Маргарет Миллар - Spider Webs

Donnelly said, “Did you see the man?”

“Yes.”

“Get any hunches?”

“Not real hunches. More like curiosity. I can’t recall a single case of a black man being arrested for drowning a woman at sea.”

“Was the woman white?”

“Yes.”

Donnelly paused, then said, “Find out some more details and get back to me.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“It’s nearly eleven o’clock.”

“You have connections. Use them.”

“I was figuring on some dinner.”

“Billy boy, you’ve just had your priorities rearranged. Work first, eat later.”

Donnelly’s wife had changed her name from Alexandra to Zandra, her hair from brown to blond and her figure from plump to thin. But she made no attempt to change the habit which most irritated her husband. Like many wealthy people, she had a number of small stinginesses which at first Donnelly found amusing. She haggled with shopkeepers, and when she got an $800 dress marked down to $750 she thought she got a bargain and boasted about it to anyone who would listen. She clipped coupons from newspapers and magazines for introductory offers, twofers and special-purchase items on sale. She sent the cook all over town to take advantage of these bargains.

Donnelly pointed out that her bargains were not actually bargains. “You’re saving a couple of bucks on groceries and spending three or four times that much on gasoline.”

Her reply was triumphant. “We have oil stock. Don’t you see?... I’m investing. Gasoline comes from oil, and when I buy gas, I’m simply investing. Don’t you see ?”

“I see a semblance of logic in your argument. Unfortunately it’s based on a false premise.”

“What does that mean?”

“We don’t own any oil stock.”

“Of course we do. We must. Everyone does.”

He shrugged and turned to leave. She put out a hand to stop him. She was wearing one of the flowing silk caftans she usually wore around the house. When she reached out her hand to stop him from leaving, the sleeve of the caftan slipped back to reveal her arm. It was so thin he could have spanned the upper part of it with his thumb and middle finger. Its covering didn’t look like flesh but like paper wrapped around a bone to take home to a dog.

They were in the second-floor sitting room, which was smaller and more cheerful than the formal one downstairs. A trio of unseasoned eucalyptus logs burned in the grate, hissing and sputtering and oozing their vital juices at each end. Sparks flew against the screen like imprisoned birds.

He stood in front of the fire with his back to the room, to her, to their whole life together.

“You’re taking those diet pills again,” he said.

“This is the first evening in weeks that you’ve been home and you want to spoil it by—”

“How many?”

“I take one now and then. Not regularly.”

“Show me the bottle.”

“I certainly will not. If a husband can’t trust his wife enough to take her word for—”

“How many are you taking, Zan?”

“One a day. Maybe two.”

“Why?”

“You know perfectly well how easily I gain weight. I can’t even walk past a chocolate éclair without putting on a pound. The pills help me. They make me feel good.”

“They don’t make you look good.”

“How would you know? You never look at me.”

“I’m looking at you now. You look sick.”

She began to tremble, then to sway. She kept her balance by leaning on the back of the couch and feeling her way along it like a blind person until she reached the end and fell among the cushions.

“You filthy beast. You didn’t like me fat; now you don’t like me thin.”

“I don’t like you hooked on amphetamines.”

“I’m not hooked.”

“Then why take them?”

“I told you, they make me feel good. God knows I need something to make me feel good. I have no children, no husband—”

“Get yourself a hobby.”

“A hobby instead of a hubby. How cute.” She mimicked his flat, quiet tone. “Get yourself a hobby. Christ, no wonder I look sick. You make me sick, not the pills.”

He drew back the fire screen and poked one of the logs with his foot. It sent off a shower of sparks. One of them landed on the rug, and he stood and watched it burn, wondering with a strange sense of excitement whether it would spread and ignite the whole rug, the coffee table, the couch, the drapes, the room, the house. Then he remembered the smoke detectors which Zan had had installed in nearly every room, and he put his foot on the ember. It left just a small scar that would be noticed only by one of the anonymous maids the next time she vacuumed.

He said, “How many doctors are you conning?”

“I’m not conning anyone. I have my own personal physician, Dr. Stoddard. He believes in weight control.”

“Stoddard doesn’t prescribe amphetamines. So where are you getting them?”

“None of your business.”

“I can find out, of course.”

“Oh, sure. Put Gunther on my trail.”

“Gunther has more important things to do.”

But even as he spoke, he wondered if this was true. Gunther was helping him save a man’s life, but Zan’s life might be in almost as much jeopardy as Cully King’s. Of the two, Cully had a better chance. He wanted to live; Zan seemed to have lost interest.

“Zan, please listen to me.”

“No. Go away. Leave me alone. Go back to the office or wherever.”

She had burrowed into the cushions with the caftan wrapped around her, as if the silk were returning to its original state, a cocoon. Only her face was visible, its pallor and hollow cheeks making her eyes look enormous. They were as gray as storm clouds.

The only sound in the room was the eucalyptus logs still fighting the fire.

Then Zan spoke, in a voice he hadn’t heard for a long time, soft and sad. “Why can’t we have a conversation like two nice, normal people?”

“Perhaps because we’re not two nice, normal people.”

“We could try.”

“All right.”

“Tell me what’s going on in court. There was something about it on TV tonight, and I saw a picture of the murderer. He doesn’t look like a murderer. Is he?”

“That’s for the jury to decide.”

“What do you think?”

“What I think is immaterial.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“It would be unprofessional.”

“I bet you’ve told Gunther,” she said. “I bet you tell him everything.”

“He’s my partner.”

“I’m your partner, too.”

“Not in the practice of law.”

“Or in anything else.”

She stirred inside the cocoon as if she were getting ready to emerge, to stretch her wings and fly off to some place warmer and gentler.

“Zan, for chrissake, don’t cry.”

“Things used to be so different.”

“I’ll pour you a drink. Would you like a drink?”

“I’m nervous. I’m so t-terribly nervous.”

“I’m going to make an appointment for you with Dr. Stoddard.”

“No. Please don’t, Charles. It’s just nerves. I’m just shaky, you know?”

“Yes, I do know. I’ve seen dozens of speed freaks, in the jail, in the courthouse, on the streets. They all have the same look, Zan, and you’re getting it.”

He poured some bourbon from the decanter on the coffee table and handed the glass to her. She was shaking too much to take it, so he held it for her while she sipped. Some of it dribbled out of one corner of her mouth, and he turned his head slightly so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

He said, “Does Dr. Stoddard know about the pills?”

“You keep harping on the pills. It’s not the pills. I’m just nervous.” She finished the bourbon and asked for more. “Aren’t you drinking with me?”