Murder Comes to Eden

by Zenith Brown

  “Then don’t tell Lucy. And watch it yourself. You’re probably right in there, in his gallery of rural types—along with all the rest of us.”

  He turned, listening. “If you’re going to call Mag, better do it. The kids are coming back. I don’t want them to hear any more of this than they have to.”

  “Okay.” When he came back he’d taken off his coat and was rolling up his sleeves. “Mag says why not let me bring the kids over to our place? Sorta out of the way a while. Ours’d love to have ’em.”

  “Thanks, Joe. That’d be a break.” About the only break so far, that day.

  “I’ll collect ’em. We’ve got everything they need, Mag says.” He started through the house and turned back. “And Spig . . . if you get in a jam . . . I mean, if you need any quick dough, for a first-rate lawyer, or anything . . .”

  “Thanks. May do. I’ll let you know, Joe.”

  He watched Cameron go with a lift of one ginger eyebrow. Or was it O’Leary who’d better be more worried then he was. He’d told Anita the coup de grâce in Ashton’s final collapse was hers rather than his, but he hadn’t told it to Yerby or the doctor or to Cameron. Maybe that was a mistake, too. He sat down and took out a cigarette.

  “Daddy.”

  “Oh, hallo, Tip. I thought you’d gone with——”

  “No.” Tip came on around. “I’ve got work to do.” He looked bewildered and not very happy. “Could . . . could I talk to you a minute, Daddy?”

  “Of course. Why don’t you sit down a while?”

  Tip sat tentatively on the edge of a chair, poking at the edge of a flagstone with his foot, not looking at his father.

  “What is it, son?”

  “Why . . . why did Mother go away with Mr. Dunning, Daddy?”

  O’Leary drew a deep inner breath. “Maybe we didn’t handle things very well, Tip,” he said. “She’s got a right to have her own friends.”

  “Not Mr. Dunning, Daddy. He’s . . . he’s a bad man. Miss Fairlie says so.”

  “I don’t know how she’d know that, Tip.”

  “Because when Kitsy told her about Lucy and the movie she said Mr. Dunning wasn’t at any movie with Lucy. He was over at her house then.”

  Spig sat forward abruptly. “At Eden?”

  Tip nodded. “Outside the office, painting. He had his stool and everything.”

  “Painting? In the dark?”

  “It isn’t so dark. The moon’s up late, and the river makes it sort of light, with the stars all out. And those glasses he carries around, they’re like the ones they used in the war for night patrol. I told Miss Fairlie he was over here to see Mother, but she said it was later when he came to Eden—one o’clock. And he stayed till after three, she said. She was watching him all the time.”

  O’Leary felt a chill prickle at the base of his spine.

  “I don’t like that very much,” he said.

  “I don’t like it at all. He’s not going to paint Miss Fairlie. I’ll ki——”

  “Wait a minute,” Spig said. “That’s plenty of that. We’re not talking about killing anybody. Not any more.”

  The child’s eyes were hot, his face sullen.

  “Look, Tip. It’s wrong to say that sort of thing. I’m not going to preach at you—I’m just going to tell you what happened to me to-day. I lost my head and told your Uncle Stan I was going to kill him. He had an attack and died. Now Anita’s trying to have me arrested. She says I killed him. I said that because he was going to sell the place over there and I was trying to stop him. I couldn’t have gone about it in a stupider way. Now he’s dead Anita’s going to sell to an even worse crowd, as far as Eden’s Neck’s concerned. So it didn’t get me any place, along with the rest of it. It just doesn’t work, Tip.”

  “But . . . Uncle Stan couldn’t sell the place, Dad. He promised he wouldn’t, when we gave it to them.”

  “He wasn’t keeping his promise. People forget. That’s what Judge Twohey told me a long time ago.”

  “But we wouldn’t, Dad. Not when Miss Fairlie’s been so——”

  “No. We wouldn’t. Or I don’t think we would. But maybe if we didn’t like it here and somebody offered us a lot of money . . .”

  Tip shook his head. “That would be wrong, Dad.”

  “I know it would. I’m just telling you, that’s all. In a pinch people can always find a lot of reasons for making wrong look right. Like your saying you’ll kill Dunning. It’s wrong, no matter how right you think your reasons are.”

  Tip contemplated that for a moment before he got up. “Well,” he said. “I guess there’s one thing. We don’t have to worry about Molly A., do we, any more?”

  Spig looked at him inquiringly. He hadn’t even thought of the child in terms of her father’s death.

  “I mean, Kitsy thinks we ought to adopt her, like the Potters’ girls,” Tip said. “To make sure she belongs to us. Can you adopt children that are your own relations, Daddy?”

  “We’ll see. I don’t think we have to worry about it.”

  “Not unless Lucy thinks we want her. That’s why none of the kids like Lucy. She’s sort of mean. Like Ginny Potter was going steady with Charlie Sudley, and that’s why Lucy . . . The kids say she doesn’t want anything she can’t get away from somebody else. Nobody trusts her. She tells awful lies. Like the time . . .”

  He broke off, listening. “There’s a car. Maybe it’s Mother!” His face lighted.

  “All right. Scoot. But mind your manners, Tip.”

  And you mind your own, O’Leary.

  He waited, listening a moment before he followed through the hyphen. She was there getting out of the car, laughing, Dunning holding the door. (How long since O’Leary had bothered even to reach over and open it for her?) He saw her go to Tip quickly and bend down to kiss him. As she straightened up, her arm still around his shoulders, Spig caught his breath. She was always lovely, but in her dark green silk suit and small, green hat and white gloves, not just Molly in blue jeans or a sweater and skirt dressed for Plumtree Cove but a lady dressed for town, slender as a spear of goldenrod, her hair as bright and shining in the sun, she seemed suddenly remote, urban, chic and sophisticated, of a different world, no well pits to pump, dishes to wash, grimy kids to feed. As Anita said. He forgot it was the way she always impressed him, a part of her infinite variety that custom could not stale, and that his heart always stood still an instant when he saw her after he’d been away from her for a day. And there was Dunning, not in his paint-spotted denims but immaculately tailored, goat’s beard trimmed, even distinguished-looking in a casual way O’Leary was forced reluctantly to admit—O’Leary, still trailing cobwebs from the cellar window, not even having bothered to shower and put on a pair of fresh shorts.

  “Hi, Spig!” Dunning’s bright eyes dissected him, missing nothing, as he came towards them on the drive, trying to look as amiable as possible. “We’ve had a wonderful time. Missed you, except you’d have been bored to death, we both decided.”

  “Hi, darling.” Cool and remote was Mrs. O’Leary. She’d been laughing up to then.

  “Will you come in and have a drink? There’s some Scotch around some place, I think?”

  O’Leary, also casual, was fooling the Tattoo Artist not at all.

  “I much prefer rum.” Dunning’s black eyes above the black beard sparkled with mischief. “But a rain check, if I may. I’ll leave you dear people to yourselves a while. Thanks again, Molly. See you soon. Don’t forget—to-morrow at ten.”

  He glanced at Tip, headed stolidly for his garden. “Shall I go the long way? Or will the Lord Proprietor give me royal leave to pass? Still, what’s a clod or two when the weather’s dry? Good-bye . . . good-bye, my loves.”

  He set out between the cedars across the field to the trail through the woods.

  “Tip tells me you’ve sent the other kids to the Camerons’,” Molly said. “Thoughtful of you. But I’ve had a lovely day. I don’t want a row even if they aren’t around to hear it. S
o if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go take off my one good dress.”

  She went coolly past him, treading carefully not to scar the heels of her one good pair of shoes in the gravel.

  O’Leary flushed. Okay. The hell with it.

  “Dad.”

  He hadn’t heard Tip come back.

  “I guess I’ll go over to Miss Fairlie’s. I’ll stay to supper. She’ll be glad to have me.”

  “Okay, Tip.”

  “And Daddy . . . don’t be mad.” He ran then, calling the dog.

  O’Leary took a deep breath, relaxing a little before he went along to the house, waiting outside till he heard Molly coming down the stairs.

  “Molly.”

  She stopped, taut, her hand on the banister, eyes green, the flecks in them molten gold.

  “Molly, I’m sorry. I was a damned fool.”

  “That’s quite all right. Let’s skip it, shall we?”

  “We can skip that, if you want to. But there’s something else we can’t. I’ve got some bad news. It’s pretty lousy, Molly. Maybe we’d better go and sit down and both of us try to keep our temper. Tip’s gone to Miss Fairlie’s.”

  He opened the door of the old cottage and waited till she came across the hall. She was walking rigidly, wooden as a doll.

  “It’s not Molly A.? Nobody’s taking——”

  “No.”

  She sat down at the far end of the long sofa against the wall, looking straight ahead of her. “I can stand anything but that,” she said tightly. “What is it?”

  “It’s the Ashtons. Stan’s dead, Molly.”

  “Stan . . .” She stared at him. “Stan Ashton? Why . . . Why didn’t you tell Art? Why——”

  “Because he knew it already. This morning. Before he came for you.”

  Her eyes were blank, drained grey-green.

  “No . . . he didn’t. He couldn’t have . . .”

  “Lucy told him.”

  The gold flecks flared hot again. “Who says so? Lucy? Lucy wouldn’t tell the truth to save her own soul. Just because you loathe Art Dunning——”

  “Stop it!”

  O’Leary caught himself sharply. “I’m sorry. Maybe she didn’t tell him. Her mother told her to, but I guess she didn’t. She was sticking too close to the living-room door. I should have thought of that. I guess I was just too sore at his taking my girl to give him a break.”

  He was sitting hunched forward, his hands between his knees, and didn’t see her face start to soften.

  “If he had one coming,” he added, and she stiffened abruptly again, waiting.

  “But I guess I’d better give it to you straight. It isn’t easy.”

  It was harder than he’d thought, with her sitting there like a rocket ready to flare up. He hunched forward again, looking at his hands.

  “I met Sudley coming home yesterday. He told me Ashton was selling.”

  “Selling?”

  “Selling the place to a gambling outfit. Dunning does know that. I heard him talking to Mag Cameron on my way through here to your party yesterday. But we’ll skip that. I don’t want to quarrel about him any more. Anita says he’s fallen in love with you and he’s playing for keeps. She also says I haven’t a chance, and maybe she’s right. As a lover I guess I’m pretty much of a failure—the same as I’ve been in the rest of this deal. Anita’s trying to get Yerby to arrest me for Stan’s murder.”

  “Stan’s murder . . . ?” It was a dry, incredulous whisper coming to his ears.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He went steadily on. “I was over there last night. He was dead drunk. I went back this morning. I was going to try to make him see he couldn’t let us down without hurting his own reputation. Anita was in the kitchen, sore as hell at him and everybody else. I went in. He was supposed to stay in bed, but he was up and on his way out. I didn’t say any of the things I was going to say, because he started a lot of stuff that made me blow up, too. I told him I’d kill him if he sold the place. I started to leave. He thought I was going to kill him then. Anita barged in, and that finished him. He had cerebral hæmorrhage, Parker says. Anyway, he’s dead, and I’m under some kind of unstated technical arrest till the State’s Attorney makes up his mind.”

  He rubbed both hands through his ginger stubble, kneading his scalp; his rôle in the morning’s fiasco more ignominious with each new telling.

  “Anyway, Anita’s out for blood. She’s not going to sell to the gamblers. She’s going out to chop the place up into another honky-tonk like Devon Death Strip. Anything to get even. She hated Stan, she hates us and everybody and everything else around here. And Sudley’s selling out, to get even with Stan. Joe Malotti’s clearing out—selling to a service station-motel arrangement. So this whole end of the road’s going to be shot to hell. Instead of helping, I’ve made a stinking mess a lot worse. So anything you want to say, go ahead and say it. You can’t say anything I haven’t thought. I’ve really fouled things up for everybody.”

  She was silent so long that he straightened up at last and turned to look over at her. She was sitting stiffly erect, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale, her eyes wide, staring into nothing.

  Then she shook her head quickly. “What is there for me to say? It’s my fault. It was my sister. It was me that wanted to give her . . .”

  He saw her eyes swimming with tears, blind as she tried to keep her voice from breaking.

  “No, it wasn’t, Molly. It was both of us.”

  What happened then wasn’t too clear. All he knew was that she was in his arms, and when he heard himself finally all he was saying was, “My girl . . . you’re my girl, Molly. I love you so much. I’ve been bats without you . . .” saying it over and over, no epic prose or tender music, but it healed the empty ache in his heart, and her lips were warm and sweet on his. “. . . You do love me still . . . don’t you?”

  “Stupid . . . don’t be so stupid . . .” She batted back the tears. “I was just furious at you. How do you think I could ever love anybody but you, and Tippy and the other kids, and this place, and all the things we’ve worked for together . . . just because somebody else comes along and paints a ceiling for me? You’re so stupid.”

  “I know I am.”

  “You’re not, either. Don’t be silly. And I really had a miserable time to-day. I hated it. And then you came out looking like Jove with his nose out of joint and Tippy like a thundercloud. I won’t have it. Tip’s got to learn he can’t have everything his own way. He’ll end up like Lucy and Charlie Sudley, spoiled rotten.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “He will unless he learns. But I can’t bear this. I was so proud we could help Kathy.”

  “So was I.”

  She drew away from him, sitting erect again, wiping her eyes. “It’s what can we do? We’ve got to do something, Spig. Miss Fairlie’s done so terribly much for us. We promised we’d take care of Eden as long as——”

  She broke off as the telephone rang. “It’s probably Mag about the children.” She went across the room and picked it up.

  “Hallo. Oh . . . why, hallo, Anita. I’m so terribly sorry about Stan.”

  Spig saw her face smooth out abruptly, blank and pale.

  “Why, of course . . . we’ll come, as soon as we can. Very anxious, of course. You know that, Anita.”

  He saw her swallow then and moisten her lips.

  “She’s fine, thank you. Yes. We’ll be right over.”

  She put her hand on the receiver bar, pressing it down, the phone still in her hand. She put it down then, turning slowly.

  “. . . Anita. Her father’s over there. They . . . they want to talk to us. She says if we . . . if we want the place they’ll be happy to let us have it. But—it’s the way she sounded . . . like a trap. The way Arthur Dunning sounds when he’s being malicious, laughing at people.”

  Spig got up. “I’ll go over. You stay here.”

  “No. I’m coming with you.” She pushed her hair back quickly and mo
istened her lips again. “I’m frightened, Spig,” she whispered. “She . . . she asked me about Molly A.—for the first time. She’s never mentioned the child before.”

  CHAPTER XV

  AS SPIG and Molly came out of the trail through the woods into the Ashtons’ grounds the telephone was ringing in Dunning’s studio apartment. It stopped and started up again as they crossed the lawn. Anita’s father was on the lower level of the terrace outside the living-room, with the others, seated casually at ease, Anita and Lucy laughing at a story Dunning was telling them—a pleasant gathering at the end of a pleasant day.

  Molly’s hand closed for an instant on Spig’s arm. “Careful, darling . . . let’s be just as smooth as they are.”

  Smooth was not quite the word for Anita’s father, coming across the lawn now to meet them, a large handsome man with a glistening white mane and an impressive paunch, benign in his cordial warmth.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you young people again.” He shook their hands. “Even under circumstances distressing to us all.”

  Distress most admirably concealed, O’Leary thought as they followed him down the flagstone steps towards the others, Anita calmly watching them, her pencilled brows raised a little, a slight smile of neither warmth nor friendliness on her lips.

  “Good evening,” she said. “Shall we go inside? Art’s telephone drives me mad. If you don’t want to answer it you could at least close your windows, darling.”

  Dunning got to his feet, grinning at her. He had changed back into his denims, not the paint-spotted faded ones but a fresh pair, navy blue.

  “Would you like me to go answer it for you, Uncle Art?” Lucy was the demure and well-bred little lady, her blue eyes clear and innocent as an angel’s.

  “She’ll give up,” Dunning said easily. He crossed the terrace to open the screen door, holding it for Molly, his eyes lighting as she went through. Spig waited for Anita and her father and Lucy, aware that Dunning, watching him, was suddenly grinning.

  “Don’t worry . . . the remains are gone.”

  It was sotto voce at O’Leary’s elbow, startling in the unerring accuracy with which Dunning sensed his distaste and his surprise at Anita’s casual use of the room. The image of Ashton’s body, huddled, horribly staring, in there on the floor was still in his mind. He’d have thought it would be in hers, until he went in, a strange eerie sensation prickling along his spine. It was as if Death had been the transient in the house.