“Did he ever make a pass at you?”
“Why do you ask that?” She didn't sound angry or coy.
“Part of the background picture I'm trying to get of Matt Anthony,” I said, and wondered if it was true or was I enjoying myself as a gossip?
“I guess I'm about the only female out here he didn't try to make. He thinks of himself as a great lover, but I believe that's an act with him. He never asked me because, I suppose, I don't count, being colored.”
I had a mouthful of beer and almost choked as I asked, “Don't tell me Matt was prejudiced?”
“I don't want you to get the wrong impression,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “I mean, I was never interested in Matt—you know, as a man. As for prejudice, it was the kind he didn't realize he had. Let's say he was patronizing—which in the long run is the same bloody thing. I told you at the start, or meant to, that I don't understand Matt Anthony. He would do funny things. Sometimes on a rainy day he would drive me to town to shop. I guess he was bored hanging around the house. We might go to Hampton, Riverside— wherever he felt like driving. He would always make a point of stopping at some swank bar or cafe, and we'd go in for lunch or a drink. Naturally, we would cause plenty of open mouths and stares. If for no other reason because we might be wearing shorts, or he'd be sporting a dirty sweat shirt. There never was any incident, but he'd walk in as if ready to slug anybody who said a word. That was his way of testing civil rights, I suppose. Or his insisting I call him Matt.”
“That doesn't make him prejudiced.”
“He means well, but you see he never asked me if I wanted to go into those places. He acted as if I was a pet dog he was showing off. In fact, he never asked if I wanted lunch, he simply took me into a cafe. Around the house, be and Fran did things in front of me because to them I wasn't a person, merely something in the kitchen. My God, he was always talking race relations to me and all that, but remember I was his maid.” She was silent for a moment, blowing smoke rings. Then she smiled, added, “I don't want to sound too hard on him, I suppose in his own way he was trying to... well, help.”
I couldn't think of anything else to ask. I stood up, asked, “May I see the dock?”
“Sure.”
I followed her out on the veranda. She pointed to a worn path that entered the pine trees. “Follow that. It isn't far. I don't like to leave the house—some of those blasted reporters might break in. Be careful in the woods, there's a lot of rocks. Matt was always going to take them up but never got around to it.”
Glancing through the glass wall of the living room. I pointed to the poodle with his front paws up on the table, eating the rest of the cheese.
May Fitzgerald sighed. “He's a sly thief. I hope the cheese doesn't give him the runs, the pest.”
I said I'd be back soon and followed the path. The 'woods' weren't more than a dozen yards thick and in the late afternoon sun, dark and delightfully cool. Stepping out of the trees I found myself on a white sandy beach with a magnificent view. This was a corner of the bay, and most of it except the beach, densely wooded. I saw POSTED signs all around the bend in the bay. If all the land was Mart's, it was like owning a private ocean, although of course one side opened upon the rest of the bay, or maybe it was the Sound. This was indeed real luxury.
A plain, square, white, wooden house decorated with old anchors and fishing nets was at the beach end of a neat dock. Tied to the other end of the dock was this sleek, powerful, black and red fishing boat with tall outriggers, swivel chairs and a day cabin. It looked about 30 feet long and like a dream. But the boat that attracted my attention was a plain rowboat sitting high on the beach, its canvas covered outboard raised. I walked across the sand to stare at the small dent on one side, where Francine had broken her head. I don't know what I expected, it wasn't much of a dent. But I was surprised the police had left the boat here.
Then I sat on the dock and smoked my pipe, staring at the clear water, the tiny waves as the tide came in. The place was so completely private I was tempted to take a nude swim. If Matt ever had to sell this, Frank Kuhn would be mad about it—clamming, fishing, swimming, your boat and dock, all in your own backyard. Although Frank wouldn't have this kind of money, or would he? At least $50,000. If I had that type of dough I'd buy it—it was a ghoulish thought.
Finishing my pipe, I looked into the bathing house. There was a shower, dressing stalls, lockers, and a small bar and kitchen. The walls were covered with garish paintings, originals of Matt's many book jackets, although The Last Supper painting wasn't among them. I saw towels and trunks hanging in an open locker. I quickly stripped and took a fast swim. It was quite out of this world, the bottom smooth and sandy, the water very salty and cool.
Toweling myself dry, I wondered who had last worn these trunks. Too small to be Matt's. I dressed and started back toward the house, feeling very good. I nearly sprawled on my face in the pines when I stumbled over a damn rock. My pipe flew out of my hand and it took me a lot of minutes to find it in the dark shade, with scores of little bugs clouding about me. I felt dirty and sweaty all over again.
I found May on the veranda, working on another glass of beer and reading some sort of textbook. I told her I'd taken a swim, asked about the land surrounding the bay: It all belonged to Matt, as I thought. She also told me the police had spent hours photographing and examining the rowboat. I thanked her for her time and Matt's beer. The mutt was stretching out on the floor, watching me with bored eyes, wagging his stubby tail slightly. May walked me to my car and as I drove off she called out, “Mr. Connor, don't forget, when you see Mr. Anthony's lawyer, ask what I'm supposed to do... about the house and money.”
I waved, said I wouldn't forget. It was a few minutes before six as I beaded for Moatauk. In the rear view mirror I saw my T-shirt where I'd flung it on the back seat, or had Wilma tossed it there? I winked at it like a jerk and finally stopped the car, was about to throw it away, then in a moment of thrift, I stuffed it into the glove compartment I took a room at a motel high over the ocean, drove on to have a good lobster supper, and like a hick, mailed cards to Frank and Liz, and one to Bill Long.
The lobster was a small mistake. Michele was crazy for lobster, and for a dreadful moment I wondered what the hell I was doing way out here by myself. About this time on Saturday night I'd be helping her with the dishes. Then we'd listen to the news on TV and try to decide if we should stay home, or maybe see a foreign movie—with Michele whispering the fine points the English titles missed—or we might be playing bridge, or sitting around with some UN friends and arguing.
But that was only a lonely moment. The rest of the meal was okay. I still had a little of that now-I'm-a-man feeling left from being with Wilma; and Michele's card made me feel it was just a temporary split—as Wilma said, she ran home to mama... who unfortunately happened to be thousands of miles away. As I smoked my pipe I even felt a bit smug. I had a clear idea for the ads buzzing in the back of my head. If I carried it off, with any luck in a year or three I could afford to give Michele (and myself) a place like Matt's.