Richard Deming - This Game of Murder

“Just routine,” Farroway said laconically. He laid it against the back of the front seat and climbed in the back of the car.

“How about the cut-out portion?” Marshall persisted. “Did you look for that?”

“He already has it,” the chief said. “We picked it up from the ground beneath the window on the way out last night.” He got into the front seat.

Placing his hands on the window frame, Marshall said, “What do you think, Barney? It all check out?”

“Seems to so far. I’m kind of glad.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there’s always a possibility in a case like this that it was rigged as an accident. I didn’t like that bit last night about her husband sleeping in the downstairs study. Seemed to indicate they’ve been having a little marital trouble. And she didn’t impress me as being very grief-striken. Frankly I had some suspicion when I first arrived last night that she’d deliberately killed her husband, placed the meat cleaver in his hand afterward, and made up the cat-burglar story.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Marshall said.

“Seems to be now,” the chief agreed. “Unless there’s some unexpected development, looks like she’s in the clear. I hope so. I always kind of liked Mrs. Case. Never knew her well, but she was always friendly when we met.”

“She’s a pretty nice gal,” Marshall said.

When the police car had driven off, Marshall went back inside and found his mother alone in the front room.

“Betty and Bud are washing the ink off their hands,” Sylvia explained.

In a few minutes Bud came downstairs alone.

“Mom’s changing clothes,” he said. “She’ll be down in a minute.”

It was about fifteen minutes before Betty re-appeared. She had changed her slacks and sweater for a dark blue street dress and she also wore a tiny hat.

“Are you planning to drive to the paper soon, Kirk?” she asked.

“I’m supposed to be there at nine. It’s getting close to that.”

“Then could you drop me and Bud off at the funeral parlor? I don’t really feel up to driving.”

“Of course.”

“Leave Bud here with me,” Sylvia said. “The reason I came was to help you.”

Betty glanced at Bud. “I don’t like to impose.”

“You just go ahead and don’t worry about a thing. If you’re not back by noon, I’ll give Bud his lunch. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Bud?”

“Yes, ma’am. Go ahead, Mom. I don’t want to go to the old funeral parlor anyway.”

Betty looked a little surprised. Obviously she had thought her son wouldn’t want to be parted from her even for a short period while his grief was still fresh. But apparently his reluctance to visit the funeral parlor counterbalanced his need for his mother’s comforting presence. Marshall suspected from the boy’s expression that he thought the purpose of the visit would be to look at his dead father, and was appalled by the idea. Actually, of course, Betty merely intended to make funeral arrangements.

“All right,” Betty said. “You be a good boy and mind Mrs. Marshall, Bud.”

When he dropped her in front of the Joyce Funeral Home, Marshall suggested that Betty phone him at the paper when she was ready to go back home.

“Of course I won’t,” she said. “I’ll call a taxi. I’m not going to interrupt your work.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“I do. But you might drop by this evening if you have nothing to do. I suspect I’m going to be lonely. Do you know if your mother plans to spend the night?”

“Probably. Dad thinks you shouldn’t be alone, and she agrees with everything Dad says.”

“Then you can have the excuse of bringing her a nightgown and toothbrush. She didn’t bring anything along, did she?”

“Not unless it’s in her handbag. I’ll stop out there for lunch and find out what she wants. Don’t expect me very early tonight, though. I’m going to have to get some sleep during the first part of the evening.”

“It’s later on that I’m going to need company,” Betty said. “I know I’m going to dread going to bed, and will probably sit up until all hours.”

He drove on to the newspaper office, getting there just at nine a.m.

Lydia Harrison’s job was to handle classified ads, and her desk was beyond a counter just inside the front door. She was therefore the first staff member Marshall saw each morning.

“Hi,” she said, rising and coming over to the counter. “I’ve already heard about the shooting. It was all over Ward’s Restaurant when I had breakfast there. We hardly need a newspaper in this town. Wasn’t that a terrible thing?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Mom’s out there now, staying with the kid. I just dropped Betty at the funeral parlor.”

“Oh. That was certainly nice of your mother. I suppose Betty’s all shook up.”

“As a matter of fact she’s taking it pretty well. I plan to run out there again at noon and see how things are.”

“Oh,” Lydia said. “I won’t wait for you then.”

He and Lydia customarily had lunch together. There was no suggestion of disappointment in her tone, though. She seemed to accept matter-of-factly that at the moment his attention was on Betty Case in her hour of trouble, and was gracefully willing to step into the background. As he moved on to the stairs leading to the newsrooms, he thought again that Lydia was certainly an undemanding woman. He wondered a little uncomfortably if before long he was going to have to make a choice between her and Betty.

Then another thought occurred to him. Lydia had mentioned nothing about anyone at Ward’s Restaurant suggesting that the shooting might not have been an accident. And surely she would have if she had heard such a suggestion. Apparently the townspeople in general lacked Chief Meister’s suspicious mind, for Marshall was sure that if such a thought had occurred to anyone, the rumor would have spread over the town like wildfire.

Upstairs he dropped into his father’s office for a few moments to brief him on developments, then went to the city room to write up the story. Because of the local social prominence of the Cases, it was going to be a page-one story, but in deference to Betty he made it a bare factual account, avoiding any hint of sensationalism.

When he pulled the copy from his machine, he called a copy boy and told him to rush it into his father’s office.

At noon he drove back out to Rexford Bay and had lunch with Betty, Bud and his mother. Betty said the funeral was arranged for Wednesday afternoon. She also said she had phoned her Aunt Audrey and Uncle George in Rochester, and they would arrive the next morning to stay with her until after the funeral. Therefore Sylvia would be relieved of the necessity of keeping her company and could go home the next day.

“Aunt Audrey is my last living relative,” she said. “She’s Dad’s sister, you know. I think you met her years back, Kirk.”

“I vaguely remember,” he said. “They visited your parents back when we were in high school. Isn’t he a banker or something?”

“President of the Reed Trust Company. That’s Uncle George’s last name: Reed.”

Before Marshall left to return to work, his mother gave him a list of items to pack in an overnight bag and bring back that evening.

“Don’t plan on me much before bedtime,” he told her. “I didn’t get any sleep last night so I plan to hit the sack for a couple of hours after dinner.”

“That’s all right,” Sylvia said. “I won’t need any of it until I go to bed.”

Marshall and his father had a restaurant dinner together that evening; afterward Marshall went home and slept until nine o’clock. It was about a quarter of ten when he arrived at Betty’s house with his mother’s overnight bag.