems to be the same as mine. And as far as I could discover there were no bruises on his head."

       "No," said Dr. Franklin.

       "And the contents of his stomach? Was there anything which might have caused cramp, any indication of cramp in your opinion?"

       "No, I can't say that there was. There was the smallest bit of food in the stomach, such as a small sandwich that might have been taken at a party. Nothing that should have caused cramp. But cramp is not always caused by food in the stomach."

       "Any alcohol?" said the coroner.

       "Not more than four-tenths of a millimeter of alcohol. That is, per one cubic centimeter of whole blood."

       "Nothing that should have given him any trouble," said the coroner.

       "Certainly not."

       "Yet it is your opinion that Mr. De Lisle's death was due to accidental circumstances?"

       "Yes," said Dr. Franklin. "That is my belief. The specific cause of death was drowning."

       "Could Mr. De Lisle swim?" the coroner asked the whole room.

       Nobody answered for a moment. Vic knew he couldn't swim well. Then Horace and Melinda simultaneously began:

       "From what I saw of him in the—"

       "He could certainly swim enough to keep his head above the water!" Melinda had found her tongue and her volume.

       "Mr. Meller," said the coroner.

       "From what I saw of him in the pool, he was not a good swimmer," Horace said cautiously. "This may or may not have any bearing on what happened, but I saw him clinging to the edge of the pool as if he were afraid to let go, and as Mr. Van Allen said before—confirmed by Mr. Cowan—Mr. De Lisle had said he found the water pretty cool." Horace gave Melinda a glance, not a kindly glance.

       "None of you heard any outcry?" the coroner asked for the second time.

       There was a chorus of "No."

       "Mrs. Van Allen?" the coroner asked.

       Melinda was twisting her white gloves in her lap, staring at the

       coroner: "No—but we couldn't have heard anything with all the noise we were making in the kitchen."

       "There wasn't so much noise," Phil said, frowning. "We'd turned the music off. I think we could have heard a shout if there'd been one."

       Melinda turned to Phil. "You don't hear a shout if somebody's pulled under the water suddenly and held there!"

       "'Melinda!'" Mary Meller said, horrified.

       Vic watched the next few seconds with a strange detachment. Melinda half standing up now, shouting her opinion at the coroner—and Vic felt a certain admiration for her courage and her honesty that he hadn't known she possessed as he saw her frowning profile, her clenched hands—Mary Meller rising and taking a few hesitant steps toward Melinda before Horace gently drew her back to her seat. Phil's long, handsome face scowling, and Dr. Franklin with folded arms, still maintaining his cool disdain of Melinda Van Allen that had begun, Vic knew, with her unreasoning demands and complaints of his treatment of her at the time of Trixie's birth. Melinda was repeating: