She squinted toward the Williams house as Hughie placidly did her bidding and then put the clams in her car. No, no smoke yet.
Despite the fact that it was only Hughie coming to dinner, Cecilia primped before the bathroom mirror, dusting powder on her florid skin, smoothing on lipstick, drawing a black line around her eyelids. Too bad it’s only Hughie. Still, he’s a man, wishy-washy or not. Not much like old Tony. The black line gave her eyes an unfortunate predatory look, like those of a mink ready for battle. Nevertheless she had the tempting look of a firm and rosy apple.
She tied on a pink-checked apron and went to check the supper preparations. The clams were scrubbed and ready for last-minute steaming. The salad was in the refrigerator, awaiting its oil and vinegar dressing. Everything ready and not yet 7:30. Even with the fog rolling in it was still light enough for a last-minute look through her spyglass.
She went to the bay window and spun the glass around the tiny community. No activity down by the cliff. The deputies’ cars were gone. Nobody walking on the lanes or in their yards. Probably all at supper.
Then she saw a truck parked outside Silas Williams’ house. Two men were struggling along the narrow brick path to the back door, carrying a large kitchen range. In the back yard she could see a third man installing a bottle of gas. She laughed triumphantly. “So Laura won! Hard to stop a woman when she makes up her mind. Finally.”
She watched the men go into the house, at last come out, turn on their headlights, drive away, dim in the settling fog. Then she saw a shadowy figure move out of the mist which covered the highway and slowly climb the slope toward her house. Old Hughie, shuffling along as if he was still in beach sand. Some big-shot financier these days for sure; my God, Cecilia, some boy friend!
“What a day for sorrow and trouble,” Hughie said when he came in. “Now Silas Williams is hurt. Had to be driven to the doctor in Half Moon Bay. Cut his hand slicing a ham.”
Cecilia snorted, her little black eyes rolling back and forth gleefully. “Only a doctor? Lucky the stingy old goat didn’t get driven to the morgue.”
“It wasn’t that bad a cut,” Hughie said. “Deep, though, Ed Grimes said when I was in the store. Ed had to drive him, Mrs. Williams can’t drive. Silas told Ed the knife slipped and sliced his arm. Bad cut. Right arm, too.”
Cecilia giggled. “Left-handed, huh?”
Hughie squinted, and thought. When his eyes relaxed, Cecilia watched a knowledge within them drop into a slot and file itself. Hughie shrugged. “Who knows? Does it matter? It’s a bad cut.”
“The deputies find anything else on the beach?”
Hughie shook his head. “Nothing. They’ll be back tomorrow to search farther up and down the shore.”
“It could be gangsters. But I’ll bet you ten to one some crazy hippie from San Francisco did it. Maybe a whole bunch of crazies. The world’s gone crazy. Mobs, riots, bombings, psychos all over the place.” She sighed. “And now messing up this nice quiet little spot.”
“Money,” Hughie said. “Money causes all the trouble. Some like it too much. And some hate it too much. Well, I have to admit it. I’m this much of a hippie. I hate money.” Cecilia fought down a snort of laughter. This much of a hippie! Boy, oh, boy, you were a hippie before these kids started!
Cecilia put on the clams to steam with herbs and garlic, split a loaf of sour French bread, slathered it with garlic butter, then put the loaf in a warm oven.
“A nice way with a house you have,” Hughie said. “Such a pretty, clean kitchen. No doubt you had happy times.”
Here it comes, next thing he’ll be wanting to move in.
Cecilia sighed heavily. “Indeed, indeed. Well, I’m alone now but I’ve been too well trained to let things slide. Between Mama and Tony, I mean. Mama said, you clean the house, give your man good food, be nice to him, you always got him around. And then both Mama and me are finally widows.”
She shook her head ruefully at the irony of life. “And Tony — well, to tell the truth, Tony was a regular slob in some ways. You know how a hard-working man can get. Too tired to walk to the bathtub. But fussy about his food, oh my! He sure kept up Mama’s training. How Tony could eat!” She sighed again. “That’s what killed him, the doctor said.”
Hughie’s face drooped in sympathy. “A man so big and strong. It must have been a terrible shock how quickly he went. Sick one day, gone the next.”
Her eyes misted. “Started with only a cold, and then — but that’s the type, the doctor said. The fat ones die, the measly ones last because the strong don’t watch themselves. I tell you, Hughie, when I found Tony lying across that oven door — it’s still sprung, never has worked right since — it really shook me. Like I told the doctor, I’d kept Tony in bed and fed him there, then I went outside to hang up a few clothes. But Tony had such an appetite he couldn’t wait for a minute till I got back. Traipsed out to the kitchen for a refill. Anyway, poor guy, he thought his chest pains were only from his bad cold. Besides, he was crazy for chili. I’d cooked up some for myself but he had to have it even though I’d begged him, Tony, how about some poached eggs? So I was coming in with the clothes basket when I heard this thud. I rushed in. There was Tony on the oven door, with chili spilled all over the floor.”
“Dear Mrs. Pigazzi, you shouldn’t talk about it.”
She waved him quiet, annoyed at the interruption.
“Believe me, I had a time cleaning this kitchen before the doctor got here. And all the time having to look at Tony, just lying there. Too heavy to lift. Anyway, no pulse, blue in the face. Like suffocated, you know. Heart stopped.”
Hughie nodded, in helplessness rather than in encouragement.
“And that doctor, you should have heard him bawl me out! Said spicy beans was no good for a man with chest pains. Said gas had pressed his heart, that a fat man’s heart is already strained. Well, I tell you, that was a night.”
An insistent and delicious smell blended from clams, herbs, and garlic pervaded the kitchen. “Everything’s about ready,” Cecilia said, cheerful once more. “Sit at the table, Hughie. I’ll pour your coffee.”
As Hughie went to the table he asked idly, “Where’s your little dog? That cute little white terrier, used to follow Tony’s truck sometimes? He must be company for you.”
Cecilia’s round face became suddenly gaunt with tragedy. “Don’t talk about him, it still gets me. My poor little Pepi died the same night Tony went.” Oh, my poor baby dog, why did you gobble up that chili before I got in the house? I never thought it would be spilled on the floor. I always fed you good, baby. But you had to gobble it up and get poisoned by your own Mama! And me breaking my heart, having to hide your little body and bury you in the night.
Hughie clucked sympathetically. “Heartbroken over Tony.”
Her voice rasped, “He wasn’t Tony’s dog! He hardly ever followed Tony’s truck. Pepi was my dog.”
The passion in her voice made Hughie squirm uneasily. She noticed this and said flatly, “Let’s eat now. Forget that night.”
But her harsh, enigmatic emotion hovered over them. Hughie picked at his food, while on her part Cecilia ate sullenly. Soon, however, the good food soothed her mood as well as her stomach. She looked up quizzically at Hughie, cogitating how to drop the bombshell. Well, just tell it; go ahead — Laura said to tell it.
“Hughie, Silas Williams didn’t cut his own arm. Laura cut him.”