Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

He suddenly came up on Francine, walking toward the main house. She was wearing a floppy straw hat that they had bought in Haiti and an old Italian sports shirt over her bathing suit. She was holding her fishing gear. Matt asked with real annoyance, “Where did you come from?”

“I forgot my spinning reel and... what's in the box?”

“Nothing much. Tools, oarlocks... a few things I ordered last week,” Matt said, walking past her, shielding the box with his body.

“We don't need oarlocks. Come back here, Matt.”

He kept walking. She said, “You louse, you have a case of gin in there!” Francine turned to run after him. She fell over a root, and unable to break the fall because her hands were full of tackle, she cracked her head on a large rock imbedded at the side of the rough path. The big hat didn't even touch the rock but her skull and the stone made a dull sound.

Matt dropped the box, raced back to her. He said, “Honey, are...?” as he started to lift Francine, then let the body fall again. Her head hit the stone once more—hardly any sound this time—and Matt jumped back in horror: he knew she was dead.

Matt was dazed. He stared at the body and couldn't believe what he saw. He knelt beside her and felt the back of her neck. He massaged the pulse-less wrists, turned Francine over gently and started to put his hand under her bathing suit to feel for a heart beat, but the unseeing open eyes stopped him. She wasn't stunned or hurt, she was dead.

Matt was numbed, shocked, grief-stricken: he began to weep—a little. And under all these emotions there was another one pushing its way to the top of his mind—relief. For a second the tears came, and he seemed to be kneeling in prayer and crying. But the more he stared at her body, the stronger an entirely new thought grew—one which filled him with fear and horror. He mumbled half aloud, Joel would break under any kind of questioning and Wilma—she'd hold it over me the rest of my life. No, there's only one thing to do and I have to do it damn fast—make it look “Nobody will ever believe this was an accident! The Hunters heard me say I'd kill Francine a short time ago... 'She tripped and hit her head on a rock....' No, no, oh, my God no! I wouldn't believe that myself. I'm in a hell of a jam unless... unless what? Can I make the Hunters forget they heard me threaten her? more like an accident.”

He stood up, studied the body, the ground: he was thinking clearly, the top-flight mystery writer looking for a plot witch. The rods weren't touched. Her canvas shoes hadn't been torn by the root. He pulled back the floppy hat: there was a suggestion of blood on her lips and nose but no blood on either the rock or the ground. Her forehead was discolored and of a queer shape, like a cracked egg. Matt turned the hat down over her eyes.

“Don't understand why there isn't any blood,” Matt told himself, “But it's a break. Now... Fran must have told the Hunters she was going fishing. Okay, she stood up to cast, lost her balance, struck her head on the side of the boat, fell over and drowned? No, that's out, any medical examiner could prove she was dead before she hit the water. Suppose she's found hanging over the side of the boat, just her face resting on the water? That would hold up, hitting the side of the boat would be the cause of death, not drowning. Sure, she stood up to cast, lost her balance, hit her head. Would such a blow cause death? Hell, it had to, it did! What's my alibi? Do I need one? May probably heard me drive up in the car even if the Hunters didn't. But no reason for May to check the time I arrived. As for the Hunters, they're half-bagged, shouldn't be hard to confuse them on a time lapse of a half hour. Can I work that corny bit of changing and rechanging the clocks I used in the old pulps? I'll think of... damn, wonder if anyone else is fishing in this end of the bay? Although I can swim out and back underwater with my outfit!”

Matt picked up the cardboard box and ran to the boat-house—the bay was empty. He ran back and picked up Fran-cine, carried her down to the little rowboat beached on the sand. He raced back and picked up the fishing gear, carefully studied the ground in the shade of the pine trees. He ran back, his heart pounding. He quickly put an old reel on Francine's rod, hooked and baited the line. Matt thought: Damn, good I posted all the land around here, little chance of anyone seeing me—although always a chance of some dumb kid being in the woods. I don't have to worry about fingerprints, I've often used her tackle. Now—what made her trip? A shoe lace caught on the broken duckboards. Poor Fran, always after me to fix them. Then her head would hit about... here. Would it make a dent in the wooden gunwale?” I think so. But have I the guts to bang Fran's head against the boat?

Matt quickly stripped nude, found a large rock on the sandy bottom of the water, a rock almost as large and smooth as a skull. He took careful aim and banged it on the gunwale, slightly crushing the wood. It seemed to make a terrific sound and Matt froze for a second, waiting to see if the noise brought anybody on the run.

For a horrible, fleeting moment, his nerves started to snap, like the rubber bands flying off an open golf ball. He forced himself to be calm as he thought: I have to get this over with. If anybody sees me now, this second, I'm cooked. Oh, my God, I have to be careful. I must think clearly... so very very clearly. And I must work fast.

Throwing the rock as far out into the bay as he could, Matt then washed the beaten wood to remove any particles of rock or sand. Feeling sick to his quivering stomach he deposited Fran's body on the seat and worked a shoelace under the duckboard. With sudden inspiration he jerked her canvas shoe hard enough to snap the lace, leaving part of it still entwined in the boards. Taking the bailing can, he doused the shoe and lace with water to remove any prints. The sun would soon dry the shoe. Beside, a damp shoe was common in a rowboat.

Racing time, Matt put on the face mask and tested the air tanks. They worked fine. Strapping the big rubber flippers on his feet, Matt next put the anchor in the front of the boat, after first dragging the rope through the water to remove the sand. Then, pushing the boat free of the beach, he was about to pull the outboard down into the water and start it... but yanked his hand back as if he had touched a flame. “That was close!” he whispered to himself. “Real dumb! Motor makes such a racket it might have been heard at the house. Damn, I have to think, think clearly.”

He started swimming, one hand holding the bow of the boat, swimming and drifting out with the tide, carefully checking the bay and the boat. “There's only two holes in this,” Matt told himself. “Somebody can be watching me from the lousy woods. And the post office clerk in Hampton might remember my getting the package, even under a phony name. Knowing I have this diving outfit could make the cops suspicious... nothing I can do about it now but chance it. Oh, God.”

Several hundred yards from the shore, Fran's favorite spot for King fish, Matt pulled the anchor over. He let out some fishing ling, and on further thought, released the brake on the reel so the line went out with the tide: Fran would have had the reel free when she started to cast. Next, Matt adjusted the mask on his face and the air intake. Closing his eyes he reached up, nearly tipping the boat, cupped his free hand around the back of her head... opening his eyes he brought the front of her skull down exactly where the rock had hit the side of the boat.

Her body hung over the side of the boat, the floppy hat resting on the water, one limp hand in the water. The fishing rod stuck out at a crazy angle from under her bent body. Matt swam to the stern and pulled the tilted outboard so that the propeller was in the water. Then, floating on his back, he slowly ran his eyes over the boat, checking every detail— his heart pounding so he wondered if he was about to have an attack. The weight of her body made the rowboat list to that side, but there wasn't any danger of it tipping, nor of the corpse falling overboard. The anchor was holding, and swimming closer he saw traces of blood and hair in the smashed wood.

For a long moment Matt stared at his wife, at the body he had enjoyed and tormented so often. His grief and sorrow twisted his stomach into a knot. He swam over and held on to the anchor rope, pulled off the glass face plate and gave up. A moment later his strength and calm returned and he submerged and swam toward the shore. His nose was bleeding slightly as he stood up on the beach and his ears ached. He carefully spread the mask and oxygen tanks on the docks to dry. As he walked up and down, letting the sun warm and dry his skin, he thought: Perhaps tomorrow I'll drive back to Hampton, hang around the post office. No way the clerk can place the exact day when the box arrived. Or is there? It was insured. Why am I worrying about the damn package so much?

Dressing, he debated whether it would be best to hide the lung in the boat house, or take it back to the car trunk. He could always say Fran had known all about his ordering the skin diving outfit. Then why under a pen name? But then he had checking accounts under his several writing names... Matt decided to hide the box in the sail locker but it worried him. Somehow, he had a feeling the aqua-lung was the weak link in things.

Walking back toward the house, he nearly fainted when passing the spot where Fran had fallen; but forced himself to study it for a moment, then walked on—rapidly. Exactly forty-seven minutes had elapsed. And Joel Hunter was still sleeping on the beach mat and Wilma snoozing in the chair. Matt sat (gently) in another chair, noticing with relief that neither of them was wearing a watch. He wanted a drink real badly, looked at the cocktail shaker but didn't touch it As Matt picked up a magazine from the wrought iron table, the poodle stretched and yawned, came over and sniffed at Matt's legs. Matt glanced at the house. May? But afternoons were her hardest time. Of course, she might have looked out of the window, might have even noticed him sitting down just now... Still, there was little chance of May being certain of the time. Matt thought: Hell with May, let me set up the Hunters. Use the time switch I had in the first Inspector O'Cohen book. Jeez, so damn much hinges on this play.

Matt pushed the poodle so his hind legs touched Joel. Joel blinked. Shielding his sleepy, drunken eyes with a slim hand he said, “Oh, it's you, Matt. Want to take a swim?”

“Where's Fran?”

“Fishing. What a delicious day. The sun is just exquisite.”

Matt glanced at his watch—holding up his wrist for Joel to see—knowing he was too far away for Joel to make out the hands. It was 3:27 p.m. as Matt said casually, “It's only a quarter to three. Why not wait until Fran returns?”

Joel nodded and Matt opened the magazine. After staring up at the clean sky for a moment, Joel dozed off. Matt glanced at Wilma—she was still sleeping. He watched the even movements of her chest and smiled into the magazine. He thought: This sure changes things. Poor Fran was right, no sense in having Hank around too much. Risky. I'll try to help him,... whatever way I can and... I can't even fully realize yet what this does mean. Why, I can get married again! First I'll take a trip to Europe, fruit around, then settle down with a young babe. Oh, God, I sound like an old roue. I need a drink, but bad.

At exactly 3:30 P.M. he picked up a pebble, tossed it at Wilma's bare stomach, pretended he was reading. Wilma sat up, pushing her breasts out as she stretched. She tasted her tongue, ran a hand over her thighs. She said, “I feel dehydrated—if that's the right word. Anything left in the shaker?”