Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

As for Merle, she was remarkably animated for a woman who had only just buried her husband. It must be an act, a brave attempt to get through the day without weeping, I tried telling myself. Watching her, I wasn’t convinced. Her eyes shone like a bride’s.

Another curious thing I noticed was that Merle spent time with everyone in that bar except her doctor brother-in-law, Ben. She kept away from him as if he were radio-active. Yet they were keenly aware of each other. Each time Merle moved, Ben would look across and check her position. Occasionally their eyes locked briefly. I was increasingly convinced that they had agreed not to be seen talking together. They weren’t being hostile; they shared a secret.

When I left about six, the party was still going on. I didn’t blame anyone for turning it into a wake. I was sure Danny would have approved. He would have been in the thick of the junketing, well pickled by this time, full of good humour, just as long as he didn’t have to buy a round.

My unease about the circumstances of Danny’s death dispersed within a week. I had more urgent things going on in my life that don’t play any part in these events except that by February, six months after the funeral, I was tired and depressed. Then someone made things worse by breaking into my car and stealing my credit cards. The police were useless. The only positive thing they suggested was that I inform the people who issued the cards. When my shiny and pristine replacement cards arrived, I had an impulse to use them right away to give myself a boost. I walked into a travel agent’s and booked two weeks in the sun. Immediately.

In Florida I spotted Merle Fox. By pure chance, or fate, I walked into the Guild Hall Gallery on Duval Street in Key West and there she was, looking at stained glass pictures of fish. She’d bleached her hair and cut it short and she was deeply tanned and wearing a skimpy top and white trousers that fitted like a second skin. Something new in widow’s weeds, I thought unkindly — for I recognized her straight away. Of course she hadn’t altered her features, but her stance was the giveaway, the suggestion of swagger in the shoulders. It was no different from the way she’d swanned around the bar of the Red Lion after Danny’s funeral.

I didn’t speak to Merle. In fact, I moved out of range, hidden from her view by a rotating card-stand. But when she came out of the shop I followed, intrigued, you may say, if you don’t call me nosy. I was pretty inconspicuous in T-shirt and shorts like most of the tourists strolling along the street.

Halfway along Duval Street she turned up a side road that was mainly residential and lined with two-storey Bahamian-style wood-frame buildings shaded by palms and wild purple orchid trees and fronted by white picket fences. She walked two blocks (with me in discreet attendance) and let herself into an elegant three-bay house with a porch and — more irony here — a widow’s walk. Had I really seen Merle? The moment she’d stepped out of my view I became doubtful. It isn’t the custom in Key West to have one’s name on the mailbox, so it was difficult to make certain without speaking to the woman. I wasn’t sure I wanted a face-to-face.

I crossed the street for a longer view of the house. The shutters were open, but the louvred windows effectively screened the interior.

You wouldn’t believe that a leafy street bathed in sunlight could make you feel uneasy. After the crowds on Duval Street, this was eerie in its quietness.

A cat leaned against my shin and made a plaintive sound. I stooped to stroke it.

A voice startled me. “We call him Rocky, after the boxer. He has the most formidable front paws.”

I looked behind me. This elderly woman had been sitting unnoticed in her porch swing in front of a small white house.

“He’s a champion,” I remarked, wondering if my luck was still running. “I was looking for a friend of mine who came to live in Key West. Mrs Fox. Do you know her?”

She paused some seconds before answering, “I can’t say I do.”

“She must have arrived some time in the last three months,” I ventured. “She’s a widow.”

“The only lady who came to Southard Street since the summer is Mrs Finch in the house across the street and she’s no widow,” she informed me.

My confidence ebbed. “Mrs Finch, you said?”

“Mrs Merle Finch, from England. They’re both from England.”

“Ah. That wouldn’t be the lady I know,” I said, mentally turning a back-flip of triumph. “But thank you for your help, ma’am. Rocky is a cat in a million.” I walked away, reflecting that Merle must have kept her hair extra nice to have charmed Mr Finch, whoever he was, into such a quick marriage. A little over six months since she had buried Danny she was re-married, settled in her new home. If her tan was any guide, she had already been in Florida some time.

The big insurance payout, the death certificate provided by her brother-in-law, the quick marriage and the escape to Florida. Had they all been planned? Was it any wonder I felt suspicious?

My holiday routine altered. Next morning I made sure of passing the house on my way to the shops. I lingered across the street for ten minutes or so. Wherever I went in Key West I was hawk-eyed for another sighting.

It came the next evening. Merle stepped out of Fausto’s Food Palace on Fleming Street, crossed my path to a moped and put her bag on the pannier. My heart-rate stepped up. The hours of watching out for her, passing the house and so on, had made me feel furtive. NowI was ready to panic. Ridiculous.

I don’t like being sneaky. That isn’t my nature. I like to be straight with people. Confrontation is the honest way. So I steeled my nerves, stepped towards her and said, “Hi, Merle.”

She stopped and stared.

“Remember me?” I said. “Danny’s oppo from his Air Force days. Isn’t this amazing? I must buy you a drink.”

She couldn’t deny her identity. Recovering her poise, she said in her very British accent that she would have been delighted, but she had to get back to the apartment. She had something cooking.

I almost laughed out loud at the phrase. Instead I insisted we must meet and suggested a nightcap later at one of the quieter open-air bars. She had a hunted look, but she agreed to see me there at ten.

“You got your wish, then,” I said when we shared a table in a dark corner of the bar drinking margaritas.

“What do you mean?” She was tense.

“A warm place to live. I presume you live here.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And not alone. You’re Mrs Finch now.”

She frowned. “How did you know that?”

“I was told. Is he British, your husband?”

She gave a nod.

“Anyone I know?”

She said, “Why are you asking me these things?”

I said, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to talk about them?”

She said, “I left all that behind. It’s painful. I don’t want to be reminded.”

“I wasn’t reminding you about the past, Merle. I was enquiring about the present. Your present husband. What’s his name?”

She took a long sip of her drink. “Have you seen him?”

“No. But I’d love to meet him — if you let him out.”

She pushed aside the drink. “I’ll pay for these. I’m leaving.”

I put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. Don’t take offence.”

She brushed my hand away and got up. I didn’t follow. I knew it would be no use. I had been insensitive. But she had fuelled my suspicions. She had behaved like a guilty woman. Meeting me had been an unpleasant shock. The geography of the Florida Keys — the long drive south from Miami over bridges that span the sea — fosters a feeling of escape, of reaching a haven in Key West bathed in sun and good will. You don’t expect sharp questions about your conduct.