And the incredible brown creature did act like a real mouse. It raced around a large obstacle course inside the store, adroitly dodging plants, plastic rocks, other obstructions. It turned left, stopped, turned right, whirled one hundred eighty degrees, meantime squeaking exactly like an American mouse, no Korean accent (the squeaks were sent outside via a speaker). There was no evidence as to who was manipulating the little brown devil.
I’ll be damned, thought Tony as he was about to leave, what’ll they think of next. Then he heard a woman say, “Ugh, that thing gives me the creeps. If my husband ever pulled that on me, I’d poison him.”
“Me, too, Marge,” said her companion. “I’m scared to death of mice. Let’s get out of here.”
Women, thought Tony, no wonder they’re called the weaker sex. By the time he reached the insurance office the incident had faded; he had more serious matters to think about.
There are many types of accident insurance policies and filling out a short form is about all that’s required. Policies can be purchased for various amounts, to cover many types of accidents, including accidents involving death. Tony took out separate policies on himself and Bunny, each for a quarter million dollars for accidental death, the cost a total of eighty-five dollars for two months. Taking out the policy on himself was about the only thing he had thought of to help divert suspicion from himself when and if the horrible deed was done. (“As if that’ll help,” he moaned to himself as he left the insurance agency. “Hell, unless I’m twenty miles away when — geez, this is awful, awful.”)
Feeling rotten, he walked around downtown until he found an expensive restaurant in a hotel, had a thirty-five dollar lunch, got indigestion, although it might have been the first indication of conscience pangs. For he had never, never thought of murdering anyone. Now here he was plotting to murder a fine, decent, kindhearted human being. It was tearing him apart. And for more than one reason, for to his amazement he had fallen under Bunny’s sweet, innocent, deliriously happy spell. Incredibly, the bewitcher was not doing the bewitching. Svengali would have been crushed, Clara Hogan dumbfounded.
What the hell’s come over me, he moaned as he walked toward a taxi stand, surreptitiously holding his aching stomach? Here I am falling for a fifty-two-year-old woman (he had seen her age on the marriage certificate) who dyes her hair, who’s damn well educated but who’s got about as much common sense as a ten-year-old kid, who seems to think most people want to do what’s right.
Yeah, she’s a goodlooker for her age — damned goodlooking — dresses well, is a real lady, but I’ve had plenty like her, and younger ones. It’s just gotta be that I’ve never come across anyone like her, a grown woman who worries more about other people than herself, who spends half her time writing checks for needy causes and going to meetings trying to raise money for things like a new dog pound or a new roof on the library.
Listen to me. I gotta stop this kind of thinking. I’m smack behind the eight ball. What the hell will I do for the rest of my life if I can’t pay off the markers? I’m hooked on gambling, there’s no two ways about it.
It’s a thirty-five mile trip from downtown Pittsburgh to Hillsdale, and after some to and fro discussion a price was agreed upon. Tony sat up front with the cabbie — a thick, balding fellow of fifty or so — and had to listen to a mournful monologue about how tough times were since the steel and coal industries were done. A fellow had a tough time feeding his family. Most days it was hardly worthwhile showing up for work. And a trip out “to the sticks” was no bargain. He’d come back empty.
By the time they reached the LaFayette Terrace mansion Tony felt so sorry for the poor cabbie that he tipped him twenty dollars. Then, on an impulse (it was probably his conscience again, although his stomach still hurt like hell) he thrust another twenty at the cabbie.
“Thanks, sir,” the cabbie said jubilantly. “I knew you was first class. I said to myself when you got in, there’s a bigtime high roller. You’re a good man, sir, a good man.”
I used to be, thought Tony dismally as he entered the house. It seemed deserted. He went into the den, looked out back through one of the high windows. The car was gone. (“Trying to raise money for the dog pound.” No, it was the library this time.) And old nibnose and her sneaky cat were sitting out under a big tree in the back yard. (“Ten to one they’re raking me over the coals.” It was a safe bet.)
But he had time to hide the accident policies. Harold had had hundreds of books; there were shelves from floor to ceiling around most of the room. Tony picked a shelf in a far corner, put the policies in Volume 3, Phoebe-Tanager, of Birds of North America.
Now came the tough part, the perfect crime, but he hadn’t the slightest idea how to pull it off. Then Bunny begged him to watch the sunset with her from the little balcony on the second floor.
It was a wooden affair about eight feet square, reached via a glass door from the hallway. It had been added by Grandfather Ainsworth when his wife said she’d like to have a place from which to watch sunsets.
The balcony had a wrought-iron grating about forty-eight inches high to keep onlookers from falling onto the rock garden thirty feet below — a real rock garden, huge rocks having been brought down from the mountains. Seasonal flowers flourished among them.
Harold and Bunny had watched hundreds of sunsets, never tiring of the gorgeous displays. Bunny, calling the balcony “my wee widow’s walk” had continued watching after poor Harold’s tragic fall into the quarry. Now she had someone to watch with her again.
She took Tony by the arm, steered him out onto the balcony, just as a mammoth sun was setting behind the faroff hills.
“There, darling,” she said, excitedly, “didn’t I tell you? Isn’t it magnificent, simply magnificent?”
It was indeed, the sky around the huge red ball ablaze in a dozen dazzling shades. Tony didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But it wasn’t the brilliant display. It was Bunny. She was standing in the southwest corner, leaning slightly over the railing, looking toward the northwest (the sun sets north of west in the height of summer). The top railing had moved, barely moved, but it had moved enough to cause Tony’s heart to skip a beat.
“For God’s sake, Bunny,” he almost shouted as he lurched forward, grabbed her, pulled her back. “You could have gone over. Geez, you almost gave me heart failure.”
“But there’s no danger, darling,” Bunny told him, her voice joyful. “Why, I’ve been doing this for years. The grating is firmly attached.” (Oh how he must love me; oh how lucky I am to have found such a wonderful, wonderful man!)
“There’s always the first time,” he told her. “Now come on, let’s go, the show’s over.” What if that thing had broken loose and she had gone over onto the rocks? Who would they blame? Me, the new husband. (“You say your wife leaned against the railing, Mr. Gregory, and it gave way? And you were on the balcony with her? Hmm, I’m afraid your story doesn’t hold water. Book him, sergeant.”). Sure, it’s got to be an accident but one that leaves me in the clear.
Late that night Bunny cuddled close, cooing in her sleep, Tony thought of the balcony. Maybe I can work something out. I’ll check that grating tomorrow.
Which he did. After breakfast he closeted himself in the den, telling Bunny he had to do some figuring. He waited until she had been picked up by one of her Mends (the humane society meeting, a new facility was becoming more urgent) and until the two maids, old nibnose, and the cat were in the kitchen having coffee and milk (milk for Midnight). Then he hurried upstairs, carefully opened the sliding glass door, went onto the balcony.