Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

I said yes. When she jumped to her feet—a boyish movement—and went into the kitchen, the poodle whined. I walked over to study the paintings. There was a seascape that could have been an original Winslow Homer, a print of Bellows' famous fight scene, a bamboo-framed Gauguin I'd never seen before, a confusion of vivid colors which might be a Miro, and several crude nudes in oil—the work of an amateur.

The crazy poodle suddenly charged across the room and hugged my leg. When I reached for his collar he growled, so I had to stand there while he jumped up and down on his shaved paws, looking for all the world like a tiny man in baggy pants. I called out, “Miss Fitzgerald, lover-poodle is at work again. Are you certain he won't bite?”

She came in with two simply huge glasses of frothy black beer and a plate of cheese on a plastic tray. Putting the tray down, she grabbed the dog, shook him. “Now stop it, you bloody pest Here.” She threw a hunk of cheese up in the air. The dog caught it expertly, sat around waiting for more. “That's all you get, Clichy.”

“How do you spell the mutt's name?” I asked, taking a beer. It was thick as syrup and very rich tasting.

“C-1-I-c-h-y. After the street in Paris where they purchased him.”

I was a bit relieved, for some reason, Matt hadn't been obvious and named him Cliche. “Very unusual beer. Imported?”

“From Austria. I love it. I'm hoping it will add a few pounds on me. But it hasn't to date, and I've been really hitting it. I figure I might as well use it up; don't know what's going to happen to the house and no sense in leaving such fine food around. Try the cheese, it's from Norway.”

I took a piece and sat down. It tasted like pure smoke. The poodle came over, his mind on food this time, and I tossed the rest of the cheese to him.

Miss Fitzgerald asked, “Have I been helpful, Mr. Connor?”

“What happened after Matt went to his den?”

“Oh, my, thought I'd finished with that dreadful day. Now where was I? I was making supper when the bell rang. I opened the door and there was a local cop with a detective from Riverside—that's the county seat. Had a Polish name I still can't even say. Looked like a detective too, you know, burly and... well... evil looking. I mean, a man without any feelings. I called Matt and they went into the den and I went back to my work. I kept waiting for Matt to tell me to serve supper and then the Hunters, I think it was Mrs. Hunter, she's a very nice person, she came in crying something awful and said Matt had confessed he had killed Fran. I couldn't believe it. I saw him as this detective was taking him away. Matt looked dazed, kind of sickly. The police came and questioned us all over again. Then, in the middle of the night, mind you, reporters started coming. The Hunters left about midnight. No trains then, I don't know how they got back to New York.”

“Did you hear Matt threaten his wife?”

“No. Like I told the police, I was upstairs when all that happened.”

“Do you think Matt murdered his wife?”

She shrugged and ate another piece of cheese. “Murder is a strong word. I think he might have lost his temper and hit Fran. As he confessed. I know they had an argument before over his wanting to skin-dive. Fran said it would be bad for his heart Of course, they argued all the time, but I never saw him strike her, or even slap her. I think all this arguing was a form of... well, kind of fun for them. They enjoyed it.”

I took another sip of the thick beer. “Argued about what?”

“Anything. It was part of their testing each other. I've read someplace there's a thin line between hate and love— they were on that line most of the time. Well, like this: Matt was always putting on this big sexy act. I've seen him—” She hesitated, stared at me.

I stared back at her. “What's the matter?”

“Well, I'm a little confused. You see I never talked... I suppose dirty is the word, until I started working here. I know it's childish to call it dirty, and while I want to sound worldly and all that, if I say what I want... don't get the wrong impression of me. That's not exactly what I mean but...”

I smiled at her. “Please tell me—”

“Don't smile! You make me feel like a child.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, talk anyway you wish. I promise not to get any wrong impressions.”

“Then I shall talk boldly—as I really want to. What I mean, about the Anthonys, Matt's big act... I've seen Fran bending over, you know, doing something, and he would come up and slip his hand under her skirt, pinch her behind. When she'd object Matt would say, 'You want me to find another can to play with? Be easy enough.' Shocked me at first, but I got used to them acting like blasted children. I shouldn't even call it sexy, he did it merely to annoy her. Like once I heard him get Fran hysterical during a bridge game by insisting she was frigid. Of course, she got back at him.”

“How?”

“Matt has a great sense of humor. He was always telling dirty jokes... some of them very funny. But she would tell him all he could do was joke about it. Her favorite gag was that Matt had joined the... eh... once-a-month-club. I've heard her say this in front of company. She would also goad him about being a show-off or make fun of his writing. Oh, Fran had a sharp tongue. So has Matt.”

I said, “A charming couple.”

“But I never thought they meant any of this. In their own way, they enjoyed baiting each other, and they were happy. Of course, it wouldn't be my idea of a happy marriage, but for them... it worked. They enjoyed fishing together and he was proud of the way Fran could handle a boat. If she was after him for spending too much money, a good deal of what he spent was on her. Early in June he had to go to New York to see his agent. Fran gave him a list of things for the house: screen for the fire place, brandy glasses, lawn seed— things like that. Buy them cheaper in New York than oat here. I remember she figured they would save eleven dollars. When he returned he had brought the things she wanted, along with a stunning mink stole. Matt said one of the department stores had been running a 'mink sale.' Fran bawled him out, even returned the mink... still, it was a nice gesture on Mart's part. Despite his hard talk he wasn't a tough man. Maybe you'd best call him an overgrown child.”

“Did he ever make a pass at you?”

“Why do you ask that?” She didn't sound angry or coy.

“Part of the background picture I'm trying to get of Matt Anthony,” I said, and wondered if it was true or was I enjoying myself as a gossip?

“I guess I'm about the only female out here he didn't try to make. He thinks of himself as a great lover, but I believe that's an act with him. He never asked me because, I suppose, I don't count, being colored.”

I had a mouthful of beer and almost choked as I asked, “Don't tell me Matt was prejudiced?”

“I don't want you to get the wrong impression,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “I mean, I was never interested in Matt—you know, as a man. As for prejudice, it was the kind he didn't realize he had. Let's say he was patronizing—which in the long run is the same bloody thing. I told you at the start, or meant to, that I don't understand Matt Anthony. He would do funny things. Sometimes on a rainy day he would drive me to town to shop. I guess he was bored hanging around the house. We might go to Hampton, Riverside— wherever he felt like driving. He would always make a point of stopping at some swank bar or cafe, and we'd go in for lunch or a drink. Naturally, we would cause plenty of open mouths and stares. If for no other reason because we might be wearing shorts, or he'd be sporting a dirty sweat shirt. There never was any incident, but he'd walk in as if ready to slug anybody who said a word. That was his way of testing civil rights, I suppose. Or his insisting I call him Matt.”

“That doesn't make him prejudiced.”

“He means well, but you see he never asked me if I wanted to go into those places. He acted as if I was a pet dog he was showing off. In fact, he never asked if I wanted lunch, he simply took me into a cafe. Around the house, be and Fran did things in front of me because to them I wasn't a person, merely something in the kitchen. My God, he was always talking race relations to me and all that, but remember I was his maid.” She was silent for a moment, blowing smoke rings. Then she smiled, added, “I don't want to sound too hard on him, I suppose in his own way he was trying to... well, help.”

I couldn't think of anything else to ask. I stood up, asked, “May I see the dock?”

“Sure.”

I followed her out on the veranda. She pointed to a worn path that entered the pine trees. “Follow that. It isn't far. I don't like to leave the house—some of those blasted reporters might break in. Be careful in the woods, there's a lot of rocks. Matt was always going to take them up but never got around to it.”

Glancing through the glass wall of the living room. I pointed to the poodle with his front paws up on the table, eating the rest of the cheese.

May Fitzgerald sighed. “He's a sly thief. I hope the cheese doesn't give him the runs, the pest.”

I said I'd be back soon and followed the path. The 'woods' weren't more than a dozen yards thick and in the late afternoon sun, dark and delightfully cool. Stepping out of the trees I found myself on a white sandy beach with a magnificent view. This was a corner of the bay, and most of it except the beach, densely wooded. I saw POSTED signs all around the bend in the bay. If all the land was Mart's, it was like owning a private ocean, although of course one side opened upon the rest of the bay, or maybe it was the Sound. This was indeed real luxury.

A plain, square, white, wooden house decorated with old anchors and fishing nets was at the beach end of a neat dock. Tied to the other end of the dock was this sleek, powerful, black and red fishing boat with tall outriggers, swivel chairs and a day cabin. It looked about 30 feet long and like a dream. But the boat that attracted my attention was a plain rowboat sitting high on the beach, its canvas covered outboard raised. I walked across the sand to stare at the small dent on one side, where Francine had broken her head. I don't know what I expected, it wasn't much of a dent. But I was surprised the police had left the boat here.

Then I sat on the dock and smoked my pipe, staring at the clear water, the tiny waves as the tide came in. The place was so completely private I was tempted to take a nude swim. If Matt ever had to sell this, Frank Kuhn would be mad about it—clamming, fishing, swimming, your boat and dock, all in your own backyard. Although Frank wouldn't have this kind of money, or would he? At least $50,000. If I had that type of dough I'd buy it—it was a ghoulish thought.

Finishing my pipe, I looked into the bathing house. There was a shower, dressing stalls, lockers, and a small bar and kitchen. The walls were covered with garish paintings, originals of Matt's many book jackets, although The Last Supper painting wasn't among them. I saw towels and trunks hanging in an open locker. I quickly stripped and took a fast swim. It was quite out of this world, the bottom smooth and sandy, the water very salty and cool.

Toweling myself dry, I wondered who had last worn these trunks. Too small to be Matt's. I dressed and started back toward the house, feeling very good. I nearly sprawled on my face in the pines when I stumbled over a damn rock. My pipe flew out of my hand and it took me a lot of minutes to find it in the dark shade, with scores of little bugs clouding about me. I felt dirty and sweaty all over again.