Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

“Did he say Mrs.... Francine was dead?”

The maid stared at me over a perfect smoke ring. “You ask questions like a detective, Mr. Connor.”

“An amateur one. How could he be positive she was dead?”

“My goodness, we all were. A person only had to glance at her to know she was dead. Seemed like I had hardly put the phone down when the End Harbor police were here. Then a doctor drove up. They had us stay off the beach while they pulled the boat in. They said Fran had stood up to cast when her shoe lace caught on the duckboards, causing her to fall. She had hit her temple on the side of the boat. The doctor tested to see if there was water in her lungs: did some other things. After they asked us many questions, they took Fran's body into the Harbor with them. The Hunters started to get drunk. They were very upset.”

“Wasn't Matt?”

She nodded. “He cried a little—that was being upset for him.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, were the Anthonys happy?”

“I think yes, but I never understood their relationship. It was like... they were always testing each other, proving something. Francine was one of these very efficient women, she reminded me of an air line hostess. Matt, he—”

“She reminded you of what?”

I got a smile through another smoke ring. She was proud of those rings. “Hostess on an airplane. You know, nothing upsets them, they're always able to manage. That was Mrs. Anthony. Now, Matt, he was the opposite, always seemed to be playing, showing off. He'd think nothing of bringing five or six strangers he'd met fishing back for dinner, or going to the store for a newspaper and coming back with a new boat or an outboard. I know he makes big money but, believe you me, he can spend it faster than he makes it. Much faster. Sometimes our liquor bill was five or six hundred dollars a month. Well, let me finish with that dreadful day. About six, after the police had left, and the Hunters were watching TV and drinking steadily, Matt went to his den to work. I'll have to say this for him, no matter how many guests we had or what was going on, he'd take off for his room every day, including Sundays, and dictate for a few hours. Once or twice I've seen him go to work pretty drunk, but he never missed a day. Once a week he would mail the recording tape to a secretary in New York. She'd type it up and when he got it back, he'd go over the pages again, mail it back for a final typing.”

“And Mr. Anthony worked the same day his wife died?”

“I told you, he worked every day, even Sundays. I think it relaxed him. I've seen him come in from tuna fishing, dirty and tired, all smelly. While everybody else was washing up or having cocktails, he'd be locked in his room, working. Still, it's only an hour or two a day, which is a sweet work day, and think of the money he was making.”

“Have you read his books?”

“One—in manuscript form. He wanted my opinion—you know, as an average person. The book was... entertaining. It's amazing how many odd little things he knows about. Of course, he's constantly reading up on crimes to get ideas. But he also has an entire row of books devoted to locks, technical books on various aspects of the body, poisons, guns, and a slew of—” She coughed and crushed her cigarette. “I've been smoking too much. And talking too much is giving me a frog. I'm going for beer—can you use one?”

I said yes. When she jumped to her feet—a boyish movement—and went into the kitchen, the poodle whined. I walked over to study the paintings. There was a seascape that could have been an original Winslow Homer, a print of Bellows' famous fight scene, a bamboo-framed Gauguin I'd never seen before, a confusion of vivid colors which might be a Miro, and several crude nudes in oil—the work of an amateur.

The crazy poodle suddenly charged across the room and hugged my leg. When I reached for his collar he growled, so I had to stand there while he jumped up and down on his shaved paws, looking for all the world like a tiny man in baggy pants. I called out, “Miss Fitzgerald, lover-poodle is at work again. Are you certain he won't bite?”

She came in with two simply huge glasses of frothy black beer and a plate of cheese on a plastic tray. Putting the tray down, she grabbed the dog, shook him. “Now stop it, you bloody pest Here.” She threw a hunk of cheese up in the air. The dog caught it expertly, sat around waiting for more. “That's all you get, Clichy.”

“How do you spell the mutt's name?” I asked, taking a beer. It was thick as syrup and very rich tasting.

“C-1-I-c-h-y. After the street in Paris where they purchased him.”

I was a bit relieved, for some reason, Matt hadn't been obvious and named him Cliche. “Very unusual beer. Imported?”

“From Austria. I love it. I'm hoping it will add a few pounds on me. But it hasn't to date, and I've been really hitting it. I figure I might as well use it up; don't know what's going to happen to the house and no sense in leaving such fine food around. Try the cheese, it's from Norway.”

I took a piece and sat down. It tasted like pure smoke. The poodle came over, his mind on food this time, and I tossed the rest of the cheese to him.

Miss Fitzgerald asked, “Have I been helpful, Mr. Connor?”

“What happened after Matt went to his den?”

“Oh, my, thought I'd finished with that dreadful day. Now where was I? I was making supper when the bell rang. I opened the door and there was a local cop with a detective from Riverside—that's the county seat. Had a Polish name I still can't even say. Looked like a detective too, you know, burly and... well... evil looking. I mean, a man without any feelings. I called Matt and they went into the den and I went back to my work. I kept waiting for Matt to tell me to serve supper and then the Hunters, I think it was Mrs. Hunter, she's a very nice person, she came in crying something awful and said Matt had confessed he had killed Fran. I couldn't believe it. I saw him as this detective was taking him away. Matt looked dazed, kind of sickly. The police came and questioned us all over again. Then, in the middle of the night, mind you, reporters started coming. The Hunters left about midnight. No trains then, I don't know how they got back to New York.”

“Did you hear Matt threaten his wife?”

“No. Like I told the police, I was upstairs when all that happened.”

“Do you think Matt murdered his wife?”

She shrugged and ate another piece of cheese. “Murder is a strong word. I think he might have lost his temper and hit Fran. As he confessed. I know they had an argument before over his wanting to skin-dive. Fran said it would be bad for his heart Of course, they argued all the time, but I never saw him strike her, or even slap her. I think all this arguing was a form of... well, kind of fun for them. They enjoyed it.”

I took another sip of the thick beer. “Argued about what?”

“Anything. It was part of their testing each other. I've read someplace there's a thin line between hate and love— they were on that line most of the time. Well, like this: Matt was always putting on this big sexy act. I've seen him—” She hesitated, stared at me.

I stared back at her. “What's the matter?”

“Well, I'm a little confused. You see I never talked... I suppose dirty is the word, until I started working here. I know it's childish to call it dirty, and while I want to sound worldly and all that, if I say what I want... don't get the wrong impression of me. That's not exactly what I mean but...”

I smiled at her. “Please tell me—”

“Don't smile! You make me feel like a child.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, talk anyway you wish. I promise not to get any wrong impressions.”

“Then I shall talk boldly—as I really want to. What I mean, about the Anthonys, Matt's big act... I've seen Fran bending over, you know, doing something, and he would come up and slip his hand under her skirt, pinch her behind. When she'd object Matt would say, 'You want me to find another can to play with? Be easy enough.' Shocked me at first, but I got used to them acting like blasted children. I shouldn't even call it sexy, he did it merely to annoy her. Like once I heard him get Fran hysterical during a bridge game by insisting she was frigid. Of course, she got back at him.”