The Golden Goose (9 page)

“There's a big tree stump in the back yard,” Prin said, rising hastily. “Let's go around there and sit on it.”

“Don't you want to stay and see Mr. O'Shea off?” asked Coley.”

“No, I don't.”

So they went around to the back yard and sat on the big tree stump while Grundy and Boatner departed at last in the wake of Uncle Slater's basket. So long as Uncle Slater had been upstairs on the floor, physically in residence, Prin's feelings had been qualified by an irrational notion that he might decide to rise and take up where he had left off. But after he was taken away by the meat wagon no such notion could survive. He was simply and irrevocably gone.

It was apparent to Coley that Prin was feeling worse. He resumed holding her hand for comfort, and she leaned against his shoulder and looked up at the moon. Coley could see the clean line of her throat in the moonlight and the shadow of her lashes on her cheeks, and this sight made him flex his muscles with tender manliness.

“What are you thinking?” he asked softly.

“I'm thinking that it's too bad Uncle Slater had to die, and that it's even worse if someone helped him do it.”

“Well, I'm thinking that it's time you and I got married, or that it
will
be time after your uncle is buried.”

“Oh, Coley, I don't know. You haven't got a bean, and my share of Uncle Slater's estate would keep us for about six months if we were extra-careful—what would we live on after that?”

“You could stay at the drug store for a while, and I could hold onto my taproom job while I look for something that pays more. When I'm finished with the accounting course, you won't have to work at all, because I mean to be the best damn accountant you ever saw.”

“I've never even seen an accountant,” said Prin adoringly.

“Well, you're going to see one every day for the rest of your life. Will you marry me, Princess O'Shea?”

“Of course. I've intended to from the first daiquiri that first night.”

There was no conversation for some time. When they stopped to get their breaths, Prin said, “Poor Uncle Slater. I'm sure he did things now and then that he's ashamed of right now, but he was a kind and generous soul. If somebody murdered him I hope he sizzles in hell—I mean the somebody, not Uncle Slater.”

Coley pulled his lower lip far out, as if to make room for a large idea. “You know something, Prin?” he said suddenly. “It just occurred to me. When Mr. O'Shea made that new will you told me about, leaving everything to be divided equally among the twenty-two surviving O'Sheas, he must have had good reason to think he might otherwise be murdered.”

“He practically told us as much. Or at least that he considered it enough of a possibility to take out some insurance.”

“Well, I don't know about the other O'Sheas, but if that Frankenstein monster of a Cousin Twig of yours were
my
beneficiary to any sizable amount, I think I'd want some insurance, too. And Brady, if you'll excuse my saying so, would probably slit his own sister's throat to keep from having to go to work.”

“Do you think so? I
am
his sister, you know—the only one he has, to my knowledge. Do you really think Brady would be capable of slitting my throat?”

“I'm willing to say, having considerable interest in your throat, which I would like to kiss this instant, that I'm relieved that he has nothing to gain from doing so. Any more,” added Coley regretfully, “than that gargoyle Twig.”

“I'd rather have it kissed than slit, and by you than by anyone else I know.”

This seemed to Coley an invitation. After kissing her throat, he went on to several other places, which took some time. In the course of this engagement, they changed positions on the stump the better to concentrate, but it was not, in spite of willing effort, one of Prin's more accomplished performances.

“That was pleasant enough,” Coley said, “but it lacked something. I don't believe you are quite as dedicated as usual.”

“I'm sorry, darling. I tried, honestly I did, but Uncle Slater keeps getting in the way.”

“Uncle Slater would be sorry to hear that, I'm sure.”

“It's just that I keep hoping he died naturally. But the more I think, the more I'm afraid he didn't.”

“Then you'd better begin thinking constructively—say, as follows? On the surface, we can see no reason why the O'Sheas of this household should want to do your uncle in; to the contrary, his continued existence would have kept you all paid-up members in the freeloaders' fraternity. On the other hand, we agree that at least two of said household O'Sheas would have done him in without lashing a bat
if a reason existed that we know nothing about
. In such a case the lack of financial motive might well serve as a red herring across the trail of actual motive. What do you think, Prin?”

“I don't know. Anything is possible, I suppose, where O'Sheas are concerned.”

“At least nothing should be overlooked. For instance, we should not consider insiders to the exclusion of outsiders. An outsider doesn't seem likely under the circumstances of your uncle's death, but it's always possible.”

“You may be right, Coley.”

Coley grabbed her. “You have someone in mind,” he said eagerly.

“No, but knowing something of the kind of life Uncle Slater led before his marriage, it wouldn't surprise me if he left a trail of people who wanted to kill him, and one of them caught up with him.”

But Coley shook his head. “That kind of killer wouldn't use poison. You would have to expect something more violent. Like shooting, or hitting him over the head.”

“Not if the killer were a female.”

“A female? At your uncle's age? You can't be serious.”

“Darling, you must read a biography of Victor Hugo some day. Never mind, though. I'll merely say that a woman in the case of my Uncle Slater—at any age—was technically quite possible.”

“All right,” said Coley, nodding, “we'll tuck that theory away for future consideration. Prin, if it turns out that Slater O'Shea met with foul play—” (“Why do they call it
play?”
Prin murmured) “—I go into action. I used to be known as Nosy Collins—stuck my beak into everything; the original cat killer. Well, I mean I've always thought I'd make a splendid detective. How does it strike you?”

“The only thing that strikes me right now,” said Prin, screwing up her pretty face, “is a splitting headache. I think I
am
coming down with that unmentionable condition I mentioned to Mr. Free this morning as an excuse to get out of work. Coley, do you think it's my punishment for lying?”

“No,” said Coley, “but you go right on thinking so. It may act as a catharsis and give you absolution.”

“I'll take aspirin,” said Prin. “It would also help, I think, if I were to get some sleep. Would you very much mind, darling, if I were to go in and try?”

“Princess. I love you.”

“Coley. I love you. You're so sweet and clever and—and lovable.”

“I'm actually devious as the devil,” said Coley modestly. “Let me take you into the house.”

“That's not necessary. I'll go in through the kitchen, and you can cut through to the street. It's a long walk back to town. Kiss me good night?”

They kissed with fervor beside the stump, joining shadows in the moonlight, and then Coley went one way, toward the street, and Prin went another way, toward the house. The rear of the house was dark, and she felt her way onto the screen porch. She was sure the door would be unlocked, for no one ever bothered to lock a door, a kind of slovenly trustfulness of O'Shea character that was not likely to be altered by murder or anything else. She was just reaching for the back door knob when something stirred in the nearby darkness of the porch. Prin jumped and squealed.

“It's only me, Princess,” said Cousin Twig's appalling voice.

“Damn it, Twig, what in the hell do you mean by skulking here in the dark and scaring me out of ten years' growth?”

“I wasn't skulking. I was waiting.”

“For what? A broomstick?”

“You. I thought you'd never send that Coley away. I want to talk to you.”

“Well, dear cousin,” snapped Prin, “it will have to be some other time, if ever. I have a headache, and I'm going up to my room and take some aspirin and go to bed.”

“Stay and have a cigarette with me, Prin. Please?”

“No,
thank
you.”

“You have plenty of time for that Coley.”

“What I have for Coley and what I have for you are two different things, thank God.”

“Including kisses. I saw you out there kissing in the moonlight.”

“So you're a Peeping Tom in addition to your other disgusting accomplishments. I'm sorry conditions were unfavorable tonight, Twig. Otherwise you might have seen a lot more exciting sight than a few kisses.”

“Cut it out, Prin,” Twig said rather thickly. “You go too far with me and you'll be sorry.”

“No danger, Twiggy. I'm not going
anywhere
with you—far or near.”

“You'd better be careful. I'm warning you.”

Prin had a sudden notion, accompanied by a chill, that maybe she'd better. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the shape of Twig as a long-domed shadow among shadows. There was something rather dreadful in his immobility, as if he had been waiting—was still waiting—for more than her mere body. She knew that his disproportionate face was dark and still and hard as buried stone. His voice was a listless, lusterless monotone, almost without inflections or stress—the voice of a Thing, Prin thought; and she shivered and decided not to arouse him further by leaving.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“About you and your precious Coley, for one thing.”

“What about him?”

“To begin with, I don't like him.”

“I'm sorry, Twig. I do.”

“You'll change your mind after a while.”

“You think so? Why?”

“He's not good enough for you.”

“Who
is
good enough, do you think? Twig O'Shea?”

“Why not?”

“This is very sudden, I must say. I had no idea you really care so much.”

“Because I haven't carried on about you like Brady after my stupid sister? Your brother is a fool.”

“I'll tell him you said so.”

“Tell him whatever you please.”

“You'll regret it if I do.”

Twig barked a laugh. “He can't even handle Peet.”

“Brady has no desire to knock Peet's head off. I think he'd enjoy going to work on yours.”

“Perhaps that's what Peet needs. As an introduction, that is, to something else she needs.”

“I suppose that would be your approach?”

“That's right.”

Prin said rather carefully, “I take it you mean that would be your approach … to me?”

“I'll consider it.”

“All right, Twig. Then I'll merely consider telling Brady what you just said about him.”

The laugh spat at her from the dark again. “Brady has more to worry about than anything I've said.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the police.”

“Why should Brady be worried about the police?”

“Because if Uncle Slater was murdered, there will be an investigation. And once a murder investigation starts, a lot more may be dug up than what's being looked for.”

“You think my brother has done something he needs to worry about?”

“A dozen things.”

“How about yourself?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Is that so? It hasn't been apparent. Now that Uncle Slater isn't here any more, we'll see how well you can take care of yourself.”

The voice nearby was stilled. Then it began again with a sort of cornered-rat determination. “We'll all have to clear out of here soon. Let's you and I clear out together, Prin.”

Prin said, “You think
I
would—?” But then she controlled herself. “I have other plans, Cousin Twig.”

“Involving Coley Collins?”

“Intimately.”

“It won't work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won't let you.”

“And how do you propose to not let me?”

“You'll come around, Prinny. Do you know the things we could do together …?” And now the unnatural voice held an undernote of hot yearning, thick and fierce as a flow of lava. But the words were obscene, utterly obscene; and they painted such pictures as Princess O'Shea had only dreamed of in her ghastlier nightmares, so that she wanted to scream and had to choke the screams back lest the very fears at their source touch off the actions that the words only spoke.

All that Prin could think to say when the monster across the porch paused, heaving for breath, was: “Did you hear yourself, Twig? Did you listen to yourself?”

“I want you,” Twig gasped. “I want you.…”

He made a soft hissing sudden sound and she heard the scrape of his feet.

“I'd rather be dead,” Prin cried; and she lunged for the back door and jerked it open and ran into the kitchen and slammed and locked the door in one fluid blur. She could hear him rattling the knob and cursing her as she sped upstairs.

With the key turned securely in the lock, Prin stood still and breathed deeply in the moonlight flooding her bedroom. She counted for a minute the diminishing beat of her heart. Then she undressed, put on pajamas as pale as the moon itself, and lay down on the bed, turning her face to the windows. Her head still ached in a cadenced throbbing. She was intensely awake. There was no sleep for her, then or soon, or even at all.

She got up and went into her bathroom and took three aspirins, then crept back into bed and lay stiffly, face turned again to the moonlight. She was still lying that way, a long time afterward, when someone tapped secretively on her door.