Deep Water (15 page)

       "'Yes', I think my husband had something to do with it! I think he 'did' it!"

       Coroner Walsh's expression was a combination of annoyance and bewilderment. For a moment he seemed speechless. "Have you anything at all—any proof to substantiate your belief, Mrs. Van Allen?" His face had reddened.

       "Circumstantial evidence. My husband was alone in the pool with him, wasn't he? My husband is a better swimmer than Charley. He's also very strong in his hands!"

       Mary stood up, her small face looking even smaller and somehow concentrated in the pursed, tearful mouth, and started to leave the room.

       "I must ask you, Mrs. Meller," the coroner said, "not to leave—if you please. The law says all persons concerned must be present to the end of the inquest." He smiled and bowed her back to her seat.

       Horace had made no move to stop her. He looked as if he would have been glad to leave himself.

       The coroner turned back to Melinda. "You said your husband didn't like Mr. De Lisle because you liked him. Were you perhaps in love with Mr. De Lisle?"

       "No, but I was very fond of him."

       "And do you think your husband was jealous of Mr. De Lisle?"

       "Yes."

       Coroner Walsh turned to Vic. "Were you jealous of Mr. De Lisle?"

       "No, I was not," Vic said.

       Coroner Walsh turned to the Cowans and the Mellers and asked in a patiently reasoning tone, "Did any of you ever notice Anything in Mr. Van Allen's conduct that would lead you to believe that he was jealous of Mr. De Lisle?"

       "No," said Phil and Horace, practically in unison.

       "No," Evelyn said.

       "Certainly not," from Mary.

       "How many years have you known Mr. Van Allen, Mr. Cowan?"

       Phil looked at Evelyn. "About eight years?"

       "Nine or ten," Evelyn said. "We met the Van Aliens as soon as they moved here."

       "I see. And Mr. Meller?"

       "I think it's ten years," Horace said firmly.

       "Then you know him well, you consider?"

       "Very well," said Horace.

       "You would both vouch for his character?"

       "Absolutely," Phil put in before Horace could speak. "And so would anybody else who knows him."

       "I consider him my finest friend," Horace said.

       The coroner nodded, then looked at Melinda as if he might be going to ask her a question or ask a question about her, but Vic could see that he didn't want to prolong it; and didn't want to probe any further into Melinda's relationship to De Lisle either. There was a friendly warmth in the coroner's eyes as he looked at Vic. "Mr. Van Allen, I believe you're the owner of the Greenspur Press in Little Wesley, aren't you?"

       "Yes," Vic said.

       "A very fine press. I've heard of it," he said, smiling, as if it were a foregone conclusion that every literate person in that section of Massachusetts had heard of the Greenspur Press. "Have you anything more to add, Mrs. Van Allen?"

       "I've told you what I 'think," Melinda' said, spitting out the last word in her old style.

       "Since this is a court of law, we must have evidence," the coroner said, with a slight smile. "Unless anyone has evidence to offer that this death was not due to accidental circumstances, I hereby declare this inquest closed." He waited. Nobody spoke. "I declare this inquest closed with a verdict of death due to accidental circumstances." He smiled. "Thank you all for appearing here. Good afternoon."

       Phil got up and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Melinda walked to the door, holding a paper tissue to her nose. Down on the sidewalk, Dr. Franklin took his leave first, saying a solemn "Good afternoon" to all of them, hesitating a moment as he looked at Melinda, as if he were about to add something, but he said only "Good afternoon, Mrs. Van Allen," and walked away to his car.

       Melinda stood beside the car, still with the tissue to her nose, like a bereaved widow.

       "Keep your chin up, Vic," Phil said, patting his shoulder, and then he turned to go to his car as if to stop himself from saying more.

       Evelyn Cowan laid her hand on Vic's sleeve. "I'm sorry, Vic. Call us soon, will you? Tonight, if you want to. Bye-bye, Melinda!" Vic saw that Mary wanted to say something to Melinda and that Horace was trying to discourage her from it. Then Horace came over to Vic, smiling, his narrow head lifted as if to impart courage to Vic by his own attitude, to show by his smile that Vic was still his friend, his best friend.

       "I'm sure she's not going to keep on like this, Vic," Horace said in a low tone, just out of Melinda's hearing. "So don't let it throw you. We'll all stand by you—always."

       "Thanks, Horace," Vic said. Behind Horace he saw Mary's thin, sensitive lips working as she looked at Melinda. Then, as Horace took his wife's arm, she smiled at Vic and blew him a kiss as she walked away.

       Vic held the car door open for Melinda and she got in. Then Vic got in behind the wheel. It was his car, his antiquated Oldsmobile. Vic circled the main square—a necessity because of the traffic regulations—then took the southbound street that led into the highway to Little Wesley.

       "I'm not going to come around," Melinda said, “so don't think I am."

       Vic sighed. "Honey, you can't go on weeping for somebody you hardly knew."

       "'You killed him!'" Melinda said vehemently. "The Mellers and the Cowans don't know you as well as I, do they?"

       Vic made no reply. What she said did not alarm him in the least—and he had felt no alarm during the inquest either, even at the question about the red marks on Charley's skin—but he was aware of a sense of annoyance with Melinda now, a sense of shame that was in itself reassuring because of its familiarity. Everybody knew why Melinda had accused him, why she had shed tears at the inquest, why she had grown hysterical at the Cowans' the night it had happened. The Cowans knew what her relationship with De Lisle had been. De Lisle had been just another sneaking paramour, but one who had happened to die right in their home. The Cowans and the Mellers must know, too, that he had had years of such scenes, years of tears over broken dates with cads and scoundrels, more tears when they went away, and that he had gone through it all uncomplaining, patient, behaving always as if nothing at all were happening—just as he had behaved at the inquest.

       For a few moments, as Melinda snuffled into a fresh tissue, Vic felt something in him hardening against her. She had got what she deserved, and she was powerless to do anything against him. If she went to the police again, who would believe her? How could she prove it? She could divorce him, that was all. But Vic did not think that she would. He might refuse to give her alimony—and he had ample grounds to refuse—and he could also win the child with ease, not that Melinda would probably care. He did not think she would relish the prospect of having no money, of going back to her parents' dreary, boring household in Queens.

       Melinda got out of the car when he stopped in front of the garage and went on into the house. Vic carried his herb boxes back into the garage. It was a quarter to four. He looked up at the sky and saw that there was going to be a slight rainfall around six.

       He went into the garage again and carried out, one by one, his three aquaria of land snails, each of which was covered with a framed piece of copper screen to admit rain and to prevent the snails from crawling out. The snails loved the rain. He bent over one aquarium, watching the snails he called Edgar and Hortense as they slowly approached each other, lifted their heads, kissed, and glided on. They would probably mate this afternoon, in the light rain that filtered through the screen. They mated about once every week, and they were genuinely in love, Vic thought, because Edgar had eyes for no other snail but Hortense and Hortense never responded to the attempt of another snail to kiss her. Three-quarters of the thousand-odd snails he had were their progeny. They were quite considerate of each other as to which had the burden of egg-laying—a twenty-four-hour procedure at least—and it was only Vic's opinion that Hortense laid more often than Edgar, which was why he had given her the feminine name. That was true love, Vic thought, even if they were only gastropoda. He remembered the sentence in one of Henri Fabre's books about snails crossing garden walls to find their mates, and though Vic had never verified it by his own experiment, he felt that it must be so.

Chapter 11

Vic's guilt did not materialize. Perhaps it was because there were so many other things to think about and to take care of. Melinda was telling all their friends that she thought Vic had killed Charley, which could have been put down as the result of her shock after Charley's death, except that it went on for three weeks and she became more eloquent about it. And in the house she sulked and snarled at him. She seemed to be brewing some retaliation against him, and Vic did not know what form it would take. Between wondering what Melinda was going to do next and trying to minimize her behavior to her friends, which he did in the most gallant and sympathetic manner, Vic had quite enough to occupy him in his hours away from the printing plant.

       Horace came to see Vic at the plant about three days after the coroner's inquest. For the first few minutes Horace looked over the loose sheets of Greek type that were the day's work, looked at the design that Vic had chosen—not the one Melinda had so carelessly selected—for the cover of the book, but Horace got to the point of his visit before five minutes had passed.

       "Vic, I'm a little worried," he said firmly. "You know what I'm worried about, don't you?"

       Stephen and Carlyle had gone home. They were alone in the pressroom.

       "Yes," Vic said.

       "She's been twice to see Evelyn, you know. Once to see Mary."

       "Oh," Vic said, without surprise. "I think she told me she'd been to Evelyn's."

       "Well, you know what she's saying?" Horace looked embarrassed. "She told Mary she'd said the same thing to you at home." He paused, but Vic did not speak. "I'm not so much interested in that—except that it's a horrible thing to get around town—but what's going to happen to Melinda?"

       "I suppose she'll quiet down," Vic said in a patient tone. He slid one thigh onto the corner of a composing table. A robin's "'Cheep?—Cheep'?" came clearly through the closed window behind Horace. He could see the robin on the sill, the little male robin. It was dusk. He wondered if the robin wanted something to eat or if there was some kind of trouble. Last spring the robin lived with his wife in a nest they had built in a low stone wall just outside the back door.

       "Well, will she? What're you thinking?" Horace asked.

       "Frankly, I was thinking about that robin," Vic said, sliding off the table and walking to the back door. He looked at the still unfinished bread crumbs and diced fat that Carlyle had dropped below the tree that morning. Vic came back. "Maybe he was just saying good night," Vic said, "but last spring we had to chase a snake away from their nest."

       Horace smiled, a little impatiently. "I never know whether you're pretending unconcern or you're really unconcerned, Vic."

       "I suppose I'm concerned," Vic said, "but don't forget I've had it a good many years."

       "Yes, I know. And I don't want to meddle, Vic. But can you imagine Evelyn or Mary," Horace said, raising his voice suddenly, "going around to you and their other friends saying that their husband is a murderer?"

       "No. But I always knew Melinda was different."

       Horace laughed, a despairing laugh."What're you going to do about it, Vic? Is she going to divorce you?"

       "She hasn't said anything about it. Did she say anything to Mary about it?"

       Horace looked at him a moment, almost with surprise. "No, not that I know of."

       There was a long pause. Horace walked about in the space between two tables, his hands in his jacket pockets, as if he were thoughtfully measuring the floor with his steps. Vic, standing up now, took a deep breath. His belt felt loose, and he tightened it one hole. He had been eating less lately, deliberately, and it had begun to show in his waistline.

       "Well—what do you answer her when she accuses you?" Horace demanded.

       "Nothing!" Vic said. "What can I? What can anybody say?"

       The blank surprise came over Horace's face again. "I could answer quite a lot. I could tell her, if I were you, that I'd put up with all I could stand, for years, and that this goes beyond—beyond putting up with. I can't believe that she means it, Vic," he said earnestly. "If she, did, she wouldn't be living under the same roof with you!"

       She wasn't really, Vic thought. Horace's fervor embarrassed him. "I don't know what to make of it, Horace, I really don't."

       "Has it ever occurred to you that she might really be—a bit off, Vic? I'm no psychiatrist but I've had a chance to watch her over the years. This goes beyond self-indulgence or the fact that she's spoiled!"

       Vic caught the note of hostility in Horace's voice and something rose in him automatically, rose to defend Melinda. It was the first time Horace had expressed his dislike of Melinda. "I don't think it's going to go on, Horace."

       "But this is something that can't be undone later," Horace protested. "Nobody's going to forget this, Vic. And I think the whole town knows by now that she's accusing you. What kind of a woman is she? I don't see why you put up with it!"

       "But I've put up with so much," Vic replied with a sigh. "I suppose it gets to be a habit."

       "A habit to torture yourself?" Horace looked at his friend with a tortured concern.

       "It's not that bad. I can take it, Horace. So don't worry. Please." Vic patted Horace's shoulder.

       Horace let his breath out in a dissatisfied way. "But I do worry."