Wife or Death (11 page)

But no stranger, he thought, than everything else involving Angel.

Denton walked over to Gerard's Funeral Home.

Nelson Gerard was an impeccable little plump man with the universal gravity of his profession. He always made the mourners feel that their loss was equally his. He had also the rather disconcerting habit of referring to the dead in his embalming parlor as if they were still breathing: “Your mother was so
cooperative
, bless her,” or “We did have a little fight on our hands, Mrs. Jones, but your husband's calmed down beautifully.” It was impossible to think of Nelse Gerard in terms of ordinary human behavior—eating, sleeping, getting drunk or making love to the impeccable little plump woman with the virginal name of Parthenia to whom he was married. Only a small coterie knew that he was a regular patron of the whorehouse on Bath Street and that he played the most reckless game of poker in town.

Gerard greeted Denton like an understanding father. He took Denton's hand in both of his, pressed lightly and warily and said. “Now Jim, I don't want you to worry about
anything
. We will do it all. If she were my own daughter—”

“You'd be off getting drunk somewhere,” said Denton. “Look, Nelse, don't give me the treatment—I know where
your
body is buried. When can I get this over with? Augie Spile tells me the county pathologist will release the body on Monday.”

“Jim, Jim,” sighed the mortician. “Always the maverick. Why, if that's the case,” he said briskly, “how about Tuesday morning?”

“Okay.”

“Church service?”

“Right here'll be fine.”

“St. John's Episcopal is your church, isn't it? Father Ireson to conduct the service?”

“I guess so.”

Nelse Gerard made a precise little note on a pad. “Now. Are there any out-of-town relatives of Mrs. Denton's who should be notified?”

“Just her parents. They live in Titusville, Pennsylvania. I don't know the street address, but it's a small town.”

“The name?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Stanislaus Koblowski.”

“How do you spell that?”

Denton spelled it.

The funeral director wrote it down. “Relatives on your side to be informed?”

“Oh, hell, Nelse, forget it. I have an aunt in Los Angeles, but she never met Angel and I'm sure she couldn't care less.”

“She might wish to send flowers,” Gerard said reprovingly. “Her name and address, please?”

Denton shrugged and told him. The pen scurried across the pad.

“We will, of course, sign your name to the wires. Now.” The little man drew the corners of his mouth down; for an absurd moment Denton thought he was going to cry. “The unfortunate question of costs. We relieve the bereaved of having to worry over financial details by placing an all-over figure on the funeral. The chief determining factor is, of course, the casket. Do you have any idea, Jim, of how much you wish to spend?”

“I carried a thousand-dollar insurance policy on her. Make it an even thousand dollars.”

Denton had thought that question out on his walk over. The insurance policy on Angel's life answered it beautifully. Without the policy he would have named a more moderate figure; he felt no obligation to lay away a wife expensively who had got herself murdered in the act of running away with another man. On the other hand, the thought of making a profit on her death was distasteful.

“One thousand,” Gerard wrote down delicately, but Denton could see that he was pleased. “Would you care to select the casket now?”

“Good God, no. Not now or any time. You pick it out, Nelse. If you stick me, remember I publish a newspaper.”

“Jim,” the mortician said reproachfully, but it seemed to Denton that he looked a little disappointed. “Let's see … Oh, yes. Pallbearers. Of course, they're not essential—I mean, we can provide pallbearers from our staff. But perhaps some personal friends—?”

Denton considered. The word had struck a wicked spark. Pallbearers. Personal friends. Well, she'd had some very personal friends indeed. Why not? “Arnold Long,” he said. “Ralph Crosby,” he said. “Matthew Fallon,” he said, playing a hunch. He considered further. There was … In the end, weighing probabilities, recalling the depth and quality of his suspicions at various times in the past, Denton named three other bachelors of the town. It was a macabre sort of game, and he found himself rather enjoying it, if enjoyment was the word.

When Nelson Gerard had written the names down, he said in tones of profound mourning, “One last thing, Jim. We would like to have a photograph of Mrs. Denton, a portrait if possible.”

“What in hell for?” Denton asked blankly.

“Well, I've heard—I mean I understand—that the circumstances of your wife's demise … that is to say, I know something of her condition when she was found. Naturally we like to achieve as close an approximation to the living subject as we can.”

“Oh,” Denton said. “Sure, Nelse, I'll send one over,” and he rose.

Do your best, little man, he thought as he left. But from what I saw on that slab, I'm betting you never make it.

13

It was just past one when Denton drove up to the hospital.

He found Corinne dressed, standing in the third-floor corridor. She was talking with a nurse. The nurse looked around at Denton's approach and—rather hurriedly, he thought—turned and walked away.

“Corinne.” He took her hands. “You're looking human again this morning. How do you feel?”

“Don't tell me how I look,” she retorted, “I've consulted a mirror. Jim, for last night—”

“Oh, stop it. Ready to leave?”

“I'm all checked out. I got your message, and I've been waiting for you.”

Corinne was very quiet in his car. The only thing she said was, “I'm so grateful to you, Jim. I think the thing I felt most last night—I mean, aside from … well, you know-was how
alone
I was going to be.”

“Not with all your friends.”

“We'll see,” she said; and that was all.

Like Denton, she had no family in Ridgemore, even though she and George Guest had both been born there. On the elder Guest's retirement, he and George's mother had moved to Florida, leaving the Guest Hardware Store to their son. George's only brother, an engineer, lived in Texas. As for Corinne, her father had died several years before and her mother had gone to Cleveland to keep house for her other daughter, who was unmarried.

At Corinne's door, Denton took her hand. “How about my calling up somebody to come over here and sort of keep you company?”

She smiled. “I didn't mean I
never
wanted to be alone, goopie. Today I'd prefer it. I have a lot of thinking to do, calls to make—” she bit her pale lips “—George's folks in St. Petersburg, Fred in Houston, my mother and Katie in Cleveland … the funeral arrangements …”

“Why not let me take care of that for you, Corinne?”

“I'd really rather do it myself, Jim.” Somehow her hand slipped out of his. “Thanks so much, so really much.”

He had to get away from her. Her eyes appeared to have grown twice as large overnight, or her face diminished by half. “You call me if I can help in any way. Hear?”

“I will, Jim.” She turned to the door, suddenly turned back. “Oh, Jim, I'm so sorry! In all this about … about George, I forgot that you—”

He shook his head. “Don't give it another thought, 'Rinny.” '
Rinny
… he hadn't called her that since their high school days. “It's not the same thing. You and George had something. You know Angel and I had nothing. I can't feel grief over her, so don't waste your sympathy. And remember, anything I can do—”

This time she seized his hand and squeezed it. “I will, Jim, truly I will.” And unlocked her door and went inside swiftly. But he had not even reached the curb when he heard her running footsteps. “Jim …”

“Yes, Corinne, what's the matter?”

“Nothing. I wanted to ask you …” She stood there, panting a little. “The accident … It
was
an accident, wasn't it?”

Denton was silent. Then he met her enormous eyes and said, “Nobody knows. But I don't think so.”

He drove off like a kid in a drag race, trying to get away from her anguished stare as quickly as he could.

Suddenly he was ravenous.

At home he made himself a pile of egg salad sandwiches. They left him full but unsatisfied, and he realized that his hunger had a less easily appeased source.

Sipping his third cup of coffee—he had gulped the first two—Denton found himself brooding over the death of George Guest. If only the irresponsible damn fool had left some word, some hint, of his destination the night before!

The coffee cup came down on the table with a bang and a splash. He jumped up and ran for the telephone directory.

He found the number listed under the name Howard Taylor. Howard Taylor was the father of George Guest's young clerk at the hardware store. He dialed and caught Emmet at home.

“This is Jim Denton, Emmet. You've heard about George Guest?”

“On the air this morning, Mr. Denton.” The boy sounded shaken. “I tried to phone Mrs. Guest a couple times, but she doesn't answer.”

Denton explained why. “Emmet, did you help Mr. Guest close up last night?”

“Sure, Mr. Denton. Like always.”

“Did he happen to mention where he was going from the store?”

“No. He only said it was a couple of blocks from where I live. It's been kind of bugging me, come to think of it.”

“How's that?”

“Well, the announcer said the wreck was found on Rock Hill Road, and I wondered how he got way out there. He'd told me he was going within a couple of blocks of my house, like I said, and even offered to drive me home. He didn't say where he was bound, but—”

Denton experienced the exultation of feeling a trout rise to his fly on the first cast. “You mean he drove you home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're on Sutton, aren't you?”

“That's right. Fourteen hundred block.”

“What time did he drop you off?”

“Must have been nine-fifteen or so. I didn't look at my watch, but we got away from the store about nine-ten, and it's only five minutes' drive.”

“You have no idea where Mr. Guest was headed, except that it was near your home?”

“That's all he said.”

Denton hung up and began checking addresses in the neighborhood of the Taylor house. The Longs lived at the opposite end of Ridgemore; to get there, George would have had to double back past the store, a considerable drive. Ralph Crosby's place was on the same side of town as the Taylors', but almost to the town limits, and according to young Emmet, George had said he was going “a couple of blocks” away.

Matthew Fallon lived at 1314 Porter Street. 1314 Porter Street was exactly three city blocks from where George had dropped Emmet Taylor.

Denton's pulse was singing now. He hushed it in the name of caution. The thing to do was check the entire male guest list for the Wyatts' party against the Taylor address. Since the list was in a desk drawer in his office—and the desk stood directly beneath a large street map of Ridgemore—Denton jumped into his car and raced downtown to the
Clarion
office.

Half an hour's research satisfied him that, aside from the cartoonist, none of the men attending the Wyatt party lived closer than half a mile from the Taylors'. Matt Fallon began to look very good—or bad, Denton thought grimly, depending on the point of view.

Then, scanning the street map, he realized something.

Sutton Avenue in the vicinity of the Taylor home was an unmarked but universally recognized boundary line between two of Ridgemore's residential areas. One block away, paralleling Sutton, ran the river, crossed by a sturdy little bridge. The heights overlooking both sides of the river were crowned with homes in a much higher real-estate bracket; where the Taylor house and its immediate neighbors were rated in the $12-$15,000 class, the river properties brought from three to five times more. On the rise just across the bridge nestled the Wyatt house.

The Taylor place was miles from the Wyatts' in value and desirability, but exactly two blocks away in distance.

It gave Denton rather a start. Without attempting to analyze his surprise, he decided to look in on the Wyatts before doing anything about Matthew Fallon.

Both Norman Wyatt's Cadillac convertible and Ardis Wyatt's Buick station wagon were standing in the garage, Denton noted as he got out in their driveway. It must be nice, he thought, to be able to afford more than one home and car. Although the Wyatts could rarely spend more than two or three months a year in Ridgemore, they kept both cars there the year around; in their Beverly Hills garage stood three other permanent residents, foreign jobs in the Hollywood mode.

Norm Wyatt, in need of a shave, wearing hunting boots, denim trousers and red flannel shirt, answered the door.

“Jim.” The movie executive looked startled, then embarrassed. “Come in, Jim, come in. You just barely caught us. We got down from the lodge only a few minutes ago. Jim … about Angel …” He stopped, then said, “I don't know what to say.”

Denton nodded. “I'll take you off the hook, Norm. Consider it said.” He followed Wyatt into the big sprawling living room.

Ardis Wyatt, her slim figure encased in a plain tailored suit, was on the divan before the picture window clutching an open magazine rather tensely. She threw it aside and jumped up. “Jim, I've been trying to get up enough courage to call you. What can Norm and I do to help?”

“Sit down, Ardis,” Denton said gently. She sank back on the divan, staring up at him. “And thank you. But that's something my friends are going to have to figure out for themselves.”