Going Out in Style (13 page)

Janovy nodded. “How about the coat? Has it been examined?”

“Yes, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as we could see. The pockets were empty; nothing was missing from the coat itself. So what she said about not seeing something—”

“Doesn’t apply to something on the coat. All right, Fish. Thank you.”

Philip West said dryly, “Two murders and no clues?”

“That’s right, sir. Or next to no clues.”

“Any particular suspicions?”

“No, sir.”

Philip West regarded Detective Janovy with an appraising look. “Tell me about it.”

Philip West was the head of the Detective Bureau in the Ridgewood Police Department. He was a big barrel-chested man with a rumbling laugh. He was not laughing now. He listened thoughtfully as Janovy went over the case. When Janovy was finished, Philip West said,

“Look, Paul. You’re at a dead end right now. That doesn’t mean anything. You keep digging, and something will turn up. It always does. You’ve got a small group of people there, and remember, there are no murders without clues. No one is
that
clever.”

Janovy nodded, but inside he wondered to himself. Was that invariably true? He had a feeling he was dealing with someone who was cleverer than most.…

Harold was jumping rope on the back porch. “One hunnerd one,” he said in triumph. “One hunnerd two, one hunnerd three—”

Susan came to the back door and said, “That’s enough, Harold. It’s time for lunch.”

“One hunnerd six, one hunnerd seven—”

“Harold!”

“One hunnerd nine, one hunnerd ten …”

Susan held the door open and Harold skipped in, his cheeks flaming red from the cold and the exercise. “One hunnerd
twelve
,” he crowed, and put the rope away. “One hunnerd twelve, Mommy!”

“That’s wonderful, dear.”

Over lunch, which consisted of a peanut butter and banana sandwich with a big glass of grape juice, Harold stopped his loud chewing and said, “Mommy?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You know the night that Granny was killed?”

Susan leaned forward and touched his arm gently. It was the first time he had spoken of it. “Yes, dear?”

“I was listening at the door when you were talking to that detective about it,” he said frankly.

“Oh,
Harold
!”

“And I don’t remember Aunt Dora coming over that night.”

“The night Granny died?”

He nodded solemnly.

Susan stared at him, puzzled. “Oh, don’t be silly, Harold. Of course she did. It was a few weeks ago, anyway. Why should you remember?”

“Well, I don’t remember it.”

“Your Aunt Dora visits us all the time, darling. How could you remember whether or not she was here that particular night?”

“Well … I guess not.”

Susan poured him more fruit juice, but he pushed the glass away. “Can I jump rope some more?”

“All right. Whatever you want.”

Harold ran to the corner for the rope, then skipped off madly down the hall, chanting (with a shocking lack of veracity that would have disqualified him from any official jump rope competition), “One hunnerd
thirteen
, one hunnerd
fourteen
 …”

Susan remained at the kitchen counter, her forehead furrowed.

*      *      *

“Jessie, we have to put our thinking caps on.”

“What do you mean, Gretch?”

“I mean, we have to put our heads together and think everything over very carefully. We were
there
the other day, weren’t we? There must have been something—some clue or another that one of us saw—”

“Like what?”

“It could be something very minor,” Gretchen said. “Like somebody left the room for a minute and came back with their face all flushed, or acted a little oddly—”

“I don’t think anybody would do that,” Jessie said unexpectedly. “If you committed a murder, wouldn’t you try to act just as normal as possible afterwards?
I
certainly would.”

“Yes—I see what you mean. Well, that’s no help then.”

“Unless we can think of somebody who was acting
more
normal than usual.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Jessie. That doesn’t mean anything. Now, let’s put two and two together … we know that neither of
us
did it—”

“I should hope not!”

“And we know Albert didn’t do it—”

“Of course he didn’t!”

“So who does that leave? Just Susan and George. And Aunt Etta, of course, but she never left the room.”

Jessie was thoughtful. “Why … why, you know, Gretch, that’s right. It must have been either Susan or George. Who else could it be?”

“And it couldn’t be George,” Gretchen drove on relentlessly, “because he wasn’t even in town when Bella was killed. So we’re left with Susan.”

“Yes …” said Jessie doubtfully. “Unless they’re in it together, you know, Gretch.”

“You mean Susan killed her mother, and then George killed Mrs. MacGregor?”

“Yes … yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Yes. How clever of you, Jessie. We don’t have any proof,” said Gretchen, “but you know, I’m
positive
that’s it!”

On the other side of town, the two people being accused of murder at that very moment by Gretchen and Jessie were sitting playing a quiet game of Go Fish. George had come over for dinner—a meal which he had prepared by himself, since Harold was in a bad mood and was acting up. There had been a scene when it came time for Harold to go to bed, but after half an hour of screamed protests, with Susan hovering anxiously over him, he had dropped off to sleep abruptly, looking like an angel with his arms wrapped around his teddy bear. Now George and Susan, exhausted, were playing the only card game that both of them knew.

“Harold’s been awful lately,” Susan said. “Yesterday he practically accused me of lying to the police about Dora’s being here the night Mother was murdered. Do you have any aces?”

“It’s been hard for him since your mother died,” said George. “Dora was here, wasn’t she? Go fish.”

“Yes, in fact, she was, Georgie. What do you think? Do you think I killed my mother?”

“No, no, Susie. Don’t get upset. It’s just with these murders and everything … well, it’s an uneasy feeling, isn’t it?
Somebody
we know did it. Do you have any fours?”

“Go fish,” said Susan unsympathetically. “How do they know that? Maybe it was somebody from the outside. A crazy person. Why don’t they ever consider that? Here.”

There was an exchange of cards.

“Susan, honestly. It was somebody at that party. You know it was. Do you have any kings?”

“No, Georgie. Go fish.”

George fished.

“I think I’m doing pretty well here,” said Susan a little while later. “Do you have any sevens?”

“Go fish,” said George, eyeing her cards. “You
are
doing well. Any jacks?”

“Go fish. You know, sometimes I worry about us, Georgie. Why can’t we learn any more sophisticated card games? Do you know any other adults who still play Go
Fish? Why can’t we learn bridge or poker or blackjack or something? I learned this game when I was five.”

“Here’s a jack,” said George in triumph. “Look out, Susie. Do you have any eights?”

Susan looked disgruntled and handed them over.

“I win,” said George. “There’s something about its simplicity that’s appealing, don’t you think? The game, I mean. What do you say, shall we play again?”

“Oh, sure. Why not?”

George won two more games, and Susan won one. She leaned back in her chair and said, “I’m exhausted, Georgie. Totally drained. Too much Go Fish gets to me, you know, like a drug. Want some coffee or something?”

“Sure.”

Over coffee and cake, George said, “Listen, Susie, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Philo Harmonia is planning a concert in Hartford next weekend, and we’re going to play that new piece I’ve written—you know, the string quartet. It’s going to be the second half of the program. Will you go with me? Albert’s welcome, too, if he wants. Please, Susie. You know I wrote that piece for you.”

“Oh, all right, fine. I’ll ask Albert if he’s busy.”

George’s face broke into a big smile. “Good. Good. I’ll get you free tickets.”

Susan did not say anything, but she wondered how they had the audacity to charge the viewing public for tickets. Philo Harmonia was not, after all, the New York Philharmonic. She looked at George, who was humming to himself and happily dripping coffee all over his shirt. The shirt was so old and wrinkled that somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Susan sighed. Was she doing the right thing? After all, she already had a son. George needed somebody to look after him almost as badly as Harold did.
It wasn’t as if Harold actually
liked
him or anything. Of course, Harold always hated any man she brought home for his inspection. Nobody was good enough. George was the best of what, she admitted to herself in retrospect, had been a sorry lot.

Unbidden, the thought came to her,
But I don’t have to marry anyone now … I’m rich … I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do
.…

She was horrified at herself. What was she going to do, toss poor George on the scrap heap just because she had come into some money?

Inside, however, the voice whispered,
It’s not just some money … it’s sixty-four million dollars … sixty-four million dollars
.…

Somehow she had never thought seriously of what that meant. It meant she didn’t have to work anymore … that she could travel, do as she pleased, see whomever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She looked doubtfully at George, as if seeing him for the first time. Was he really the man she wanted to be tied to for the rest of her life? Hadn’t things somehow … well,
changed
between the two of them since her mother had died?

George apparently didn’t think so. He sat there, unconcerned, looking just the same as always: artistic and unkempt. He was humming the third movement of Schubert’s Trout Quintet. Susan turned away, suddenly annoyed. She was tired of the Trout Quintet. She was tired of ironing George’s shirts for him and interceding between him and her son. She was tired of Philo Harmonia and his poorly composed pieces with their interminable viola solos. She was tired, in the final analysis, of George.

But when she looked at him again she relented. He
was a very sweet man.… She didn’t want to make a mistake. She would think it over for a bit.

She smiled at him. “More coffee, dear?”

Gretchen was sitting in her office at school, marking essay papers. She was scowling and mumbling, “No, no,
no
 …” as she wrote out comments in her large, bold handwriting. She was writing savagely on one student’s essay, “Just because Chaucer used creative spelling doesn’t mean
you
can,” when Albert came into her office and sat down.

She gazed at him with concern. He was looking very tired and drained recently. Of course it was no wonder, with everything that was going on, but still …

“Are you all right, Albert?”

He nodded vaguely.

“Are we still going out to dinner tonight, or would you rather cancel it?”

“What? Oh, no, no … I mean yes, of course we’re going out. We always go out on Fridays, don’t we?”

“All right, then. I’ll come by your office around five.”

That evening, at the Golden Eagle, Albert leaned across the table, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers and a basket of bread. He did not seem to notice. He took her hand and said, “Gretchen, will you marry me?”

She was busy cleaning up the mess he had made. “Oh, Albert,
please
. Look at what you’ve done here.”

“Gretchen. Will you marry me?”

She gazed at him, startled. “Albert—”

“Life is short, Gretch. Life is short. You never know when it’s going to end.” His face had a sad, haunted look. “I’ll turn forty this year. I don’t want to go on like this. It’s
not for me.” He added with that strange dignity of his, “I care for you very much, Gretch. Please marry me.”

“Albert—”

“We could get married this summer. In June, perhaps. June is a good time for a wedding. I’d like to get married sooner, but we can’t, not with—well, you know …”