We stared at each other for a minute.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “That must have been it. She must have been in love.”
Ithought of Idella after Martin fell asleep that night. Deluded in the most cruel way, Idella had died at the hands of someone she loved, someone of whom she could believe no evil, no matter how compelling the evi- dence. In a way, I thought drowsily, Idella had been like me . . . she’d been alone for a while, coping with her life on her own. Maybe that had made her all too ready to trust, to depend. It had cost her everything. I prayed for her, for her children, and finally for Martin and me. I must have coasted off into sleep, because the next thing I was aware of was waking. I woke up just a lit- tle, though; just enough to realize I’d been asleep, just enough to realize something unusual had roused me. I could hear someone moving very quietly down- stairs. Martin must be getting a drink and doesn’t want to disturb me—so sweet, I thought drowsily, and turned over on my stomach, pillowing my face on my bent arms. My elbow touched something solid. Martin.
My eyes opened wide in the darkness.
I froze, listening.
The slight sound from downstairs was repeated. I au- tomatically reached out to the night table for my glasses and put them on.
I could see the darkness much more clearly.
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I slid out of bed as silently as I could, my slithery black nightgown actually of some practical use, and crept to the head of the stairs. Maybe it was Madeleine? Had I fed her before we came up to bed? But Madeleine was in her usual night place, curled on the little cushioned chair by the window, and she was sitting up, her head turned to the doorway. I could see the profile of her ears against the faint light of the streetlamp a block north on Parson Road, coming in through the blinds.
I glided back to the bed, very careful not to stumble over scattered clothes and shoes.
“Martin,” I whispered. I leaned over my side of the bed and touched his arm. “Martin, there’s trouble. Wake up.”
“What?” he answered instantly, quietly. “Someone downstairs.”
“Get behind the chair,” he said almost inaudibly, but very urgently.
I heard him get out of bed, heard him—just barely heard him—feeling in his overnight bag. I was ready to disobey and take my part in grabbing the intruder—after all, this was my house—when I saw in that little bit of glow from the streetlight that Martin was holding a gun.
Well, it did seem time to get behind something. Ac- tually, the chair felt barely adequate all of a sudden. I left Madeleine right where she was. Not only would she very probably have yowled if I’d grabbed her, but I trusted her survival instincts far more than mine. I strained as hard as I could to hear but detected only some tiny suggestions of movement—maybe Mar-
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tin going to the head of the stairs. Despite the dreadful hammering of my heart, I said a few earnest prayers. My legs were shaking from fear and the cramped crouching position I’d assumed.
I willed myself to be still. It worked only a little, but I could hear some sounds coming up the stairs. This in- truder was no skilled stalker.
I found I was more frightened of what Martin might do than I was of the intruder. Only slightly, though. I heard the someone enter the room. I covered my face with my hands.
And the lights came on.
“Stop right there,” Martin said in a deadly voice. “I have a gun pointed at your back.”
I peeked around the chair. Sam Ulrich was standing inside the room with his back to Martin, who was pressed against the wall by the light switch. Ulrich had a length of rope in one hand, some wide masking tape in the other. His face was livid with shock and excite- ment. Mounting my stairs must have been pretty heart- pounding for him, too.
“Turn around,” Martin said. Ulrich did. “Sit on the end of the bed,” Martin said next. The burly ex-Pan- Am Agra executive inched back and sat down. Slowly I got up from my place behind the chair, finding out that during those few moments I’d spent there, my muscles had become strained and sore from the tension. My legs were shaking, and I decided sitting in the chair would be a good idea. My robe was draped over the back of it, and I pulled it on. Madeleine had vanished, doubtless irritated at having her night’s sleep so rudely interrupted.
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“Are you all right, Roe?” Martin asked. “Okay,” I said shakily.
We stared at our captive. I had a thought. “Martin, where did you park when you came tonight? Are you in your car?”
“No,” he said slowly. “No, I parked out back in one of the parking slots, but I’m in a company car. I don’t like to leave my car parked at the airport.” “So he didn’t know you were here,” I observed. Martin absorbed that quickly. From looking per- plexed and angry, his expression went to murderous. “What were you going to do with the rope and the tape, Sam?” he asked very quietly.
I felt all the blood drain from my face. I hadn’t fol- lowed through on my own idea until Martin asked that critical question.
“You son of a bitch, I was going to hurt you like you hurt me,” Sam Ulrich said savagely.
“I didn’t rape your wife.”
“I wasn’t going to rape her,” he said, as if I weren’t there. “I was going to scare her and leave her tied up so you’d know what it was like to see your family helpless.” “Your logic escapes me,” Martin said, and his voice was like a brand-new razor blade.
I knew this was a quarrel between the two men, but after all, it was I who would have been tied up. “Didn’t you feel it might be a little cowardly,” I said clearly, “to creep up in the dark and tie up a woman who wasn’t even your real enemy?”
It seemed Sam Ulrich had never put it to himself quite that way. He turned even redder in a slow, ugly way.
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“I’d like to kill you,” Martin said very quietly. I didn’t doubt his sincerity, and I could tell from the hunch of his shoulders that Ulrich didn’t, either. Mar- tin, even in pajama bottoms, had more authority than Sam Ulrich would have had in a suit. “But since it’s Roe’s house you broke into, and her you were going to harm, maybe she should decide what should happen to you.”
I knew that Martin would kill this man if I asked him to.
I thought of calling the police. I thought of cops I knew from having dated Arthur, perhaps even Arthur himself, up here in my bedroom looking at me in my black nightie. I thought of their eyes as they found out Martin and I had been asleep together when I heard someone downstairs. I thought of the report taken from the police blotter that appeared daily in the Lawrenceton Sentinel. Then I thought of letting this dreadful coward go scot-free. But my flesh crawled when I pictured myself alone here with this frustrated man and his rope and his tape.
And I’ll tell you what I just plain liked about Martin. He let me think. He didn’t say one word, or look impa- tient, or even make a face.
“Do you have a wife?” I asked Sam Ulrich. “Yes,” he mumbled.
“Children?”
“Two.”
“What are their names?”
He looked more and more humiliated. “Jannie and Lisa,” he said reluctantly.
“Jannie and Lisa wouldn’t like to see their father’s
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name in the paper for attacking an unarmed woman in her home.”
I thought that between anger and humiliation he might cry.
I got a pen and a notepad from my bedside drawer. “Write,” I said.
He took the pen and paper.
“Date it.”
He wrote the date.
“I am dictating this now. Start writing,” I told him. “I, Sam Ulrich, broke into the townhouse of Aurora Teagarden tonight . . .” His hand finally moved. When it stopped, I continued. “I had with me some rope and masking tape.
” Done. “She was asleep in bed with all the lights out, and I did not know anyone was in the townhouse with her.” His fingers moved even slower. “I was only prevented by her house guest from doing her harm. If I do not abide by the conditions she sets forth, she will send this letter to the police, with a copy to my wife.” And as he finished writing, I told him to sign it.
He waited to hear my conditions.
“What I want to see is your house up for sale tomor- row, and for God’s sake don’t list it with Select Realty. And I want you out of here, moved, family and all, within the week. I never want you to come back here, and I never want to see you again. You may not get a job like you’re used to, but anything, I think, would be better than being in jail for what you wanted to do to me.”
Martin’s face was blank.
Ulrich was so upset his features were distorted. I
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wondered if between rage, and relief, and shock, he would have a heart attack on the way home, and I found myself not much caring if he did. “Martin, could you please walk Mr. Ulrich to his car?”
“Sure, honey,” Martin agreed, with a dangerous kind of smoothness. “Come on, Ulrich. You’re lucky I asked the lady. I would have put you in the hospital if it had been up to me.”
Or the morgue, I thought.
Sam Ulrich rose slowly. He took a step forward and then stopped. He was afraid to go closer to Martin. He was not such a fool as he looked. Martin moved back, and Ulrich preceded him down the stairs. I heard the back door open and close, and wondered if I’d left it unlocked when we’d gone upstairs for the night. I didn’t think so. Not a very good lock. I’d get a better one.
Being left alone for a few minutes was a great relief, and I burst into tears and tried very hard not to picture myself at the mercy of the man now being marched to his car.
I was rinsing my face at the sink, the cold water making me shudder, when Martin returned. I saw his reflection in the mirror beside mine.
“You’ve been crying,” he said very gently, putting his gun on my vanity table, where it lay looking as out of place as a rattlesnake. I turned and put my arms around him. His bare chest was cold from the outside air, and I rubbed my cheek against him. “He’s driving home,” he said, answering a question I was scared to ask.
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“Martin,” I said, “if you hadn’t been here . . .” “You would have called 911, because I wouldn’t have been between you and the phone,” he said practi- cally. “They would have been here in two minutes, maximum, and you would have been fine.”
“So this doesn’t count as a rescue?” I asked shakily. “We’re even on this one. You kept me from doing something stupid to him. I would hate to have to spend the night down at the police station because of Sam Ul- rich. You saved his family, too.”
“Martin. Let’s just get in bed and pile all the blan- kets on, and you can hold me.”
I was trembling from head to toe. I realized, as I lay with my eyes wide open in the dark, that I had had to wait to find that Sam Ulrich had left in his own car— alive—before I could let myself have the luxury of re- laxing, believing the incident was over. Martin was awake, too, listening. I didn’t think Ulrich was stupid enough to come back; he should be in his own bed counting his blessings.
I began to count my own.
At least Martin didn’t try to get to the plant early on Saturday, but he felt he should go in, especially since he’d been out of town. “I think my weekend hours will decrease now things are beginning to shape up at this plant,” he told me over our morning coffee, “especially now that I have a reason to stay away.” I tried to smile back, but my attempt must have been a miserable failure.
“Roe,” he said seriously, “it’s me that got you into
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the trouble last night, and for that I am so sorry. He wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t for me. I hope you don’t hate me for that.”
“No,” I said, surprised. “No, never think it. I’m just tired, and it was very upsetting. And you know—you do have to tell me why you brought a gun when you came to spend the night with me.”
“I’ve had a hard life,” Martin said after a moment. “I have a job that requires me to do difficult things to other people, people like Ulrich.”
I closed my eyes briefly. This was all probably true, as far as it went. “All right,” I said. “Do you think you’ll feel like going to that banquet tonight?”
I’d forgotten all about it. Of course, I wasn’t wild about going, but on the other hand, when I pictured my mother asking me why we hadn’t come, I just couldn’t come up with a believable excuse. “I guess so,” I said unenthusiastically. “I’d rather drag myself there than think about last night.” “Don’t forget to wear your hair up,” Martin re- minded me later as he gathered all his things to stow in his company car. “What time should I come by?” “I think cocktails start at six thirty.” “Six thirty it is. Dressy?”
“Yes. Everyone can bring two other couples as guests, so there’s usually a decent crowd, and there’s a speaker.” I was leaning on the door frame, and Martin was halfway to his car when he dropped the things he was carrying and came back. He held my hand. “You aren’t off me because of last night?” He looked at me steadily as he asked.
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I shook my head slowly, trying to analyze what I did feel, why things seemed so grim. “I just realized I’d taken on more than I’d anticipated,” I said, giving him the condensed version.
He looked at me quizzically. I was so tired that my judgment was impaired, and I went on. “You’re a dan- gerous man, Martin,” I said.
“Not to you,” he told me. “Not to you.” Especially to me, I thought, as I watched him drive away.
had completely forgotten to make an appointment to Iget my hair put up. Of course, all the hairdressers who were open on Saturday were fully booked. But with some wheedling and bribing, I got my mother’s regular woman to stay open late to work with my mane. I would be done barely in time for the dinner. That suited me just fine. I climbed wearily up my stairs and went back to bed. It was becoming a habit. When I woke again at two o’clock, the gray day didn’t look any more inviting, but I felt much better. I decided to cram the night before into a mental closet for the time being, to take some pleasure in going to a social function in Lawrenceton with Martin for the first time. I was human enough to relish the anticipa- tion of eyebrows lifted, of envious women. I was con- vinced any woman with hormones would want Martin. I even turned on my exercise tape and got at least halfway through it before getting fed up with the dicta- torial instructress. Madeleine watched me, as usual, her eyes round and disbelieving. She followed me upstairs
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for my shower, watched me put on my makeup and dry my hair. I changed my sheets, too, and ran a carpet sweeper over the bedroom hurriedly.
I would be running so short on time I decided to put on everything but the actual dress before I left for my hair appointment. So I looked through my closets. I’d wear the dress I’d worn the year before. Martin hadn’t seen it, even if everyone else had, and I’d only worn it that once. It was green, and after simple long sleeves and a scoop neck, the bodice descended to a point in front, and the short skirt flounced out in gathers all around. I’d have to wear black heels . . . I needed some of those shiny lamé-looking shoes that were so popular now, but I didn’t have the energy or time to go shop- ping. Black would have to do. I had a little black eve- ning purse, too. So I put on the right bra and slip and hose, and a dress that buttoned down the front over them.
I hurried out to my car and started across town to my mother’s hairdresser. I’d looked up an address be- fore leaving home, and I took a little detour. There was the Ulrich house, a three-bedroom ranch style in one of
Lawrenceton’s prettier middle-class neighborhoods. And there was a for sale sign in the yard.
Chapter Fourteen
A
ìHow do you want it done?” Benita asked briskly. It was clearly the end of a long day for her. Her own red hair was wild and dark at the roots, and the beige-and-blue uniform all the operators at Clip Casa wore was rumpled and—well, hairy.
“Could you do it like this?” I’d spent my waiting time leafing through professional magazines. “Yes,” Benita said briefly after a thorough look at the enigmatically smiling model, and set to work. It was one of those hairdos with the braid miracu- lously inside-out. French braiding, I thought it was called. I’d never understood how that was done, and now it was about to be accomplished on my very own head. In the picture the model’s hair wasn’t pulled back tightly but puffed around her face. The length of hair at the base of the neck was also braided, and the model had a ribbon around the end. I had no fancy bows, but ~ 192 ~
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Benita had some for sale, including a gold lamé one I thought would be pretty. I didn’t know if Martin would like the hairstyle, but it struck me as very fashionable. Plus, it didn’t seem possible that my hair could come loose, as all too often happened when I put it up myself. “Roe,” drawled a voice close by, and I recognized the apparition under the dryer as my beautiful friend Lizanne Buckley.
“I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!” I said happily. “How are you doing?”
“Just fine,” said Lizanne in her slow sweet way. “And you?”
“Pretty good. What have you been doing?” “Oh, I’m still down at the power company,” she said contentedly. “And I’m still dating our local representa- tive.”
Lawyer J. T. (Bubba) Sewell, whom I’d met in a pro- fessional capacity, would be home from the Capitol for the weekend, and he and Lizanne were also going to the Realtors’ banquet, she told me. In fact, Bubba was the speaker.
“Are you two engaged?” I asked. “That’s what someone told me, but I wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
Lizanne smiled. She had a habit of that. She was stunningly beautiful, and no slave to the bone-thin convention of female figures. She was just right. “Oh, I expect we are,” she said.
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