Girl on the Best Seller List (20 page)

Now, the book was written; and now, this change had come over her: this certain brazenness, as though she would not leave Elbridge or the vicinity of Cayuta without having left her mark. Why? Freddy could answer that question. It wasn’t anything that had gotten into Edwina; it was something that had gone out of her; it was the final dying of love, and with it the empty aftermath that had to be filled. There was no way to fill it; no children of their love, no home (just the old boarding house Mrs. Devrow left her, with memories of other men there, too); nothing but the same old job at the box and bag factory in that dizzy little upstate town she’d had reason to live in for five years, and then … the Future, a blank. The Future, and she must be very scared suddenly of that.

Freddy pulled the sun blind down on the Buick’s windshield and frowned as he drove. No, he should not blame Edwina, or wonder at what had come over her. He knew she was spiteful and angry and even bent on revenge of some sort, and he knew she was ashamed of it because he didn’t deserve it; she was bitterly ashamed of everything she had done to him, ashamed of herself and sorry for herself. So this was the way she showed her spite and her anger; and the ways by which she sought her revenge were unconsciously over-blown ways.

The book she wrote. What did she call it?
Goodbye to Yesterday.
In the book, she had made him run off the road in his automobile. Killed him off, in other words.

Freddy felt a sick wave of nostalgia flood through him, remembering back on all the days and nights they had had which were sweet and very dear and then thinking of Edwina sitting up at night writing that book, writing how he had lost control at the wheel, writing how the car had spun, how he had screamed — writing, killing him off. That was one of her over-blown ways of getting even, without even really knowing it.

“Do you like the book?” she had asked.

“Why kill your hero?” he had said.

“I couldn’t think of any other way to end it.”

Freddy thought maybe that was the truth; maybe that was the only way she would ever be able truly to think of it as over. Even though neither of them felt anything physically any more, and even though that horrendous proof was sufficient reason for both to know that the affair was ended, probably Edwina would never accept it until he
was
dead. Women never let go, unless they are married to you; then they let go too soon. Was that right.

Another way she was getting even was with sudden dramatics. It wasn’t like Edwina ever to call him at home on a Saturday, to threaten him that way, to announce that if he did not arrange to bring Gloria Wealdon to her, she would go to Gloria Wealdon, that very evening. They had agreed, early in the game, never to abuse their code, never to make an Elbridge call anywhere except from a phone booth to a phone booth. After Edwina took over Mrs. Devrow’s, he called her there directly, but Edwina was not ever supposed to call him at home. Only in an emergency. In the past few months she had become sloppy about this. She had pretended to be someone at the box and bag factory, sometimes even speaking directly with Fern, asking for him, as she did this noon when she had called. He had stood there with Fern not a few feet away, while she said, “I’m serious, Fred. I have to see Gloria Wealdon. The only way for me is to sell my book and go and live in New York.”

He had hurried to his office after lunch, and told her by telephone that he would send her to New York. “That’s the way to do it,” he said. “Get some place to live there. Look for a job, taking your time, of course,” he had added generously, “and send your book around to the various publishers.”

“I can’t just go there cold. I can’t do that.”

“I’ll come and see you tomorrow,” he had promised.

Well, tomorrow wasn’t soon enough after all, and that was his fault too. At lunch he had told Virginia about her call. She’d known about Edwina’s threats to call on Gloria — they had even laughed a little about them together — but lately Virginia had been more and more concerned about the possibility of Fern’s ever finding out about the Edwina thing.

“You know, we’ve both been unfaithful to her in a sense,” she had said one day. “Poor Mother. I feel quite bad about it, for my part. I should have kept out of it.”

“I should have kept you out of it,” he said.

“It wasn’t your fault. I was as much to blame.”

“You grew up knowing Edwina. Virginia, in some ways you even acquired some of her mannerisms. I believe that at times you’re actually quite alike.”

“More than mother and I are, I think.”

“I think so too.”

“But do you know something, Father, I not only love Mother better, I respect her more. Why is that?”

“I guess it’s because you really think of your mother as being good, because she wasn’t an unfaithful woman, and you think of Edwina as bad.”

“I suppose there’s something to that.”

“Yes,” Freddy said.

“And in a way, I suppose I’m glad that Edwina’s trying to go to New York to live.”

Freddy said, “Yes, and so am I.”

He was afraid now, though, of something he had never really thought about much. While everything was up in the air the way it was, with Edwina still in Elbridge and still ambitious for her novel, how might she hurt Virginia? For surely Virginia was what he loved most, and surely that would eventually dawn on Edwina Dare. He was afraid of that, and being afraid of it, he drove all the faster along Route 2. As he went racing along, he wished that he had been able to locate Milo before he had set off for Elbridge. He had driven to the high school to find him, to tell him that Gloria might need him (no sense saying more than that; the good Lord knows Min
could
be wrong about Louie). But Milo wasn’t there. No one seemed to know where he was. Nearly everyone said that it was most peculiar, because he almost never missed a Saturday meet.

When Freddy Fulton heard the police siren, he damned himself for forgetting the speed trap between Elbridge and the county line. He saw the troopers on the motorcycles behind him, and he laughed to think that both men behind the billboard where they set the trap had whipped out after him. He pulled over to the side and lit a cigarette, waiting for one of them to come back and ticket him. When they both came back, he chuckled. “Hey, fellows,” he said. “Take it easy. I’m not dangerous.”

“Maybe you’re not,” said one of them, “but your license plate number came over our radio a while back.”

“Mine?”

“You’re wanted back in Cayuta, Mr. Fulton,” the other one said, opening the door and getting in beside Freddy Fulton. “Suspicion of murder.”

A
T FIVE-TEN
, Sergeant Carrington stood in the kitchen studying the stack of dirty dishes in the sink with an expressionless face. At the dinette, the chief of police was talking with Virginia Fulton.

“… because it’s very serious,” he was saying, “and we have to know everything.”

“Even her name?”

“Everything.”

“Edwina Dare,” she said. “She was my father’s mistress.”

“And why didn’t you want her to speak with Mrs. Wealdon?”

“Because she’d tell her everything!”

“And why didn’t you want Mrs. Wealdon to know?”

“Because Mrs. Wealdon was mean. She’d tell my mother.”

“So why had you come here this afternoon?” “I was going to ask Mrs. Wealdon not to see her.” “Ask her? If she was mean, she wouldn’t listen to you, would she?” “N-no.”

“Well, then! What about it?”

“All right, I was going to threaten her.”

“How?”

“I didn’t have any real plan. It was an impulsive thing. I was just going to try and scare her.” “And what did you do?”

“I hid in her closet. I got in through the cellar door, and I hid up in her bedroom closet.”

“Why did you hide like that?” “I wanted to scare her.” “Then what?”

“I — waited until she came home and into the bedroom. She was throwing something into the closet — a girdle and some shoes or something, it’s all very unclear — but I hadn’t expected her to whip the door open like that. I’d wanted to jump out at her, not to have her surprise me.”

“Then what?”

“She said, ‘Why you little brat! What do you want?’ “ “Then?”

“She said, ‘Just what in hell are you doing in my closet, you …”

“What?”

“She called me a cross-eyed brat.” “And what did you do?”

“I picked up a coat hanger. I don’t know why. I was all worked up. I picked up a coat hanger and I hit her.” “Where?”

“Across her back. I didn’t think.” “Don’t cry any more now.” “I’ll try not to.” “What then?”

“She tried to catch hold of the hanger and get it out of my hand. She chased me around the room. I remember I knocked over the globe there with the soap sculpture inside it. She said, ‘Now, you’ve done it. I’ve had that thing for years!’ She was yelling at me and chasing me.”

“Had you hit her again?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Then I heard her moan. It was a funny sound she made. I turned around and she was running the other way, running toward the bathroom. I stood still and watched her. She went inside and I heard her vomiting. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there, and then I remember that she came out. She was holding her stomach. Her face was a very funny color, nearly purple. She looked off in the distance as though she couldn’t see out of her eyes. It was as though I wasn’t there at all.”

“Then?”

“She fell on the bed. She was gasping for breath. I said, ‘Mrs. Wealdon, what’s the matter with you?’ but I don’t believe she could hear me.”

“Then?”

“I ran to the telephone. I was going to call Doctor Mannerheim. I had wanted to call him last week and tell him that I was afraid Edwina would tell Mrs. Wealdon, and that it would get back to my mother and just crack her up.” The girl began to cry, sobs forcing her body to heave. The sergeant walked from the kitchen to the door of the living room, while the police chief patted her hair. “There now, Virginia,” he said, “try to finish. Then you can rest.”

“I couldn’t have done that with a hanger, could I? I’m not that strong.” She was sobbing again, uncontrollably.

“You’ll just have to try, Virginia,” said the policeman. “What happened then? Did you call the doctor?”

“Almost, but then I remembered that he wasn’t a real doctor, that he wouldn’t be able to help her. She was really too sick; she needed a real doctor, maybe even the hospital. I was going to call to the operator that it was an emergency. I should have done that, I know that.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“The doorbell began ringing. I was deathly afraid. Mrs. Wealdon was just barely making breathing sounds there on the bed, and she was sick again, but she couldn’t move. I was too afraid to do anything but get away. I ran to the back stairs that go to the basement. I was going to run out the door and down through the fields, but when I looked out the door I saw Stanley Secora coming in the back way. I shut the door and stayed in the basement. I was numb by then, I was so scared.”

“Were you afraid of being blamed for her death?”

“I was afraid of death, that’s all.”

“What do you mean, Virginia?”

“I mean, I’d never seen anything like that. Just nothing. I was never in such a situation in all my life, don’t you understand?”

“I think so.”

“It was like a nightmare. I knew Stanley Secora was breaking into the Wealdons’, and I knew Gloria Wealdon was dying up in the bedroom, and I’d hit her, and I was in the basement — but none of this seemed logical or real to me. I just began to shake, and I felt as though I were perhaps dead myself, or dreaming. I don’t know — ”

“Then?”

“Always then! Oh, listen, I didn’t mean to hit her! I never even planned to hit her!” “Virginia, be calm.”

• • •

The sergeant wandered into the living room. Fern Fulton sat in the deep chair, staring out at the twilight, biting her knuckles. In the corner opposite, Min Stewart was speaking with Secora, and Jay Mannerheim was resting his head by holding his hand to it, covering his eyes, his elbow balanced on his knee.

At the sound of the telephone, everyone became alert.

The sergeant answered it.

He seemed to say little else than “Yes. Yes. Okay. Right. Yes.”

Then he hung up.

“Anything?” said the voice of the chief of police from the other room.

The sergeant went inside and they spoke in hushed voices together. When he returned to the living room, he said, “I got three news flashes.”

“Well?” said Min Stewart.

“Well,” said the sergeant, “number one is she was poisoned. That’s how she got it.”

“And the rest?” said Min Stewart.

“Number two is we picked up Mr. Fulton. He’ll be along here soon.”

Mrs. Fulton didn’t answer. She just put the handkerchief to her eyes again.

“And now comes number three,” the sergeant said. “Number three is we picked up Louis Stewart, Jr. He was in the five-and-ten,” said the sergeant, “stealing.”

“He was what?” said Min Stewart.

“He was at the dinnerware counter, m’am, stealing spoons.”

T
HE POLICE SURGEON
said, “It all checks out, Dave.”

“In your mind maybe,” said the chief of police, “but I don’t get it.”

“You want to explain it, Jay?” said the police surgeon. “I can take the Stewart kid along to the Retreat.”

“Just tell me one thing,” said the chief of police, “what the devil was he stealing spoons for? What’s that got to do with all of this?”

“That,”
said the police surgeon, “hasn’t got
anything
to do with this. That’s the beauty of the catatonic mind — it just isn’t predictable. One might decide to throw popcorn at a bus, and another might decide to axe his great aunt.
Louie
stole spoons. Simple.”