“Damn that bottle of bourbon,” said Cousin Twig viciously.
“I didn’t like that business about Uncle Slater’s eyes, either,” Brady muttered.
“I agree,” Aunt Lallie said. “Slater has made things difficult for us in a number of ways. In the end, he behaved badly.”
“Well,” Prin said, “however badly he may have behaved, it was not so badly as we’re behaving now. Uncle Slater is a lot worse off than we are, and I simply will not talk any more about it. Coley, I’d like to go outside and sit on the steps or take a short walk or something, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Coley said.
“How about you, Peet?” Brady said. “Wouldn’t you like to go for a short walk?”
“With you?” asked Peet.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Prin and Coley went out to the front porch, sat down on the top step and began holding hands. But they had hardly begun when the ambulance came for Uncle Slater.
“There’s a big tree stump in the back yard,” Prin said, rising hastily. “Let’s go around there and sit on it.”
“Don’t you want to stay and see Mr. O’Shea off?” asked Coley.”
“No, I don’t.”
So they went around to the back yard and sat on the big tree stump while Grundy and Boatner departed at last in the wake of Uncle Slater’s basket. So long as Uncle Slater had been upstairs on the floor, physically in residence, Prin’s feelings had been qualified by an irrational notion that he might decide to rise and take up where he had left off. But after he was taken away by the meat wagon no such notion could survive. He was simply and irrevocably gone.
It was apparent to Coley that Prin was feeling worse. He resumed holding her hand for comfort, and she leaned against his shoulder and looked up at the moon. Coley could see the clean line of her throat in the moonlight and the shadow of her lashes on her cheeks, and this sight made him flex his muscles with tender manliness.
“What are you thinking?” he asked softly.
“I’m thinking that it’s too bad Uncle Slater had to die, and that it’s even worse if someone helped him do it.”
“Well, I’m thinking that it’s time you and I got married, or that it will be time after your uncle is buried.”
“Oh, Coley, I don’t know. You haven’t got a bean, and my share of Uncle Slater’s estate would keep us for about six months if we were extra-careful — what would we live on after that?”
“You could stay at the drug store for a while, and I could hold onto my taproom job while I look for something that pays more. When I’m finished with the accounting course, you won’t have to work at all, because I mean to be the best damn accountant you ever saw.”
“I’ve never even seen an accountant,” said Prin adoringly.
“Well, you’re going to see one every day for the rest of your life. Will you marry me, Princess O’Shea?”
“Of course. I’ve intended to from the first daiquiri that first night.”
There was no conversation for some time. When they stopped to get their breaths, Prin said, “Poor Uncle Slater. I’m sure he did things now and then that he’s ashamed of right now, but he was a kind and generous soul. If somebody murdered him I hope he sizzles in hell — I mean the somebody, not Uncle Slater.”
Coley pulled his lower lip far out, as if to make room for a large idea. “You know something, Prin?” he said suddenly. “It just occurred to me. When Mr. O’Shea made that new will you told me about, leaving everything to be divided equally among the twenty-two surviving O’Sheas, he must have had good reason to think he might otherwise be murdered.”
“He practically told us as much. Or at least that he considered it enough of a possibility to take out some insurance.”
“Well, I don’t know about the other O’Sheas, but if that Frankenstein monster of a Cousin Twig of yours were my beneficiary to any sizable amount, I think I’d want some insurance, too. And Brady, if you’ll excuse my saying so, would probably slit his own sister’s throat to keep from having to go to work.”
“Do you think so? I am his sister, you know — the only one he has, to my knowledge. Do you really think Brady would be capable of slitting my throat?”
“I’m willing to say, having considerable interest in your throat, which I would like to kiss this instant, that I’m relieved that he has nothing to gain from doing so. Any more,” added Coley regretfully, “than that gargoyle Twig.”
“I’d rather have it kissed than slit, and by you than by anyone else I know.”
This seemed to Coley an invitation. After kissing her throat, he went on to several other places, which took some time. In the course of this engagement, they changed positions on the stump the better to concentrate, but it was not, in spite of willing effort, one of Prin’s more accomplished performances.
“That was pleasant enough,” Coley said, “but it lacked something. I don’t believe you are quite as dedicated as usual.”
“I’m sorry, darling. I tried, honestly I did, but Uncle Slater keeps getting in the way.”
“Uncle Slater would be sorry to hear that, I’m sure.”
“It’s just that I keep hoping he died naturally. But the more I think, the more I’m afraid he didn’t.”
“Then you’d better begin thinking constructively — say, as follows? On the surface, we can see no reason why the O’Sheas of this household should want to do your uncle in; to the contrary, his continued existence would have kept you all paid-up members in the freeloaders’ fraternity. On the other hand, we agree that at least two of said household O’Sheas would have done him in without lashing a bat if a reason existed that we know nothing about. In such a case the lack of financial motive might well serve as a red herring across the trail of actual motive. What do you think, Prin?”
“I don’t know. Anything is possible, I suppose, where O’Sheas are concerned.”
“At least nothing should be overlooked. For instance, we should not consider insiders to the exclusion of outsiders. An outsider doesn’t seem likely under the circumstances of your uncle’s death, but it’s always possible.”
“You may be right, Coley.”
Coley grabbed her. “You have someone in mind,” he said eagerly.
“No, but knowing something of the kind of life Uncle Slater led before his marriage, it wouldn’t surprise me if he left a trail of people who wanted to kill him, and one of them caught up with him.”
But Coley shook his head. “That kind of killer wouldn’t use poison. You would have to expect something more violent. Like shooting, or hitting him over the head.”
“Not if the killer were a female.”
“A female? At your uncle’s age? You can’t be serious.”
“Darling, you must read a biography of Victor Hugo some day. Never mind, though. I’ll merely say that a woman in the case of my Uncle Slater — at any age — was technically quite possible.”
“All right,” said Coley, nodding, “we’ll tuck that theory away for future consideration. Prin, if it turns out that Slater O’Shea met with foul play—” (“Why do they call it play?” Prin murmured) “—I go into action. I used to be known as Nosy Collins — stuck my beak into everything; the original cat killer. Well, I mean I’ve always thought I’d make a splendid detective. How does it strike you?”
“The only thing that strikes me right now,” said Prin, screwing up her pretty face, “is a splitting headache. I think I am coming down with that unmentionable condition I mentioned to Mr. Free this morning as an excuse to get out of work. Coley, do you think it’s my punishment for lying?”
“No,” said Coley, “but you go right on thinking so. It may act as a catharsis and give you absolution.”