Wicked Stepmother

by Michael McDowell

  Cassandra stopped short and her hands curled into fists at her sides as she saw Eric Larner step past the doorway. After a moment, he came back again with a broom and dustpan. He was not dressed for the beach, but wore white linen slacks with a green vest over a pale blue dress shirt. His tie was loosened, and he’d put on a chef’s apron imprinted with homy sayings about barbecues.

  When Eric turned to let the shards of glass slide into the garbage can, he gave a noise of surprise at seeing Cassandra standing in the living room, arms folded and mouth set.

  “Good morning, Cassandra! I didn’t hear you come in. Have you ever noticed how much better food smells by the ocean?”

  Cassandra made no reply. Eric put aside the broom and dustpan, opened the oven door to check some sweet rolls inside, and nudged the sausages about in the skillet. “Why don’t you go wake up Verity? This’ll be ready in a few minutes. Shouldn’t let sausages get cold.”

  “When did you get here, Eric?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cassandra. “What I meant to ask was, why are you here?”

  He smiled vaguely and, scraping the sausages loose from the bottom of the frying pan, said without looking at Cassandra, “Mother asked me to drop off a Purchase and Sale Agreement to one of her clients who lives down here. Anyway, since I was in the area, I thought I’d drop by and fix breakfast and maybe go for a swim later on.”

  “Verity said your car had been repossessed.”

  “Mother lent me hers.”

  “I didn’t think the office had clients this far down on the Cape.”

  “Well,” said Eric, still not looking at Cassandra, “actually Mr. Martin lives in Plymouth.”

  “Plymouth is an hour and a half from here. That’s not ‘in the area.’ Plymouth’s not even on the Cape.”

  Eric at last looked up. He smiled and touched his mustache. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have come here? It was an impulse. Spur of the moment.”

  “And how did you even know we were here?”

  At that moment, the Mercedes drew up into the driveway. “Here’s Jonathan,” said Eric, avoiding Cassandra’s last question. Seconds later, Jonathan stepped through the screened door.

  “Morning, Jonathan,” Eric said.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Jonathan asked in amazement.

  Cassandra turned and looked at her brother. “Eric dropped by, ‘spur of the moment,’ with eggs, sausages, sweet rolls, orange juice, and a new apron.

  “Unfortunately,” she added as she walked out the door that opened onto the beach, “I have no appetite.”

  Gulls’ cries cut through the stillness of the late morning heat as the birds careered and streaked across the clear azure sky. The sun was bright and hot—as bright and as hot as it ever gets in Massachusetts—and the breeze that rippled the surface of the water offered little relief to Cassandra and Verity. There were three or four small sailboats out in the luminous blue water, their white or green sails bellied full as they glided about. But it was only their father’s boat, bearing Jonathan and Eric, that they attended to. Eric had all but begged his brother-in-law to take him out in the water. Jonathan finally agreed. Both Verity and Cassandra had without ceremony declined Jonathan’s invitation to go along.

  “Conniving bastard,” said Verity. She was stretched on a blanket, propped up on one elbow with a drink in her other hand. Her pale body was heavily coated with oil, and her halter and bottom were the barest of excuses for a bathing suit—or as bare as anything that could be purchased in Boston. She had in fact dropped the halter, and had turned over onto her stomach. Cassandra, in a suit far more substantial than her sister’s, lay on her back, with her eyes closed against the glare of the sun.

  “What you think of Eric is not going to make any difference to his being here or not,” Cassandra said.

  “I still don’t understand why he came,” said Verity thoughtfully. “And what’s worse is that he’s been very pleasant all morning. Well, not pleasant exactly, but I haven’t thought once how I’d like to slit his nose with my nail file.”

  “Louise sent him,” said Cassandra definitely. “Somehow she found out we were here, and she sent him down as a spy. That’s why he’s being so nice. I’m dying to find out what that private investigator told Jonathan, but we certainly can’t talk about it while Eric is skulking behind the doors.”

  “I’ll get rid of him after lunch. Then we can talk.”

  “Just how do you intend to get rid of him? I think Louise has told him to dig in for the whole weekend.”

  “Either he drives back to Boston this afternoon, or I’ll give a boy scout a buck fifty to murder him.”

  After a while, the wind died down. The sailboat floated idly about two hundred yards from shore. Eric’s lime-green T-shirt could be seen as he slouched in the stern. Jonathan stood up, peeled off his shirt, dropped his shorts, and then stood holding onto the mast, clad only in his bathing suit. He said something to Eric and then dived into the water on the far side of the boat.

  “Doesn’t Eric swim?” asked Cassandra, who had watched all this.

  “Not very well,” said Verity.

  In the boat Eric sat up and looked about. The other sailboats were farther down the coast now. He could scarcely make out the figures manning them. He slipped down into the middle of the boat and leaned over the side away from the shore. He watched as Jonathan made wide, smooth circles in the water about the craft, always coming closer until he buckled his lithe body and disappeared beneath the surface. But Eric could still see his shape moving in the shimmering blue darkness. Quietly, while Jonathan was well beneath the surface, Eric opened the toolbox at his side, felt for the heavy flat wrench he knew was on top, and lifted it out. He held it cradled and invisible in his arms. He glanced over his shoulder at his wife and sister-in-law on the beach. Neither was looking out at the boat. When Jonathan came around again and broke the surface for air, Eric grinned and motioned him over. Jonathan threw back his head questioningly, and stroked over to the side of the boat. Just as he began to speak, Eric slammed the smooth surface of the wrench down with a thud on the crown of Jonathan’s head. Jonathan’s body jerked as if a jolt of electricity had shot through it; he stared at Eric with a dazed expression and began to sink. Just before his bloody head disappeared beneath the water, Eric grasped Jonathan by the shoulders, holding him entirely beneath the water until his arms ached. Then he let go, sloshed the blood off his hands, and sank back in the boat with a long expiration of breath. Noticing, in a sudden panic, that there were flecks of blood on the head of the wrench, he hastily rinsed the tool in the water. Then he wiped it dry with the hem of his T-shirt and replaced it in the toolbox—he didn’t want anyone later noticing that it was missing. He slammed the lid of the box shut, stood up so as deliberately to rock the boat, and began waving at Cassandra and Verity on the shore.

  Seeing Eric waving to them, Verity raised her glass in an ironic toast. Cassandra ignored the distant greeting.

  “For God’s sake, Verity, wave back before he tips the boat over,” breathed Cassandra. “Now he’s waving both arms,” she sighed.

  “Why doesn’t he just light a box of flares and be done with it?” breathed Verity. She put down her glasses and was about to raise her hand when they heard Eric’s voice calling.

  “I am not yelling back,” said Verity.

  Eric, however, was no longer calling or waving. He leaned over the edge of the far side of the boat, grappling with something in the water.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” said Cassandra, with quiet alarm.

  Cassandra stood up, and walked quickly toward the water. “Jonathan!” she called.

  On the boat, Eric tried to stand, but lost his footing and fell into the water. He raised a hand above the surface and waved it frantically.

  Cassandra broke into a full run and splashed into the bay. Verity was standing now, with her arms crossed over her bare breasts, her eyes riveted on the boat for
some sign of her brother in the water. Cassandra swam swiftly out toward the boat.

  Verity walked to the edge of the water. She watched as Cassandra climbed into the boat, and pulled Eric in after her. Then she gasped as she saw them lean over the other side and pull into the vessel Jonathan’s limp body. Verity trembled in the heat and her oiled flesh prickled. The surf seemed like icy water lapping over her feet.

  Jonathan Hawke was dead before Cassandra could get the boat back to shore. While Verity looked on in shock, she and Eric lifted Jonathan’s body and carried it into the house. Verity had already called the police.

  Later, two policemen looked at the body, and heard Eric’s brief description of the accident. Two paramedics hoisted Jonathan Hawke’s corpse, shrouded by a white blanket on a stretcher, into the back of an emergency van.

  The county coroner arrived in his own car, made a hasty examination, and pronounced Jonathan officially dead. He ascribed the cause of death to accidental drowning. Jonathan had, from Eric’s account, banged his head on the bottom of the boat when he miscalculated his ascent through the water. Eric had attempted to pull him out of the water, but in vain.

  Two more policemen arrived, and the sergeant sat at the dining table with a small spiral notebook open before him. Cassandra and Verity, in caftans, sat on opposite ends of the wicker sofa. Eric sat in the rocker, wearing Jonathan’s robe, his hair disheveled and stringy about his face. Eric, pale and now and then trembling, said nothing. His eyes remained on the policeman as the officer made a small series of notes.

  The policeman looked up as he jotted. “Your brother was only twenty-seven, huh?” he mused. “That’s tough.”

  “Yes,” remarked Verity grimly, “pretty tough.”

  The policeman looked at the sisters. “You’ll take care of the arrangements? I’ll give you the name and number of the morgue in Hyannis. Your mother and father—”

  Cassandra shook her head. “Mother’s been dead a long time. Father died in March.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the policeman quickly. He looked as if he were afraid of saying anything else at all. He gathered up his notebook, pen, hat, and jacket. He stood and mumbled, “There’s not much to say in a case like this. You’d be surprised how many people slam their heads against the bottom of a boat. You’d think—”

  “Thank you, officer,” said Cassandra, with a firm, dismissive smile.

  The policeman left. Eric turned and looked at Verity and Cassandra.

  Both women regarded him steadily until he became uncomfortable. He stood, looking distractedly about. “Well,” he said at last, “I guess I should call Mother and tell her what’s happened.”

  “Yes,” said Cassandra grimly, “I guess you’d better do that.”

  Eric looked up with an expression of injury. “I can’t swim, damn it! All right, and if I could swim, he wouldn’t be dead, I know that—but I can’t swim. I’m afraid of water.”

  Verity looked away from him and stared out the door. Cassandra watched Eric and he became even more distressed.

  “I realize,” said Cassandra at last, “that it probably wasn’t possible for you to jump in and bring him to shore, but why didn’t you at least reach over and pull his head up above water?”

  “I tried! I tried! Didn’t you see me? I tried so hard I fell in the water myself. Shit! I thought I was going to drown, it was horrible.” He waved his hands in great agitation at the very memory of his ordeal.

  “I don’t want to hear any more about it,” said Verity quietly. “Eric, go put some clothes on and get out of here. Leave us alone.”

  Eric pulled into a rest stop in Eastham and telephoned his mother. Louise picked up the telephone on the first ring. She listened in silence as Eric told her of Jonathan’s death.

  “What did the police say?” she asked at the end.

  “Nothing,” returned Eric. “They just asked questions. And they wrote down my answers.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “So Jonathan hit his head on the bottom of the boat, right?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “And you tried to save him but you couldn’t, because you don’t swim very well.”

  “Right. Aren’t you even going to thank me?”

  “Thank you for what?”

  “For a job well done,” said Eric spitefully. “I just wish it had been you out on that fucking boat instead of me.”

  “The question is, did Jonathan talk to Verity and Cassandra? Did he tell them anything?”

  “No,” said Eric. “I didn’t let him out of my sight all morning.”

  “Good,” replied Louise. “Now, did you find out the name of that man he hired in Atlantic City?”

  “No.”

  “Damn!” exclaimed Louise. “Why not?”

  “How was I supposed to find out?” cried Eric, aggrieved. “I wasn’t supposed to know anything about his hiring a detective. Was I supposed to say, right out of the blue, ‘Hey, Jonathan, you don’t happen to know the name of a private detective in Atlantic City, do you? A friend of mine was asking’?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Eric. Do you think Verity and Cassandra know who the man is?”

  “I don’t know that either. And hey, I did your dirty work this morning—your really dirty work. I’m going to let you find out about the detective.”

  “Don’t stop for a drink on your way back,” said Louise, ignoring his last remark. “Or for anything else either. The last time you had a wreck in my car, my insurance rates doubled. I’d hate for something like that to happen again.”

  15

  After Eric left the Cape house, Verity and Cassandra sat together as the air in the living room grew increasingly warm and stuffy. Neither spoke, and both seemed overcome with a strange lethargy. When it seemed impossible to breathe anymore, Cassandra stirred herself. She moved silently through the house, securing the windows and draping the dust covers back over the furniture. Verity’s chair was last, and Cassandra said, “Stand up, Verity.” Startled, Verity rose to her feet, but when Cassandra had put the sheet over the chair, Verity didn’t seem to know where to go or what to do. Cassandra took Jonathan’s travel bag and filled it with the toiletries and clothing he had brought down. She made up his bed, then went to her room and changed. On the trip back to Brookline, Verity nestled in the corner of the air-conditioned car, her arms tightly crossed over her breast, and slept.

  As they neared Boston, Verity struggled into wakefulness. “Jonathan won trophies for swimming,” was the first thing she said. “How could he have drowned?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cassandra grimly. It was obvious that she too had been thinking of nothing else. “He hit his head, I guess.”

  “Right,” said Verity. “Another accident.”

  “Another?” questioned Cassandra.

  “Like Father’s, in Atlantic City.”

  “No,” said Cassandra doubtfully, “I don’t think so. I mean, we were right there, we saw what . . .” She trailed off, but Verity didn’t argue. “Do you really think Eric . . . ?”

  “I think we ought to talk to that private detective Jonathan hired, that’s what I think,” said Verity.

  “About what?”

  “About what he found out in Atlantic City.”

  “I don’t know his name,” said Cassandra.

  “Neither do I,” said Verity, shaking her head. “And I don’t know how to find out either.”

  They were surprised and not displeased to find that Louise was not at the house in Brookline. The news of Jonathan’s death had preceded them, however, and the servants offered shocked condolences. Eugene Strable telephoned the house as did Jonathan’s immediate supervisor at Commonwealth & Providential. They were not otherwise disturbed. Verity retired to her room, saying she had never been so weary in her life. Cassandra went into the library and shut the door. She first dialed the number of Rocco’s apartment, but got no answer. Then she tried getting through to Apple at the
Prudential Towers apartment. Her mind wandered and she allowed the telephone to ring fifteen or twenty times before she suddenly slammed the receiver into the cradle. She called Channel One, where People Buying Things was to perform that evening, but the woman who answered said the place was empty except for the cleaning staff. Off and on, all afternoon, Cassandra alternated calling the two apartments, but never with success.

  Late in the afternoon, she drove into Boston. She let herself into Rocco’s apartment, but he wasn’t there. She walked over to the Prudential Towers, and let herself into Jonathan’s place with the key her brother always left at the Brookline house in case of emergency. As she patiently waited for Apple to return, she sat on the sofa and stared out the wall of plate-glass windows at the Boston skyline. The late-afternoon light filling the room gradually faded to a brilliant orange and pink sunset. Finally an azure twilight signaled the rapid fall of evening. Cassandra remained in the dark. The lighted dial of a digital clock on Jonathan’s desk slowly and brightly counted off the seconds. Cassandra watched it intently, not realizing what she was doing. When it snapped to 8:15, she got up and walked out of the apartment.

  Channel One was located beyond South Station, across a little man-made inlet of Boston Harbor. Cassandra was apprehensive as she drove over the creaking girder bridge and found herself on a set of dirty narrow streets between vast closed-up warehouses. Occasional dark figures lurched out of the shadowed doorways. As she waited for a light to change, a man wearing a torn white T-shirt and blue work pants emerged from the narrow space between two brick buildings and crooked his head to look in at her. His watery eyes glinted in the streetlight, and he stepped off the curb toward her. Cassandra slammed the car into gear and shot across the intersection through the still-red light. She slowed two blocks farther on when she began to see a larger number of people moving along the sidewalks—young, apparently sober, and in small unthreatening groups. At the end of the block she was relieved to see the lighted sign marking Channel One. The parking lot was crowded even at this early hour. She pulled into a space by a wall of a warehouse abutting the single-storied frame building housing the bar. On the other side of the parking lot was a tall chain-link fence bordering the inlet; across the way was the postal annex with the blue-and-white trucks pulled up in front of a dozen loading bays. Beyond that was a field of train tracks ending at South Station. The Prudential Towers rose up distant behind. Everything looked bleak, industrial, and oily.