“No.”
“Too bad, Miss. I am very sorry. If there’s anything at all I can do—”
“You’ve been very kind. I think I want to sleep a while.” He went, and she thought vaguely, in song-like rhythm, Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry...
She took a room in a residential hotel. Furnished. With daily linen and maid service. She bought a few clothes, enough to get by. She thought of moving to some other city.
Charles seemed very distant. He lent her money but not a shoulder to cry on; she could understand that but she needed a shoulder and resented his not providing one. All he said was, “Try not to persuade yourself that Murdoch set the fire. If he didn’t, you’d be making an unjust accusation. If he did, you’ll never prove it. Either way it’s no good torturing yourself.”
She was walking home from a solitary supper trip to the delicatessen when a car came up on the curb behind her at high speed. She heard it — she’d always had acute hearing — and dived flat against the display window of a furniture store, and the car swished past her, inches away. It was a shadowed place in the middle of the block and the car wasn’t running with any lights on, but she saw its silhouette vaguely in the darkness as it roared off and it looked like an old car. An old station wagon, with tailfins.
It had damned near killed her. She had that thought and then she crumpled and sat on the pavement for quite a while before she regained strength enough to walk.
Go to the police? And tell them what?
Call Charles? No, he’s got other things on his mind now.
Move away. Nothing to hold her here anymore. No real ties here. Go away. California maybe. Back to Illinois. New York. What difference did it make? Just get away from that madman.
That was it, then. Run. Run away.
And let him think he’s won?
She watched him get out of the old station wagon, lock it, put a cigarette in his mouth and light up. Then he turned and began to walk across the wide parking lot toward the low square stucco building that housed his realty office.
She let him get halfway across the parking lot. Right Out in the open. Then she put her car in gear.
“Sorry, Murdoch,” she muttered. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. It was an accident. I just couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”
And she ran him down.
The Shopping List
“The Shopping List” was written out of a simple desire to write a detective story — red herrings, clues, solving a mystery puzzle, building to a surprise ending, all that. I rarely try to construct such plots; call it laziness if you like. The story was written to satisfy a curiosity. If it fools you, it worked.
It was awkward. She wouldn’t tell him the truth, obviously, but she’d always had trouble lying.
He phoned, as she’d known he would, on Tuesday afternoon. “I’ll be out of town on business until Friday. Not sure what time I’ll get back — don’t count on me for Friday dinner. But I’ll get tickets for that play Saturday night—”
Marie closed her eyes. “Oh, Severn, I’m sorry, I just can’t make it Saturday.”
There was a moment’s silence but then his deep reassuring voice rumbled down the line: “Sunday, then. I’ll get tickets.”
“Sunday’s fine.” She closed her eyes in relief. He really was marvelous. He took her on faith — no questions, no protestations. She said softly into the phone, “I don’t know if I can wait that long to see you. I do love you, darling — and I’m sorry about Saturday.”
“See you Sunday then. Around six, so we can have dinner first. Love you, honey.” Then he was gone and she cradled the phone, but her hand remained on it as if to prolong the thread of contact.
After a while she bestirred herself. She went through the apartment to the foyer and rummaged in her handbag for the list.
The handbag was on the sconce below the oval mirror and she examined her reflection briefly and wondered what Severn could possibly see in her: plump plain Marie, dark brown hair she never could do anything with, creases here and there that presaged the looming fortieth birthday — not a whole lot to draw the attraction of a man like Severn. He was thirty-five and successful; he’d been divorced for several years. When she’d asked him why on earth he wanted to keep seeing her, he’d only said, “You’re comfortable, love. I’ve had my fill of abrasive ambitious women.”
His ex-wife, she’d gathered, was a beautiful but brittle careerist — some sort of talent agent or casting director; Marie wasn’t sure — Severn rarely talked about her. “It wasn’t really a marriage. We both backed into it, trying to get out of things.”
Marie looked away. At first, after her mother had died and she’d moved into this apartment, she’d meant to take down the mirror from the foyer wall — she didn’t like mirrors; they only reminded her of her unattractiveness. But occasionally Aunt Leah and Uncle Arthur would come around to dinner or one of the office girls would give her a lift home and stay for a drink — mainly, Marie thought, because most of the office girls lived out in the Valley or down in Orange County and it was easier to have a drink at Marie’s while the Freeway traffic thinned out before driving home — and guests always liked to have a mirror by the front door so they could make sure their faces were on before they ventured out onto the Beverly Hills sidewalks.
She found the list in her handbag and studied it. She never remembered to do things unless she wrote them down. Severn kidded her about it.
She’d miss him desperately in his absence for the next few days; but in a way she was grateful for it. She’d be able to get everything done and she wouldn’t have to tell lies to Severn to explain why she was going to be out so much this week.
A few of the items had already been checked off — she’d taken care of them ten days ago during Severn’s last business trip out of town; but there was still a great deal to do.
1. Toy gun. Must look real. Revolver type.
2. Suitcases (2).
3. Clothes. Ned’s suit size 44 short. Shirts 16 neck, 33 sleeve. Waist 38, inseam29. Shoes 10 1/2-C. Socks, shorts, etc. Remember Ned prefers brown, doesn’t like blue.
4. Car. Can be old but must run well.
5. Make airline reservation: San Diego to Mexico City for late Monday afternoon Feb. 18th, in name of Arnold Creber.
7. Sunglasses. Reflector Type.
8. Blond wig, man’s. Ned’s bat size is 7 1/4.
9. Ned arrives LAX Feb 16th, 730p.m. Take suitcases, etc. Leave envelope at Delta information desk.
10. Make reservation in Creber name at a Burbank motel, Feb. 16th & 17th.
She’d taken care of all the easy things on the list and left the difficult ones for last. Tomorrow on the lunch hour she’d take care of the toy gun. Then Thursday she’d have to take a sick day and visit the used-Car lots.
She hated all of it. It was complicity — she’d be a criminal. But it was the price Ned had exacted from her. The insurance hadn’t come anywhere near covering all the expenses of Mom’s last illness and Ned had been despicably, and typically, cold-hearted about it. “Let her die and get it over with. Pull the plug — let her go.”
“Ned!” She’d been astonished, shocked. “She’s your mother too, you know.”
“She’s a dying old woman. Making a few doctors rich won’t change that.” Then he’d given her that quick easy selfish smile. “I’ll make you a deal, sister. You want to lavish money on the old woman, fine. I’ll let you have the money. But I want a quid pro quo. You’ve got to do a few things for me. Now get out your notebook and let’s see you make one of those lists of yours. First I’m going to want a toy gun...”