Deep Water (32 page)

       On his second visit to the Mellers, Horace turned him away at the door. Stephen Hines gave him a lecture on the English principle of law that a man is innocent until he is proved guilty, and on its deterioration in America because of unlettered, base-minded persons like Havermal.

       Melinda informed Vic that the airlines had been checked and that Tony had not taken any plane. But Cameron had bought two tickets. Havermal had found that out, and also the fact that they were under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Cameron. "He might have turned his ticket in and bought another ticket under another name," Vic said.

       "No, he couldn't," Melinda said triumphantly. "You have to have a Tourist Card to get into Mexico, and they look at the card before the plane leaves New York. Tony told me."

       Vic smiled. "Remember the story the Cowans told us when they went to Mexico a couple of years ago? Evelyn had lost her birth certificate and they hadn't time to get one for her, so they just told the clerk at the Mexican Consulate their names, and he wrote out Tourist Cards for them without asking for any identification at all. That Tourist Card business is just a way of mulcting three dollars, or whatever it is, from every tourist who enters Mexico. Otherwise they'd let you in on an ordinary passport just as any other country does."

       Melinda had no retort to that. She seemed restless and troubled, and there was an air of defeat about her as Havermal's stay in Little Wesley dragged on to a week. Havermal had exhausted everything there was to try. He had cruised the countryside around Wesley, Melinda said, in a radius of the distance a car could travel and still get to Ballinger in about thirty-five minutes. Vic did not know whether he had discovered the quarry or not—he must have used a map of the district, but Vic knew that some maps did not show the quarry—and this time Vic did not push his luck by asking Melinda if he had. It had rained heavily twice since Havermal had been in Little Wesley. There were rust stains on some of the flat rocks around the quarry where pieces of equipment had lain or were still lying. It would probably be hard to decide which stains were from blood and which from rust. It was incredible, Vic thought, that Havermal had not looked at the quarry by now, but perhaps he hadn't. He seemed to be spending a good half of his time cruising the roads, as Melinda said, and perhaps beating the underbrush for a body.

       Havermal made one more call on Vic at the printing plant. He had nothing more concrete to throw at Vic than some critical statements that Don Wilson had made. "Don Wilson thinks he's got your number. He thinks you killed De Lisle, too. It's pretty funny when a guy with a strong motive in both cases happens to be the last guy two 'dead' guys are seen with," said Havermal.

       "You mean you've found Cameron's body?" asked Vic, wide-eyed, but really Havermal didn't even inspire him to get any fun out of the interview.

       "Yeah, we found the body," Havermal said, watching Vic so pointedly that Vic knew it wasn't so, but he followed through with an ingenuous:

       "'Where'? Why didn't you say so?"

       Insolently, Havermal made no answer, and after a few seconds went on to something else. When Don Wilson came up again, Vic said with a gentle smile:

       "Don Wilson had better watch out. I could certainly sue him for libel, and I don't think he could afford it. His wife's very sweet, don't you think?"

       "And dumb," Havermal commented.

       "Well," Vic said, still affable, “I don't think you'll get much out of the people up here if you go around insulting them."

       "Thanks," Havermal said in the tone of a honking goose.

       "I'd like to thank you for one thing before you leave Little Wesley," Vic said, "and that is for showing me how solid the community is in—well, liking me. Not that I've even striven for the approval of the community or particularly craved it, but it's awfully nice to know it's there."

       Havermal left not long after that, without even a parting shot at him. Vic picked up the two cigarette butts that Havermal had ground out on the floor and dropped them in his wastebasket. Then he went back into the printing room. He was in the middle of arranging a dried skeleton of an oak leaf and a flattened basket worm's cocoon in a graceful composition to serve as a colophon beneath one of Brian Ryder's poems.

       Vic had another demonstration of community loyalty that evening. Hal Pfeiffer, editor of Wesley's 'New Wesleyan', called him to say that a detective named Havermal had been into his office to give a slanderous account of an investigation he had been making in regard to the Cameron case and the part in it "possibly" played by Victor Van Allen and his wife, had offered his story ostensibly at local news, and Mr. Pfeiffer had given him short shrift and had shown him the door.

       "I've never met you, Mr. Van Allen, but I've heard about you,'' said Mr. Pfeiffer over the telephone. "I thought I'd tell you about this in case you were possibly worried about any such thing as this happening. The 'New Wesleyan' doesn't want anything to do with characters like Havermal."

       Vic reported that to Melinda.

       There was even a story from Vic's cleaners. When Vic went iii to pick up some clothes that were ready, Fred Warner, the manager, leaned over the counter and whispered that "that detective" had been in to have a look at any of Victor Van Allen's clothes that had been brought in lately. The detective had found a pair of trousers with blood on them, but Mrs. Van Allen had been with him, and she had explained, Warner said, that the trousers were stained with Vic's own blood, because he had cut his head one evening.

       "The bloodstains were all on the back part of the pants," Warner said, chuckling, "on the top part. Easy to see it was a couple of drips from a head accident, but you should've seen how disappointed that detective was! He's a real bloodhound—just not a very good one, eh, Mr. Van Allen?"

       And then Havermal suddenly left.

       The whole town seemed to give a sigh of relief, Vic thought. People on the streets seemed to smile more, to smile at each other, as if to say that their solidarity had defeated one more detested outsider. Parties broke out. Even the Petersons invited Vic and Melinda to a party at which Vic met several people he had not met before, people who treated him with a great deal of respect. At this party—composed of people whom Melinda would ordinarily have tried to look down on—it first came to Vic's notice that Melinda was changing. She was not particularly warm or charming as she had been at parties after the De Lisle incident, but she smiled, even at him, she made no grimaces over the punch which he knew she loathed, and she did not insult anybody, as far as Vic knew. It set off some disjointed speculations in Vic's mind. She wasn't behaving herself to offset a bad public opinion of him now, because there wasn't any need of it. Was she simply tired of pretending to be sullen, worn out from emanating hatred? Hatred was a tiring emotion, but Melinda had nothing else to do with herself. Was she possibly pleased because he was rather a guest of honor at the Petersons' party? But she had never been pleased by anything like that before. Vic even wondered if she were in a conspiracy with Havermal to get him off guard and then spring some evidence that they hadn't yet told him about. But no, he had an overwhelming conviction that Havermal had shot his last bolt in Little Wesley and missed. There was nothing gloating about Melinda these days. She was just a bit sweeter, softer. Thinking back, Vic could recall even a few smiles from her at home. And she hadn't been to see Don Wilson for a week, Vic thought.

       "How's Don Wilson?" Vic asked after they came home from the Petersons' party. "You haven't mentioned him lately"

       "Did I ever mention him?" Melinda asked, but her voice was not belligerent.

       "No. I guess you didn't," Vic said. "Well, how is he? Business all right?"

       "Oh, he's stewing over something," Melinda said in a curiously preoccupied tone that made Vic look at her. She was looking at him from the living room sofa where she had sat down to remove her shoes. She was smiling a little. And she wasn't at all drunk. "Why'd you ask?"

       "Because I hadn't heard anything from him lately."

       "I guess you heard enough at one point. Havermal told me he told you what he'd said."

       "That wasn't the first time. I didn't mind."

       "Well—he didn't get anywhere, did he?"

       Vic looked at her, bewildered, though he kept his calm, pleasant expression like a mask. "He certainly didn't. Didn't you want him to get somewhere?"

       "I suppose I wanted to know the truth." She lighted a cigarette with her familiar arrogance, flinging the match at the fire. place and falling far short. "Don seemed to have some good theories. I guess they were just theories." She looked at him with a trace of self-consciousness, as if she didn't expect him to believe she meant it.

       He didn't believe she meant it. She was playing some kind of game. Slowly he filled his pipe, letting several moments pass during which she might have gone on. He was not going to go on, but neither was he going to walk out to his room immediately, which was what he wanted to do.

       "Well, you certainly were a hit tonight," she said finally.

       "David against the Goliaths. And little David won. Didn't I?" he asked with his ambiguous smile that he knew was still ambiguous to Melinda.

       She was staring at him and visibly pondering her next move. It was a physical one. She slapped her hands together, got up, and said, "What do you say we have an honest drink after all that pink lemonade? God, was it awful!" She started for the kitchen.

       "Not for me, Melinda. It's a little late."

       "Two o'clock? What's come over you?"

       "Sleepiness," he said, smiling as he walked toward her. He kissed her cheek. She might have been a statue, but her immobility was probably more surprise than indifference, he thought. "G'night, honey. I suppose Trixie's spending all day tomorrow at the Petersons', isn't she?" Trixie had gone to the Petersons' with Vic and Melinda, and around ten o'clock she had gone up to Janey's bedroom to sleep.

       "I suppose."

       "Well, good night." As he went out of the door into the garage, she was still standing there as if undecided whether to fix herself a drink alone or not.

       The next surprise Vic got came from Horace, who told him that Melinda had been over to see Mary and had "broken down" and said she was sorry for ever having said anything against Vic, that she regretted having shown herself such a fool and such a disloyal wife, and she wondered if she could ever live it down.

       "She said 'a fool in so many ways,' " Horace amended, trying to remember it all verbatim for Vic. "Mary even called me up at the lab to tell me about it."

       "Really" Vic said, for the second time. "I've noticed a change in her lately, but I never thought she'd come out with a repentance—and to Mary."

       "Well—" Horace seemed ashamed of his jubilant reaction. "Mary said she couldn't have been nicer yesterday. I tried to call you last night to see if we could get together, but you were out."

       "Melinda and I took Trixie to a movie she wanted to see," Vic replied.

       Horace smiled as if he were pleased to hear that he and Melinda had gone to a movie together.

       "I suppose things are looking up. You know, in just about two days, Horace, I'm going to have copies of the Ryder book and I'd like you to see it. You remember I told you I was using real feathers and leaves and insects to print from."

       "Of course, I remember! I thought I'd buy a copy to give to Mary as a Christmas present, if it was ready in time."

       "Oh, it'll be ready. I'll give you a copy for her. Apart from the feathers, the poems are pretty good, too."

       "I'll buy it. How's the Greenspur Press ever going to take in a nickel giving everything away?"

       "As you like, Horace."

       "Well, Vic—"

       They were standing on the corner of Main and Trumbull Streets, where they had run into each other. It was seven, dusk had come, and there was a chill mountain wind pouring on them from the east, an autumnal wind that made one—if one was in the right mood for it—feel vigorous and optimistic.

       "Well, I'm glad Melinda talked to Mary," Horace said. "It made Mary feel a lot better. She wants so much to like you both, Vic."

       "I know"

       "She can't feel quite the same about Melinda yet—but I'm sure it'll come."

       "I hope so. Good to see you, Horace!"

       They lifted a hand to each other and started for their cars. Vic whistled on the way home. He didn't know how long Melinda's beatitude would last, but it was nice to go home and find dinner started, the living room straightened, to get a pleasant hello and a smile.

Chapter 25

The third of December was Vic's birthday. Vic hadn't thought of his birthday until November 29, when he was calculating the day an order of sepia inks should arrive, and then he put his birthday out of his mind again, because he had heard no mention of it around the house. Two or three birthdays of his, in the past 'few' years, had gone unnoticed except by Stephen and Carlyle, who always remembered and gave him a present, either singly or together. On December 3, Stephen gave him a large and costly book of eighteenth-century English engravings, and Carlyle a bottle of brandy, which Vic opened at once and sampled with him.

       Then when Vic walked from the garage into the living room that evening, Melinda and Trixie and the Mellers greeted him with a roaring "'Happy Birthday!'". The table was aglow with candles, and there was a big pink-and-white cake on it with little pink candles to the number, Vic supposed, of thirty-seven. He pocketed the sleeping snail that he had just found on the garage doorjamb as he came in. There was a heap of presents at one end of the sofa.