There was dinner. There was the evening. Dorothy was the gay girl guest. Dick was the happy lover. Nan the petted bride-to-be. Nothing was said about murder.
Finally, Dorothy and Nan were alone in the big back bedroom.
"Isn't it heavenly here?" Nan said. "Don't you like them?"
"Very nice." Dorothy began to whack light into her hair with the stiff brush.
"I'm glad you came. But I wish to goodness Johnny hadn't talked the way he did."
"A job," murmured Dorothy.
"I don't believe it," Nan cried suddenly. "I suppose he thinks / shouldn't be in a house where they once had a murder. As if it had anything to do with me." She shook her head as if to shake this ofiF. "Isn't old Mrs. Bartee cute. Dotty?" Nan hugged her knees. "Blanche is so nice. Dick's Uncle Bart is just a lamb."
Dorothy whacked with the brush. (But a man who lets his mother persecute his wife, she thought, is no lamb. No use for her to speak flash judgments about the Bartees. Nan was in the dream. These were going to be her people. She had dreamed they would be wonderful and so she saw them, in the dream.)
"What's this about a wedding?" she asked.
''0h, Blanche just insists we have it here." "I think a bride should be married in her own place," said Dorothy slowly.
"Oh, now, Dotty, don't be ofiFended. It won't be much of a fuss. Only the family. Very quiet." Nan squinned. "Dot . . . ?" "Yes?" ^Couldn't you do something about Johnny?"
"Me?"
"^Vell, you always liked him.''
(Johnny's for me? thought Dorothy. Now that you don't want him any more. Now that I don't have to let you have him, because he really was the only beau you had.) Dorothy bent her blonde head, and brushed the back of it violently upwards.
She heard Nan say shyly, dreamily, "Dick and I had our blood tests made this morning."
"This momingi"
"He said we might as well get that out of the way. You have to do it before you can get a marriage license.''
"I know," said Dorothy numbly. Then she pushed all her hair back with both hands. "Don't rush, hon," she pleaded.
"Tm not," said Nan rebeUiously.
"What are you going to wear?" said Dorothy with inspiration. And saw Nan's face change. "That'll take time,'' pronounced Dorothy grimly.
Lying abed in the dark, Dorothy felt twenty years older than her little cousin. It wasn't fair to be angry with Nan, when Nan hadn't been told what she ought to know. It wasn't kind to break the dream, but it wasn't kind to jtoave her in it, eithef! Dorothy did not believe that Dick Bartee had ever killed anyone. "But there were other things about i him . . .
Next morning, Johnny Sims was talking to a country lawyer named Marshall who had defended Clinton McCauley, seventeen years ago.
"I think I mishandled the business of those pins,'' the man said. "Grimes is going to write it up, eh? From what point of view?"
"I don't know yet," Johnny said. "McCauley says he is innocent."
"Maybe he is," the lawyer sighed. "Maybe he is. At least, I'm convinced that Kate Callahan had one of the pins, all right."
"How come you couldn't make the jury believe that?"
"Because I was a fool."
"How so, sir?" Johnny asked gently. The man before him had a head of hair that was streaked and rusty red and white. The flesh of his face hung in heavy folds. His hands were square, wide palms, short fingers.
''Well,'' the lawyer leaned back, "Kate Callahan convinced me that Nathaniel Bartee had given her a pin. I was surprised. You'd have thought the sight of a woman like Kate Callahan, in full health, would have withered Nathaniel. Well, I thought I was being foxy. I went to the Bartees about Kate's pin.'' "Whyr
'Well, I was going to make a kind of deal. I knew the family might fight admitting that Nathaniel had ever been— less than a Bartee ought to be. So I figured that rather than let the story about Nathaniel and Kate get out—when they realized the pin in his pocket was no evidence against McCauley, they'd be for truth and justice. I wanted the family on McCauley's side. I was going to propose that Kate's possession of that pin would not be explained or we could hint at some other explanation. Something like that. And they would stick up for McCauley, which would have mattered. So there I went, mealymouthed, doing them a favor. And I ran into a thorn bush." ''How so?"
"Saw Nathaniel first. He froze. Wouldn't even speak. I went to the old man and he took fiie. Mad as a hornet. Ready to disown Nathaniel, then and there. But the old lady jumped in. She swore this was a made-up story, to embarrass the Bartees. She said Kate was willing to lie, for the very purpose of making this deal of mine. It was a plot, she said. So old Bartee got his back up. Nobody was going to pressure him. I'd made a bad mistake. Took away surprise. They were all set for the business of the pin. It went smoothly for them. Nathaniel pulled the second pin out of his pocket at the inquest."
Johnny said, "Now, listen to me. If you believe this Kate, then tell me how Nathaniel could pull a pin out of his pocket? Did he take Christy's out of the safe, then?" "No, no. Nathaniel was covered by a perfect alibi." "Is that so?" said Johnny wonderingly.
"Right. The gardener, sleeping in the grounds—I forget just how it went, but it was perfect."
"But if Kate's pin was in McCauley's pocket, the one Nathaniel had must have come from the safe," cried Johnny. "How?"
"A good question," sighed the lawyer. "I've wondered myself if the old lady could have picked- it off the floor."
"And framed McCauleyl"
"Protected Nathaniel. She's—autocratic. And Nathaniel was her pet. His father couldn't abide him. But she—she mothered him to pieces. Sometimes I think she cared more for her stepson than she ever did for Bart, Jr., after he got bom. A funny thing. Nathaniel was a stiange bii'd. He always was a liar."
"Liar?"
"Scared to death of the old man. So he'd lie. In a way, he had to. The old man would have eaten him alive. The only way a soft-shelled creature like Nathaniel could breathe was to lie."
"So McCauley was framed by a coincidence and some lies?"
"I think somebody lied. But I don't say that McCauley was innocent. I don't know."
"What about the boy? Dick?"
"Oh that," said Marshall. "That was McCauley's sister's theory. Pretty hard to believe such a thing of a fifteen-year-old boy."
"What kind^of boy was he?"
"A wild one. Not that all wild kids turn out so bad. I remember I had to forbid my daughter seeing him."
"Why did you do that, sir?"
"Because he was wild. Ran around in a car as he shouldn't have been doing, at his age. Only time I ever did put a parental foot down. But Blanche was good about it."
"Blanche!" Johnny was startled.
"My daughter married Bart, Jr.," the lawyer said. "Didn't you know?"
"No, sir, I didn't."
"Bart, Jr., is O.K., you know." The lawyer drummed his fingers. "I wish Dick had stayed away."
"Why, sir?"
"I don't exactly know.''
"Where had he been?"
"After they kicked him out of college—some escapade, I forget what—why, he roamed around the country. In and out of the Navy. All kinds of jobs. He tried some white-collar job on a big liner. Never stuck to anything very long.
Turned up here about a year and a half ago. Made up to the old man. But the old man left him out of his will. Nathaniel's proper share went to tfie old lady."
"Was Dick disappointed?"
"He took it very well, as far as I know."
"Is he a partner or what?"
"He's a hired hand, as far as I know. If he had money, I'm sure Bart could use it. I understand the old man didn't keep the place up. Bart's got a lot of modernizing to do. But where would Dick get any capital?"
Johnny didn't explain where.
"Bart will pull it out in time. Knows his business."
"You don't think Dick had anything to do with Christy's death?"
"I doubt it," the lawyer said. "I think McCauIey's stuck with it. A jury convicted him. You \\on't overturn that in a hurry." His eyes were tired.