She sat down in front of Carver’s desk, her back rigid and not touching her chair, yet she seemed totally relaxed. Her hair was combed back to a bun and she wore a black headband. He thought she looked particularly regal today. She wore dark red lipstick and had her eyes skillfully made up so that they seemed faintly oriental. Her rigid posture caused her breasts to challenge the thin material of her blouse.
The air conditioner clicked on. Carver didn’t blame it.
“I was in town for an appointment,” she said, “so I thought I’d drop in.”
“I’m glad.”
“Give your deposition?” she asked.
He nodded. “I think the uncle’s going to walk.”
“Should he?”
“No. Where he’ll walk is straight back to that kid, if it isn’t prevented. She doesn’t look old enough to trust with the toaster.”
“Nothing you can do about it,” Beth said. “It’s up to the court. Maybe you should concentrate on what you can do something about.”
“Marla Cloy?”
“Uh-hm. What have you learned?”
He told her about this morning’s conversation with Mildred Fain. Then about Marla’s meeting W. Krull at the Holiday Inn and handing over the envelope.
“Doesn’t sound so suspicious to me,” Beth said. “Maybe they met on business.”
“I’m wondering what kind,” Carver said.
“You’d like to catch her in a narcotics exchange, wouldn’t you?”
“It would make things simpler. And it’s not so illogical. After all, there’s snow as well as sand in Florida.”
Beth stared at him. “Maybe the meeting was for a payoff-a down payment, anyway-and Marla hired the woman to kill Brant before he makes good on his threat and murders her.”
“I thought of that. This woman wouldn’t strike you as a hired killer.”
“You know better than that, Fred.”
He did.
“Are you going to talk to W. Krull?” Beth asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“What lie are you planning to tell her? That pathetic insurance agent thing?”
“No,” he said. “I’m going to tell her the truth, that I’m investigating the matter of Joel Brant threatening Marla Cloy.”
“Going to say you’re with the police?”
“Of course not,” Carver said. “I’ll let her decide that on her own.”
Beth gazed out the window for a moment, then turned to face him with a somber, oddly pained expression he was seeing for the first time. It transformed her features so that at a glance he might almost have thought he was looking at another woman. She was always doing things like that, revealing new and unexpected facets of herself. Carver had the feeling her capacity to surprise him was infinite; she was a puzzle he would never quite solve. It bothered him when he couldn’t get to the truth and meaning of things he cared about. It also kept him intrigued.
“I told you I had an appointment today,” she said. “It was with a doctor.”
There was something in her voice that scared him. He felt his heart accelerate. His mind whirled and searched for hints that she might be ill, symptoms he should have noticed. He knew he could be blind to such things.
“You’re OK, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. It depends.”
“On what?”
“I’m not sure of that, either.”
“You feel all right?”
“Yes and no.”
“Damn it, Beth!”
He was shocked to see the flesh beneath her eyes dance. A look of wonder and fear crossed her face before she bowed her head and began to sob almost silently.
This was not her. Not her at all.
Using the desk and chair for support, he went to her and lowered himself to kneel on one leg beside her chair, his bad leg extended in front of him. He balanced himself with one hand on the chair while he held her with his free arm.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “don’t panic. These things are hardly ever as serious as they seem at first. We’ll get second and third opinions, find a specialist.”
She stopped sobbing, then she drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, using fresh oxygen to compose herself. She dabbed daintily at her eyes with a tissue, smearing her mascara. She sniffed, and wiped her nose.
“I’ve already got a specialist, Fred. An obstetrician.”
9
Carver sat across from Beth at one of the small, round, white-enameled tables clustered around Poco’s taco stand on Magellan, where he often ate lunch. They’d just left his office and he’d automatically driven her to Poco’s, not remembering until they were already seated and he’d brought the food to the table that she didn’t like to come here, as she hated the food. He was still in something of a daze from hearing her tell him she was pregnant.
A kind of instinct had taken over. He didn’t want to talk to her about the pregnancy until he’d had time to assimilate the news and figure out how he felt about it. The wrong words spoken now could haunt them later.
He watched her looking at him calmly, her eyes still swollen with her tears. The white hulls of pleasure boats moored at the dock bobbed gently and in perfect unison behind her, as if in a subtle dance, the evening sun glancing off their brightwork.
“I’m still trying to digest the news,” he said.
“It should be easier than digesting that taco,” she told him, motioning with her head toward the greasy wrapper in front of him on the table.
“I got you a burrito,” he said.
She glanced down at the contents of the small plastic tray he’d placed between them. “I think I’ll just drink my soda, Fred. You know this isn’t my favorite place. The food tastes like a bad day at cooking class.”
“I forgot you didn’t like it here,” he explained, squeezing a plastic envelope and squirting hot sauce on his taco. Some of it splattered onto his shirt. Oh, hell! He wiped at the stain with a finger and made it worse.
“I’m not hungry anyway,” she said, “Maybe it’s because-”
“An irregular appetite is one of the symptoms,” he interrupted.
She smiled. “I’m reassured I have an expert to consult.” She touched a long, red fingernail to the side of her soda cup but didn’t drink. She began pecking the fingernail against the cup, making a persistent tapping sound. “What are we going to do, Fred?”
“I don’t know. Are you absolutely sure you’re pregnant?”
“The doctor’s sure. At least six weeks. I’ve missed two periods, and the uterus. . well, never mind.” She stopped tapping with her fingernail and laid her hand in her lap. “Believe it. I’m pregnant.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he poked at the taco in front of him as if it might have something to add to the conversation.
Beth touched the back of his hand very lightly. “Do you want me to have this baby?”
He continued staring at the taco. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry either. An infant certainly didn’t figure in his plans. And he was too old to be a father for the third time.
Still, somewhere in the core of his mind or soul, he was pleased by the news. He told himself it was a dangerous reaction, some reflexive thing that happened to help ensure survival of the species. Something out of the ooze. But he really was pleased.
“Fred?”
“My gut instinct is to say yes, have the baby.” He tried to tilt the umbrella sprouting out of the center of the table so it blocked the low angle of the sun. Something was wrong with the aluminum mechanism and the umbrella kept rocking back to its previous position. He reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses and put them on, wondering if Beth would think he didn’t want her to read his eyes. “There are problems, of course.”
“Of course,” she said.
“But as of this moment. . yes.” He fought a crazy impulse to leap up and whoop, as he had when Laura had told him about her first pregnancy.