Murder Comes to Eden

by Zenith Brown

  Ashton was still there, vividly alive in the portrait dominating the room . . . the supercilious smile, the spidery hands, the spirit more tenacious than the flesh in the painted eyes that followed Spig. He turned away uncomfortably, flushing as he was aware of Dunning still watching him, a bright satanic grin on his bearded face—the Tattoo Artist enjoying a malicious triumph in the immortality he had bestowed.

  “Sit down, won’t you?” Anita’s father took his place at the centre table where his brief-case was open, several piles of papers beside it. “I’d like a brandy and soda, Anita. Arthur, I expect you and Lucy know what brand of poison the O’Learys prefer. If you’ll——”

  He stopped as the phone rang and Lucy flew across the room to answer it.

  “Hallo.” She flashed her bright gold head around inquiringly to Dunning, and back. “I’m sorry. He isn’t here.” Her blue eyes danced mischievously. “No, he hasn’t been home all day,” she said earnestly. “We’re terribly worried about him. We’ll call the State police if he isn’t here by morning. Oh, that’s quite all right. We’re concerned ourselves. It really isn’t like him, you’re absolutely right about that. He’s never disappeared like this before. Good-bye . . . we’ll let you know if we hear.”

  She put the phone down, laughing with delight. “Mrs. Twohey. Uncle Art had a date he didn’t keep.”

  Anita laughed. “Lucy . . . you wicked child.”

  “Tell the old cat I’ve gone to New York, when she calls again,” Dunning said, bringing the tray around. “But don’t do that . . . there’s one more visit I’d like to make.”

  Spig looked at him casually, alert to the sudden venom in his voice. He glanced at Molly then. If she had heard it there was no indication. She was sitting there retired behind a familiar mask, cool, serene, completely opaque even to him.

  Anita’s father sipped the drink and put it down. “Now, if you’re through with pixie diversions . . .” he said, smiling with affectionate amusement at his blue-eyed grandchild. “Shall we get down to business? Fortunately, it’s very simple.”

  He turned to Spig. “The first thing is, I’ve talked to your State’s Attorney. I assured him of our entire cooperation. We wish to have this matter on the most friendly basis. He has the coroner’s report, the autopsy will reveal the cause of death, and there’ll be no question in anyone’s mind . . . least of all my daughter’s. Anita realises she acted badly this morning. It’s understandable, I think. She was under considerable emotional strain.”

  It seemed to O’Leary that she still was, as if his physical presence had destroyed the polite urbanity her father had brought with him. Or Molly’s presence. He didn’t know. But her mouth had thinned, her dark eyes were smouldering. He wondered again then as he saw the flint-edged glance she shot across the room at Dunning. The Tattoo Artist was standing, leaning casually against the bar, looking at Molly, not grinning but intently grave, his face curiously pale, an almost rapt expression in his black eyes, unaware of any of the rest of them in the room.

  “Now, then.” Anita’s father took a pair of horn-rimmed pince-nez out of his breast pocket. “I have a copy of Stanley’s will. I won’t read it now, as he goes into several ethical theories of his at considerable length. The gist of it is this. He names Anita and me as co-executors of his estate, which he divides equally between her and his daughter, Mary Margaret Ashton.”

  He riffled through the pages, and stopped, looking over at Spig and Molly. “He has named you two her guardians during her minority . . . unless Anita would be interested in taking the child.”

  Even before Spig had seen her relax, smiling, her brows lifted again, he felt the sickening premonitory wave through the pit of his stomach. Her father’s slight pause, the quality of his voice, had spelled it out. Spig kept his eyes carefully on the centre table, not daring to look at Molly.

  “. . . But of course, I’d be more than interested, Father,” Anita said. “I’d adore having her. The O’Leary’s friends have been complaining about my failure as a stepmother. I’m delighted to relieve their minds—and the O’Learys’ budget.”

  “Oh, Mother! Do you mean it? We can have Molly A.? Oh, what fun!”

  Lucy danced across the room and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “How wonderful, Mother! I’ve always wanted a sister! When can we get her?”

  Anita’s eyes rested coolly on Spig, her lips tightening. “As soon as I get a maid . . . and a nurse to look after her.”

  “Oh, good!” Lucy danced over to the table and kissed her grandfather, laughing then as she wiped the lipstick off his cheek.

  He smiled, indulgently pleased. “Sisters aren’t all skittles and beer, Lucy,” he said with mock severity. “But of course, I heartily approve. It’ll be an excellent thing for you. An only child needs a companion.”

  He smiled at Molly and Spig and turned back to pick up a single typed sheet. “So all that we have to settle now is the matter of the property, and the agreement that Stanley made with you young people after the death of his first wife, to whom you gave the property at the time of their marriage.”

  O’Leary saw Anita Ashton relax back into her chair, a half-smile on her lips, her eyes alight with cynical amusement. He glanced at Molly. Her brown throat moving as she swallowed was the only sign of what he knew was in her heart. Her face was serene, her hands quiet in her lap.

  “And let me say at the very outset, that my daughter and I, as co-executor for her and the little girl, have no intention in the world of not honouring Stanley’s agreement with you. My daughter hadn’t . . . realised the extent that public feeling here has been roused, until several people who have homes in the area called her up this evening. It seems they are pretty generally aware of the fact that Stanley had made a commitment that puts the responsibility of . . . shall I say, retaining the rural character of the neighbourhood jointly on Anita and on you people. Anita wants to do her part, and therefore of course she is more than happy to carry out the terms of Stanley’s agreement with you.”

  He looked around expectantly at Anita.

  “Indeed, yes, Father,” she said pleasantly. “I wouldn’t for the world want the people of Eden’s Neck to think I didn’t give them a chance to keep Sudley from bringing in a factory here. I’m happy to let the O’Learys have the place just as Stan promised them. You’ve got his records there. I’d be happy to let the O’Learys have the place for nothing, except that you and I have a legal responsibility to Molly Ashton.”

  She smiled at Spig, her foot moving like the tail of a cat, waiting. Her father was judiciously examining the papers in his hand.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “there’s every indication that Stanley always intended to honour his agreement with you. Until fairly recently, at any rate . . . when I think there’s no doubt he’d become a sick man. I say that because I have in these papers an almost minute record he’d kept of his expenditures on this place. For example.” He picked up a piece of brown paper apparently torn from a grocery bag. “Here’s an item of three azalea plants he bought at a roadside market. Three dollars and six cents. The six cents is the sales tax, I presume. Ten dollars for a load of cow manure from Mr. Sudley. Five dollars a bale of peat moss. Three hooks for screen doors, forty-five cents. I mention these to show you that he kept very complete records. An item, for instance, here for forty-eight dollars and eighty-three cents for trimming and feeding a chestnut oak tree. Of course, all this material will be at your attorney’s disposal. Here’s——”

  “I’m sure the O’Leary’s aren’t interested in Stan’s passion for financial detail, darling,” Anita murmured.

  Her father smiled benignly at her, and turned back to the O’Learys.

  “Roughly, this is the amount that has been laid out on this place. I’ve lumped the smaller items into general categories. For the original survey and workmen’s insurance, $350. Clearing, $500. For the original lane and additional gravel, $500. For the original house, $7,500, and $10,750 for converting it into
a studio and apartment with two baths, its own well and water conditioning system. For the pier, five hundred feet of sea wall and landscaping, $5,000. For the new road, $6,500, and $150 for the preparation of the deed and the survey. Miscellaneous items, taxes, insurance, $8,500. For this house, $55,000. Totalling roughly, $99,750.”

  He put the papers down and took off his glasses. “Now, I should add that my daughter has not included numerous items she has personally contributed since she’s been here, and further, that she feels you should not have to pay for the survey and drawing of the deed for the right-of-way you kindly gave them through your woods. The amount of $150 is therefore to be deducted, the total being, consequently, $99,600. The offer Stanley had, by the way, and that’s still open, is somewhat beyond that figure, due to the property’s peculiar location in terms of their special needs. So that’s the story, my friends.”

  He smiled at them with benevolent kindliness, and picked up his glass. “May I have a touch of ice, please, Lucy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lucy sprang foward obediently. Except for her, the motionless silence in the room was long-drawn and rigid.

  “How much time are we allowed, Mr. Waltham? And what are the terms of sale?”

  It was the Sea King’s daughter who asked—cool, crystalline and innocent of irony.

  Anita’s voice was a steel trap biting shut. “The terms are cash. The time, three days.”

  “I thought a week,” her father said mildly.

  “I’ve changed my mind. It’s Tuesday. They can have till Friday.”

  “Thank you, Anita . . . Mr. Waltham.” Molly rose calmly. “Good night. Good night, Anita.”

  Spig followed her across the room. The only flaw in her complete composure was that her eyes were fixed ahead of her, oblivious to Dunning or Lucy off in the corner by the bar. Spig looked over to nod to them. But Dunning was not aware of him, nor was Lucy. Dunning’s black eyes were fixed on Molly, no glitter, no grin or gleam of malice, nothing but absorption intense and devouring, his own soul naked in them. Lucy watching him, was like a bird fascinated, her lips parted, blue eyes blank until they darted from him to Molly and back to him, widening brightly, her whole body quickening with understanding and excitement. There was something so tangible, so like a physical beam, shooting towards Molly that Spig moved sharply to intercept it, shielding her from it, his arm in hers as she pushed the screen open and stepped out on to the terrace. He could feel the tremor, the spasm of taut nerves, as he touched her. He tightened his hand on her arm then, aware that they were not alone.

  “I’ll walk a piece with you.” Anita’s father moved into step beside them. “I’m pleased with Anita’s decision about the child.”

  Molly’s arm was rigid in Spig’s hand.

  “It means a great deal to Lucy.” He was blandly unaware—or was he?—of the taut silence of the O’Learys. “She’s been rather spoiled in some ways, always being the centre of attraction. Being unusually bright, it didn’t take her too long to discover it was a big help to keep her father and mother at odds. I expect that had a lot to do with their divorce, in fact.”

  It was a fact he seemed to find more amusing than otherwise.

  “But I’m enormously pleased with the way she’s turned out. There have been times when she was somewhat of a problem. A born poltergeist, Dunning’s always called her. Having a younger child to share things with is going to be a real blessing to her.”

  He stopped on the edge of the drive. “I have to be in court in the morning, so I’m going back to-night. I’ll be here Friday, for whatever arrangements Anita makes about Ashton. Now, if I can be of service to you——”

  A car coming out of the O’Leary woods on the Ashton road stopped him. It was a khaki-coloured car, the sun setting over beyond the bridge lighting up the round red disc on the front bumper.

  “Who is that?”

  “That’s the sheriff.”

  “But I understood everything was settled . . .”

  The car stopped. Spig saw Yerby’s long rangy figure back itself out. He closed the door and stood, wiping the inside of his uniform felt hat, a determined set to his jaw, his eyes fixed on the yellow midget still in front of the garage.

  “Excuse us, will you?” O’Leary said dryly.

  There was a certain comic relief in seeing Anita’s father, impressively confident, set off across the drive to meet the sheriff. It was the second comic touch. The first had been Anita’s sudden switch to three days for the O’Learys to raise the $99,600 cash, as if the week she’d agreed on with her father had somehow seemed suddenly not as academic as she’d thought it. Academic meaning totally preposterous . . . as Anita and her father both knew so well it was highly admirable of them to conceal it as well as they did.

  CHAPTER XVI

  HE’D LET GO of Molly’s arm as they came to the trail, not realising how blindly she was walking until she stumbled and he reached quickly forward, catching her before she fell.

  “Watch it. Easy, girl.”

  “I can’t bear it, Spig. I just can’t bear it! We’ll buy the place . . . if it ruins us, if we’re in debt the rest of our lives, we’ll buy it! But she can’t take Molly A.! She can’t! Oh, I hate her!”

  She broke away from him and ran wildly along the trail. He started after her and stopped, letting her go on alone. Her voice had been so passionately like Tip’s, threatening Dunning in his garden, that the old question, “I know who his father is but who’s his mother?” was startlingly answered. And no laughing matter, as he’d once thought it was . . . the passionate anger and the golden tiger in her green eyes as she tore away from him frightening him more than the loaded rifle in Tippy’s hands had done. He quickened his pace through the dusk in the leafy woods, a chill at the base of his spine, aware of the intensity of her devotion to the child that even before Kathy had died had been almost as close to her as one of her own. And what a four-year-old’s life would be with Lucy, and with Anita hating Stan with the virulence he’d seen . . . But it wasn’t either of them he was seeing, materialising strangely out of the twilight there. It was Dunning’s bearded face, his black eyes suddenly absorbed, intense and devouring. It wasn’t jealousy any longer. It was something else, deeper and more ominous.

  She’d better get out of here. Take the kids and go to her father.

  It seemed surprising to him he hadn’t thought of that quicker. It was the obvious solution, for Molly A. and Tip as well as Molly . . . the only intelligent thing he’d thought of so far. It seemed that simple for an O’Leary to tell a Dulaney what to do.

  Or it seemed so until he came into the children’s hyphen and the devastating solution—and the only one—to the whole problem suddenly struck him. Whether it was something of the quality of Molly’s voice in the old cottage living-room talking on the telephone, or the simple revolt of his own unconscious, refusing to let self-interest blind him any longer, he couldn’t have said. He stopped and stood there, absorbing the blow, quietly facing the inevitable reality that he knew she’d already seen and faced He heard her put the phone down and heard the long silence before he moved on across the hyphen to the cottage door.

  She was still by the desk, her hand still on the phone. The small windows and satiny panelled walls made the old room a place of dusty twilight when the outside world still glowed amethyst and rose through the gold of the setting sun. Her face was pale silver-gilt under her shining hair framed motionless against the window. Spig came slowly across the room to the fireplace and stood there, his back to her, neither of them speaking for a long time.

  “That was Joe Malotti,” she said finally. “The Home Owners are having a meeting. They saw Mr. Sudley this afternoon. He told them to see Mrs. Ashton. Some of them talked to her. They’re delighted. She told them it was entirely up to us. She was . . . willing to sacrifice the place at cost to let us . . . practice what we preach.”

  He came over and put his arms around her, but she stepped quickly away from him. “She didn�
�t tell them how much the cost was. They say she couldn’t have been nicer. So everything’s divine. Mr. Sudley tells them if we get past this, he’ll see there’s a zoning law. No more threats to this end of the county. It . . . it just seems so . . . so horrible.”

  “Don’t, Molly. Please, don’t.”

  He thought she was going to cry, and she cried so seldom it was heartbreaking when she did. “You take the kids and——”

  “No. I won’t—I know what you’re thinking. You think if I get Molly A. to Daddy, she’ll be all right. But I won’t do it. Not even for Molly A. I’m not going to put him in the middle of any custody fight. It wouldn’t be fair, now he’s getting ready to retire, with a wonderful job. Anita fights dirty. She told me how she got her divorce. I’m not going to give her a chance at Daddy. He’s probably sworn at enlisted men . . . you know what they can do to people.”

  Her voice caught and she turned quickly away. “It’s my fault. I should never have——”

  “It’s not your fault. Quit saying that.”

  “But it is. That’s the trouble. Nobody’ll ever admit they’re to blame for anything. Everything’s always somebody else’s fault. Like Art Dunning. It’s not his fault everybody hates him. It’s because he’s a pigmy. His brothers are great stupid louts like you and Joe Cameron, buried like maggots in the family pill business. But if they weren’t, he’d have to work for a living. He couldn’t refuse to sell his pictures to the moronic rich. He couldn’t go around insulting people all the time . . . He can’t put on a bathing suit and go swimming because you people laugh at him.”

  “That isn’t true, Molly.”