An Air That Kills (8 page)

And Thelma, watching, thought, I wonder how much each of them knows about me. When it all comes out in the papers—and it will, I must face that fact—when they find out, will they be surprised, or will they claim they suspected it all along because they'd often seen Ron's car here?

The telephone in the dining room began to ring again. She was positive this time that it was Harry, and she would have let the call go unanswered, except for the fact that the front windows were now open and the people across street could hear the phone ringing quite plainly. They knew she was at home, they'd seen her at the window, and they would wonder why she didn't answer. It was the kind of neighborhood, the kind of country, where little things like that didn't go unnoticed.

She hurried into the dining room and picked up the receiver, annoyed by Harry's persistence. “Hello.”

“Is this the Bream residence?”

“Yes.”

The woman's voice was low and soft, and self-consciously cultured. “Is Mr. Bream at home?”

“No. I'm his wife, Thelma Bream.”

“This is Joyce Reynold calling, Mrs. Bream. You may recall we met two or three years ago, and of course I've known Harry for a long time. He's been very kind to my poor daughter, Dorothy. Do you expect him home soon?”

“I'm afraid not. But if there's anything I can do . . .”

“Sweet of you, my dear, but I'm not sure, I'm simply not sure. A very perplexing thing has happened. It happened last night, actually, but it seemed too late to call Harry and besides I wasn't sure what I was expected to do. I'm still not. You didn't receive a rather peculiar call from Ron Galloway last night?”

“No.” Thelma took a deep breath. “How do you mean, peculiar?”

“Confused. Rambling. Those are Dorothy's words. You see, the call wasn't to me but to Dorothy. I was tucking her in bed for the night when the telephone rang and it was Ron wanting to talk to Dorothy. We haven't heard from him in years, and I assumed it must be important so I allowed Dorothy to talk to him. She'd had a good day and was feeling stronger than usual, and I like to let her have a bit of excite­ment when I'm certain no harm will come of it. I was wrong, of course. I should have realized the man was drunk or out of his mind. Dorothy's been in a frightful state ever since.”

“How does Harry come into it, Mrs. Reynold?”

“He mentioned Harry several times, something about mak­ing amends and regretting what he'd done to Harry. Now obviously that doesn't make sense, does it? Ron would never do anything to Harry, the two have been thick as thieves ever since they were children. And why, after all these years, should Ron suddenly call Dorothy and get maudlin about his treatment of her?”

“I don't—know.”

“The poor child has suffered enough. I thought perhaps if Harry were there and could come and talk to her it might calm her down a bit. She's always been fond of Harry, and she seems to think, from Ron's conversation, that Ron wanted her to see Harry.”

“Why?”

“He seemed to believe he'd done something terrible. Has he?”

“No.” The word was sharp and final.

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Yes.”

“Did he seem quite normal to you?”

“Yes. Quite normal.”

“How very puzzling. Surely a normal man doesn't sud­denly call up a former wife he hasn't seen in years and tell her he wants to apologize before he leaves.”

“Leaves?”

“He said he was going away. And when Dorothy asked him where, he said he couldn't tell her, it was an undiscovered country. According to Dorothy, it sounded as if he was quot­ing a line of poetry.”

Thelma leaned back and closed her eyes.
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn no traveller returns.

“Mrs. Bream? Are you still there?”

“Yes.” A reluctant whisper. When Aunt May called, Thelma could hide and pretend she hadn't heard. But this time there was no place to hide. “Yes, Mrs. Reynold, I'm here.”

“Did Ron say anything to you or Harry about taking a trip?”

“No.”

“I'm perplexed, I truly am. How inconsiderate of Ron to
annoy people like this, and I shall tell him so the first chance I get. As a matter of fact, I tried to call his house a little while ago but no one answered. Do you suppose he's already left?”

“I don't know.”

“Undiscovered country,” Mrs. Reynold said. “Undiscovered country,
indeed.
”

“I must—I must go now, Mrs. Reynold.”

“Of course. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time. And I do hope I haven't upset you in any way.”

“I'll—I'll give Harry your message when he comes home.”

“Thank you, child. I'm sure Harry will know what to do.”

“Good-bye.”

When she'd put down the telephone, she wiped her right hand carefully with a handkerchief, as if she had touched something dirty and had been contaminated. Then she rose and groped her way to the stairs. The child in her womb felt as heavy as stone.

She reached her room, exhausted, and fell across the bed on her stomach with her arms outstretched.
High school.
The smell of books and dust, and oiled wood floors. Memory work today, class. It's your turn, Thelma. We had the first part of the soliloquy last week. No need to repeat. Start with “For who would bear . . .” Quiet, class, while Thelma recites.

 

“For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life . . .”

 

Go on, Thelma.

No, I can't. I don't remember!

Go on, Thelma.

 

“. . . But that the dread of something after death

­ The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns . . .”

 

Such beautiful language, the teacher said. Lovely, lovely. But do put a little more feeling into it, Thelma.

EIGHT

It was ten o'clock Sunday morning, and a woman unknown to any of the principals in the case was getting ready to go to church. Her name was Celia Roy, she lived alone on the outskirts of the small town of Thornbury on Georgian Bay, she was a widow with a pension and two married daughters and no hope of much more in this life.

She was the kind of woman to whom nothing extraordinary had ever happened. True, she'd seen people die, babies born, mistakes committed, tragedies enacted, sacrifices made, but this was all run-of-the-mill stuff to Celia. What she dreamed of, in her declining years, was winning a new car on a radio quiz program, or an all-expense trip to Hollywood in a slogan contest, or a thousand dollars for submitting the best recipe. She would have settled for a really good night at the church bingo on Thursday, but even that hadn't happened.

She put on her hat in front of the sideboard mirror. She'd worn the hat for three years and could have put it on properly in pitch darkness, but she stood in front of the mirror out of habit, not really seeing either the hat or herself under it. Her hands were trembling with excitement and fear. It was the Sabbath, she was on her way to church, and she'd done something wrong, perhaps quite wrong. What was more, she had no intention of telling anyone about it. The dog was dead. She'd buried him herself in the dark of night, and no one knew a thing about it.

She heard her daughter Mabel's old Ford wheeze up in front of the house and cough to a stop. Each time Celia heard this noise she expected it to be the car's last—it sounded exactly like old Mr. Thurston's death rattle—but each time, under Mabel's expert pumping and pounding and shouting, the car would miraculously come to life in every joint and pulsate vigorously as if to deny all charges of age and in­firmity.

Mabel bounded in the front door. She was a lively young woman with a hearty laugh and a quick temper and little or no patience with people who slunk, as she called it, through life.

“Hi. Ready, Mom?”

“Just about,” Celia said. “I look a fright. It's this hat. It's getting out of shape.”

“Who isn't,” Mabel said cheerfully. “I told you to get a new one for Easter.”

“And what to use for money?”

“Speaking of money, I don't have a cent for the collection plate. John didn't get his check, this is the third time in a row it's been late.” She saw her mother's purse lying on the wicker jardiniere and picked it up. “Mind if I borrow a quarter?”

Celia had turned quite white. “Stop. Wait.”

“What's the matter with you?”

“I—I don't like other people opening my purse.”

“You never objected before.”

“Well, I am now. Give it here.”

“Honestly, honestly, you'd think I was trying to steal from you or something.”

“I want none of your lip. Give me that purse.”

“I just don't like your attitude, like I was a thief or some­thing. What's wrong with you anyway? You're shaking like a leaf.”

“You show some respect, girl. Now give me . . .”

“All right. Here's your old purse. Catch.”

Celia's reflexes were no longer quick enough to respond to the unexpected, and the purse landed at her feet, the clasp open, the contents strewn on the hooked rug: a lace handkerchief, a pencil, a tarnished silver compact, a creased snapshot of Mabel's two children, a worn calfskin change purse, a prayer book, a post card, an alligator wallet.

“Gee, I'm sorry,” Mabel said. “Honestly, I thought you'd catch it. Here, I'll pick everything up for you.”

But Celia was already on her knees, scooping up her things and stuffing them back into her purse with fierce determina­tion.

“Mom.”

“Fresh. That's what you are. Fresh.”

“I didn't know you had a wallet, Mom.”

“There's lots you don't know, including how to behave to your elders.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Someone gave it to me. As a gift.”

“It looks like genuine alligator.”

“
So?”

“Mom. It don't make sense. Who would give you a genuine alligator wallet?”

“A man, a very rich man.” Celia rose, clutching her purse to her chest. “Now that's all I can tell you. The rest is my business, and my business alone.”

“You don't know any very rich man.”

“I do, too.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“On the road, just outside.”

“Mom.”

“It's the truth, so help me. I met him on the road.”

“And he just came up and tipped his hat and said, madam, I'm a very rich man, here is my genuine alligator wallet. Mom.”

“Stop saying
Mom
like that.”

“Well, it don't make sense.”

“What's more,” Celia said loftily, “you use bad grammar. That's what comes of marrying beneath you. Well, I warned you. I said, he's a common laborer, he'll drag you down with him and you with a high school education . . .”

“Don't change the subject, Mom. I want to hear more about the very rich man. He intrigues me.”

“And don't get ironical-sounding either. It so happens I'm telling the truth and I don't expect my own child to be ironical-sounding to me.”

“What are you going to do when other people notice the wallet? Tell them the same story you told me?”

“Nobody else is going to notice it.”

“How come?”

“I'm going to get rid of it, that's how come.”

“Get
rid
of it! Mom, are you losing your mind? Someone gives you a genuine alligator wallet and now you say you're going to get rid of it. It's worth, well, ten dollars at least. And now you say you're going . . .”

“Stop it. Stop pestering me.”

“But it just don't make sense, Mom. A real genuine al­ligator wallet and you want to get rid of it, I never heard anything so crazy.”

They stared at each other across the room, Celia pale and grim, and her daughter red-faced and bewildered.

“I'll keep the money,” Celia said finally.

“What money?”

“There's money in it.”

“How much?”

“Nearly a hundred
dollars.
”

“A hundred dollars?”

“Not quite. Nearly.” Celia clung to the word as if it some­how provided a saving grace.

“Mom. Where did you get it?”

“I told you. The man gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Why?”

“For Laddie. To pay for Laddie.”

“What's Laddie got to do with it?”

“Don't you shout at me! I haven't done anything wrong!”

“Something happened to Laddie?”

“Yes.”

“He's dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you don't even sound sorry,” Mabel said coldly. “You don't even sound sorry. Your own dog.”

“I
am
sorry! Only it wasn't my fault, he ran out in the road. He couldn't see very well anyway any more, and the car was speeding.”

“What car?”

“One of those sporty kinds without a roof.”

“A convertible.”

“I guess so. There was a man driving. He had on one of those fancy plaid caps people wear sometimes in the movies. He knew right away he'd hit Laddie, I guess he must have heard me scream too. He slowed up and yelled a word back at me, it sounded like ‘sorry.' Then he threw something out of the car. At first I didn't know what it was.”

“But you found out quick enough, eh?”

“I don't like your tone. It's not respectful.”

“Stop bothering about tones and get back to facts. What happened then?”

“The car went on. Laddie was lying by the side of the road. I picked him up and I could tell right away he was dead. So I buried him myself, in the back yard.”

“And kept the wallet.”

“Why shouldn't I?”

Mabel shook her head. “It just don't sound right to me. It sounds sneaky, if you want the truth.”

“The money's mine. It was given me fair and square, in just payment for my dog. Laddie was a very valuable dog.”

“He was a half-blind, ten-year-old mongrel and you know it.”

“Even so.”

“Mom, last night when it happened, why didn't you call me?”

“Why didn't I?
This
is why, all this questioning.”

“I'm only trying to get things straightened out so we can decide what to do.”

“I've already decided. I'll get rid of the wallet so nosy people won't see it and ask nosy questions. And I'll keep the money because it's mine, given me fair and square.”

“How do you know?”

Celia pursed her lips. “How do I know what?”

“The man driving the car, he might have thrown the money out on purpose to keep you quiet, so you wouldn't tell anyone you saw him.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Maybe he was a criminal escaping from the scene of a crime.”

Celia was shaken but refused to admit it. “Oh, nonsense.”

“He hit Laddie and didn't stop to leave his name or to see if he could help. That's hit-and-run driving, right there. That's a crime in itself.” Mabel's imagination was like her car. Once it started to move, it moved all over, in every joint and with a great deal of noise. “How do you know he wasn't a bank robber escaping with his loot?”

“The banks,” Celia pointed out, “are closed on Saturdays.”

“Or a murderer. How do you know he won't come back?”

“Why would he come back?”

“To make sure your lips are sealed.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Celia sat down abruptly in a wicker chair and began fanning herself with a handkerchief. “I'm not well. I feel—I feel faint.”

“I'll fetch you a glass of water, wait there.”

The water was administered, and with it, since nothing else was readily available, a chunk of Mabel's horehound. Mabel sang soprano in the choir and used horehound as a ladder to some of the higher notes.

“Are you feeling better, Mom?”

“No thanks to you I'm not dead,” Celia said bitterly. “Giving me a fright like that, at my age.”

“I was only trying to make you see reason.”

“Reason, is it, to throw away nearly a hundred dollars? If that's reason, I want to be crazy, thank you.”

“All I'm asking you to do is to tell someone about what happened.”

“Such as who?”

“The Reverend Wilton might know what to do.”

“Over my dead body,” Celia said. “He and I don't see eye to eye on too many things as it is.”

“The constable, then, Mr. Leachman.”

“Mr. Leachman has fits.”

“Now what has that got . . .”

“His own sister told me. He has fits. He even,” Celia added with an air of triumph, “foams at the mouth.”

Mabel's face was so red it seemed ready to burst its skin like an overripe tomato. “Will you stop changing the sub­ject?”

“I didn't change the subject. You brought up Mr. Leachman and I merely pointed out that he has fits. Bad ones.”

“That's simple gossip.”

“Gossip, is it? How is it that when you find out something interesting about a person you get information,
I
merely get gossip.”

“Put your coat on, Mom. We'll be late for church.”

“I don't feel like going to church.”

“Maybe you don't feel like it but you need it. I think may­be I do too. And after church we'll go see Mr. Leachman. And I don't care if he's foaming like bubble bath, you're going to tell him what happened and show him the wallet and describe the man in the car.”

“I didn't see him very well, only by the street light.”

“The wallet had a name in it?”

“Yes. Galloway. Ronald Gerard Galloway.”

“Sounds phony to me,” Mabel said. “Come on, let's get going.”