“Morton, what’s going on here?” Vito demanded.
Angus closed the door behind him and pointed toward the bathroom. Vito took a few steps and then stopped short and whistled. It was a low whistle of surprise.
“It’s Wilma Malden,” he said.
Angus nodded.
“She’s dead.”
“YEP.”
“Murdered, huh?”
“That’s right, Mr. D’Angelo.”
Vito looked up sharply at the note of slyness in Angus’s voice. “The doll here do it?” he asked, motioning toward Glory.
“If you say so, Mr. D’Angelo.”
“What the hell do you mean if I say so? I just got here. I’m not telling you. I’m asking you.”
“Well now, it sure does look like she done it. But on t’other hand, Mr. D’Angelo, a lotta people mighta had reasons for killin’ poor Wilma. Ain’t that right?” Morton chortled.
Vito stared at Morton, a slow light beginning to dawn on him. “Whadda you think you’re trying to pull, you creep? You saying I had something to do with this?”
“Nosiree! I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ like that, Mr. D’Angelo. I wouldn’t never tell the sheriff nothin’ like that, No, sir. But I reckon you mighta had a reason to kill wi1ma. I reckon We both know that. Ain’t no sense denyin’ it. An’ if the sheriff asks me, why I don’t rightly know iffen I should lie or not. I’d sure ’preciate your advice on that point, Mr. D’Angelo.”
“Why, you hick blackrnailer! Are you tryin’ to lean on me?” Vito grabbed Morton by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. “Why, I oughta—”
Vito broke the sentence off at the sound of approaching sirens. “You just keep your trap shut!” he told Morton. “Or else! You got that?”
“I will, Mr. D’Angelo. Honest I will.” Morton was frightened. The whole power of the syndicate had suddenly seemed concentrated in the fist D’Angelo had waved under his nose. “I didn’t mean nothin’. Honest! I ain’t gonna butt in nor say nothin’ no matter what you had to do with that thing in there.” He pointed to the bathroom.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.” Vito told him. “And I don’t care whether you believe that or not. Just so long as you keep shut. But I ain’t so sure about you, Morton. You had as much reason to kill her as I did. Maybe the sheriff would like to know about that.”
“Now wait a mi—” Angus broke off the word and clammed up as the sheriff entered.
“Thought I tol’ you not to let nobody in, Angus,” the sheriff said, eyeing D’Angelo.
“I’m an old friend of the victim,” D’Angelo explained smoothly. “I—umm—persuaded Mr. Morton to let me come in. I didn’t think anyone would mind.”
“Old friend of the victim, hey?” The sheriff eyed him suspiciously. “Well, I s’pect we’ll find out jus’ how old an’ how good a friend afore this is over. Meanwhile, you two clear out while I make my investigation.”
Morton and D’Angelo started for the door.
“Hold it!” the sheriff ordered. “Angus, this girl here ain’t got no clothes on. Couldn’t you at least of throwed a blanket over her or somethin’?”
“You said not to touch nothin’,” Angus said sullenly.
“You’re fulla it, you lecherous ol’fraud. I bet you been sittin’ here poppin’ your eyes at her an’ playin’ with yourself. You had a spark o’ decency, you’da covered her. Go on! Get outa here!” he ordered in a tone thick with disgust. He walked quickly to the bed, pulled off a blanket and covered Glory with it.
She looked up then, for the first time, as though awareness were slowly beginning to come back to her. The sheriff turned away. He went into the bathroom and began his investigation of the murder scene.
It was a few moments later that the deputy he’d stationed on the porch entered to announce that Mr. Dawes and Mr. Corrigan were outside and wanted to come in. The sheriff told him it was all right. Preston B. Dawes and Don Corrigan entered the cabin.
“Glory!” Dawes rushed over to his daughter.
Don stood back near the door, looking miserable.
Dawes knelt beside his daughter and hugged her to him. A moment later there was the sound of her muffled sobs against his chest. It was the first sound she’d made since discovering Wilma’s body. The sheriff watched as father and daughter clung together, neither seeming to be able to find the words to say to each other.
When Dawes did speak, it wasn’t to Glory, but to the sheriff. “May I take my daughter home?” he asked.
“ ’Fraid not, sir,” the sheriff answered respectfully. “The way things are, we ‘re gonna have to hold her.”
“Surely you don’t suspect her of having committed this heinous crime?”
“Right now, Mr. Dawes sir, she ’pears to be the main suspect we got.”
“She’s in a state of shock. I want to take her home and. I put her to bed.”
“Sorry, Mr. Dawes. I can’t ’low that. I’m gonna have to take her back to town with me, an’ book her on s’picion of murder.”
“I See.”
“C-can I get dressed?” Glory spoke for the first time.
“In a minute, Miss. Soon’s we’re through in here.” The sheriff took out a pad and went back into the bathroom. He made some notes and drew a rough sketch of the scene there.
While he was so occupied, Glory had looked up and noticed Don for the first time. The sight of him jarred her mind into action. Her brain began to work for the first time since she’d discovered Wilma’s body. Still in a state of shock, her thoughts were confused. But they jelled into one overwhelming conviction. Don was the murderer! It had to be him. That letter he’d written to her. He’d practically said he was going to kill Wilma. Or herself! He’d been driven berserk by the things they’d done to him, she and Wilma. Glory wished he’d killed her instead. She wished she were dead. Looking at Don now, she knew how much she really loved him. But it was too late. She’d driven him away from her. She’d driven him to murder. The only thing her love could do for him now was to try to protect him from the results of what he’d done.
Glory remembered his letter in her purse then. She crossed over to the nightstand, keeping her body between it and the others in the room. She slipped the letter from her purse, dropped it on the bed, and quickly sat on top of it, pushing the blanket with which she’d been covered out of the way so that her naked haunches gripped the crumpled paper.
The sheriff came out of the bathroom and crossed to the front door. He opened it and called to the deputy outside to come and help him. The deputy came in and the two of them carefully carried Wilma’s body from the bathroom into the bedroom. “You can go in there and get dressed now,” the sheriff told Glory.
She squirmed, pressing down hard on the bed until she was sure of her grip on the letter. Then she stood up and walked to the closet, the blanket around her concealing the fact that she was walking with her behind cheeks squeezed tightly together. The sheriff stopped her before she could open the closet door.
“My things are in there,” she explained.
“You go on in the bathroom an’ I’ll hand ’em to you one by one,” he instructed.
Glory did as she was told.
The sheriff searched each garment carefully before he handed it to her. When she had them all, she asked if it was all right to close the door and he gave her his permission. As the door closed behind her, the sheriff picked up the telephone and began to dial.
In the bathroom , Glory extracted Don’s letter, tore it up into little pieces and threw the pieces into the toilet bowl. The sound of the toilet flushing reached the sheriffs ears just as the number he’d dialed was beginning to be buzzed. Glory had taken the first step in her determination to shield Don. It was a step based on the belief that the only way she could atone for what she’d done to him was to protect him all the way -- even if that meant taking his punishment on herself.