Ross Macdonald - The drowning pool

“Loveliness runs in the family, doesn’t it?” I said. “Which reminds me, I’d like to meet you mother-in-law.”

“I don’t understand why—”

“I’m trying to get a picture, and she’s a central figure in it, isn’t she? Put it this way. You’re not so worried about who sent the first letter—that’s safe in my pocket—as you are about the possible effects of a second letter. If I can’t stop the letters at their source, I might be able to circumvent their effects.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. The main thing is that your husband, and your daughter, and your mother-in-law, shouldn’t take the letters seriously. Your husband might divorce you, your daughter might despise you—”

“Don’t say that.” She set down her glass peremptorily on the coffee-table between us.

I went on evenly: “Your mother-in-law might cut off your income. I’ve been thinking, if I launched a poison-pen campaign against the whole family, and made a lot of different accusations, the one that hurts could get lost in the shuffle, couldn’t it?”

“God no! I couldn’t stand it, none of us could.” The violence of her reaction was surprising. Her whole body heaved in the zebra-striped dress, and her breasts pressed together like round clenched fists in the V of her neckline.

“I was only playing with the idea. It needs refining, but there’s something there.”

“No, it’s horrible. It would cover us all with filth to hide one thing.”

“All right,” I said, “all right. To get back to your mother-in-law, she’s the one that would break you, isn’t she? I mean it’s her money that runs the house?”

“It’s really James’s, too. She handles the income in her lifetime, but his father’s will requires her to provide for him. Her idea of providing is three hundred a month, a little more than she pays the cook.”

“Could she afford to pay more?”

“If she wanted to. She has income from half a million, and this property is worth a couple of million. But she refuses to sell an acre of it.”

“A couple of million? I didn’t realize it was that big.”

“There’s oil under it,” she said bitterly. “As far as Olivia is concerned, the oil can stay in the ground until we all dry up and blow away.”

“I take it there’s no love lost between you and you mother-in-law.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I gave up trying long ago. She’s never forgiven me for marrying James. He was her pampered darling, and I married him young.”

“Three hundred a month isn’t exactly pampering, not if she has a couple of million in capital assets.”

“It’s the same as he got in college.” The details of her grievances poured out, as if she’d been waiting for a long time to borrow somebody’s ear. “She never increased it even when Cathy was born. For a while before the war we managed to live on it in a house of our own. Then prices went up, and we came home to mama.”

I put the important question as tactfully as I could: “And what does James do?”

“Nothing. He was never encouraged to think of making a living. He was her only son, and she wanted him around. That’s the idea of the allowance, of course. She’s got him.”

Her eyes were looking past me at a flat desert of time that stretched backward and forward as far as she could see. It occurred to me for an instant that I’d be doing her a favor if I showed her mother-in-law the letter in my pocket, and broke up the family for good. It was even possible that that was her own unconscious wish, the motive behind her original indiscretion. But I wasn’t even certain that there had been an indiscretion, and she would never talk. After sixteen years of waiting for her share, and planning for her daughter, she was going to wait for the end.

She rose suddenly. “I’ll take you to meet Olivia, if you must. She’s always in the garden in the late afternoon.”

The garden had fieldstone walls higher than my head. Inside, the flowers broke the light into almost every shade of the spectrum, and held it glowing. The sun was nearly down behind the western mountains and the light was fading, but Mrs. Slocum’s flowers burned brightly on as if with fires of their own. There were fuchsias, pansies, tuberous begonias, great shaggy dahlias like separate pink suns. Olivia Slocum was working among them with a pair of shears, when we came up to the gate. Of indeterminate shape and size in a faded linen dress and a wide straw hat, she was bent far over among the blooms.

Her daughter-in-law called to her, with a slight nagging tone in her voice: “Mother! You shouldn’t be straining yourself like that. You know what the doctor said.”

“What did the doctor say?” I asked her under my breath.

“She has a heart condition—when it’s convenient.”

Olivia Slocum straightened up and came toward us, removing her earth-stained gloves. Her face was handsome in a soft, vague, sun-flecked way, and she was much younger than I’d expected. I’d imagined her as a thin and sour lady pushing seventy, with gnarled hands grasping the reins she held on other people’s lives. But she wasn’t over fifty-five at most, and she carried her age easily. The three generations of Slocum women were a little too close for comfort.

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” she said to Maude. “The doctor says mild exercise is beneficial to me. Anyway, I love to garden in the cool of the day.”

“Well, as long as you don’t overtire yourself.” The younger woman’s voice was grudging, and I suspected that the two never agreed on anything. “This is Mr. Archer, mother. He came up from Hollywood to see Francis’s play.”

“How nice. And have you seen it, Mr. Archer? I’ve heard James is quite distinguished in the leading role.”

“He’s very accomplished.” The lie came easier as I repeated it, but it still left a bad taste on my tongue.

With a queer look at me, Maude excused herself and went back to the house. Mrs. Slocum raised both arms to take off her woven straw hat. She held the pose a moment too long, and turned her head so that I could see her profile. Vanity was her trouble; she was fixed on her own lost beauty, and couldn’t grow old or let her son grow up. The hat came off after the long moment. Her hair was dyed bright red, and combed over her forehead in straight bangs.

“James is one of the most versatile people in the world,” she said. “I brought him up to take a creative interest in everything, and I must say he’s justified my faith. Of course you know him only as an actor, but he paints quite passably, and he has a beautiful tenor voice as well. He’s even taken to writing verse lately. Francis has been a great stimulus to him.”

“A brilliant man,” I said. I had to say something to stem her flow of words.

“Francis? Oh, yes. But he doesn’t have a tithe of James’s energy. It would be a boon to him if he could rouse some Hollywood interest in his play. He’s been urging me to back it, but naturally I can’t afford to speculate in that sort of thing. I presume that you’re connected with the studios, Mr. Archer?”

“Indirectly.” I didn’t want to get involved in explanations. She chattered like a parrot, but her eyes were shrewd. To change the subject, I said: “As a matter of fact, I’d like to get out of Hollywood. It’s ulcer territory. A quiet life in the country would suit me fine, if I could get a piece of property in a place like this.”

“A place like this, Mr. Archer?” She spoke guardedly, and her green eyes veiled themselves like a parrot’s eyes.

Her reaction surprised me, but I blundered on: “I’ve never seen a place I’d rather live in.”

“I see, Maude sicked you on me.” Her voice was unfriendly and harsh. “If you represent the Pareco people, I must ask you to leave my property at once.”