Shirley spoke. Her voice was level now, and deadly.
“How did you ever form such a conclusion?”
“Oh, Shirl!”
“How, Mayda?”
“The telephone,” Mayda Lamphier said. “We’re on a party line, remember?” She paused, then went on. “I shouldn’t have. I’ve been lonely, I guess—that must account for it. I was going to make a call, last night around twelve. I picked up the receiver and you were talking to that Ruxton character. I heard everything you said, Shirl—everything. It was obvious, only I still couldn’t believe it. I watched you through the window—how you spoke to that old man.”
Shirley was cool now. “What are you going to do?”
“I thought you were just maybe on the make for this Ruxton. But, not this—not doing—killing—” Her voice rose. “Murdering that old man! Shirl, I’m trying to help you. That Ruxton’s nothing but a cheap bum. Can’t you see that?” She ceased, then, “I shouldn’t’ve waited....”
There was a pause. Nobody spoke. My heart was like a bass drum, slamming inside my chest. Victor Spondell was half up in bed again, straining. His eyes were wild. If Mayda told Shirley about what we’d done, what then?
They didn’t speak. I knew then. The intercom had quit, just as I’d planned it to quit. Victor reached for it. He struck it with his hand, eyes glaring toward the bedroom door, mouth gaping.
I turned and ran along the walk toward the front of the house.
I ran straight into Grace.
I smashed into her before I could stop. I don’t know. I was pretty close to insanity at that moment. Maybe it was like being shot in the heart. I couldn’t even speak. She had on a white dress and I smelled the gin. I thrust her away, and there was a kind of screaming inside me.
“I followed you, Jack.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I followed you. You don’t think I’d really leave town, the way you’ve been treating me? You don’t really think that, do you? I knew you had another woman, Jack—seeing her. I knew that’s what it was. I wasn’t good enough, was I? So I’ve been following you. She lives right here, doesn’t she? She married? She sneaking out to meet you? Don’t try to kid me, Jack. I know.”
I didn’t know what to do with her. I had to get rid of her. Everything was wild and off-kilter. Time counted. She was just drunk enough to be belligerent. Grace could be belligerent. I turned her around on the walk.
“You find your car,” I said, “and get out of here. Fast. You’re not fouling me up.”
“Fouling you up?” She gave a short bitter laugh. “You’ve got a woman here. You think I don’t know?”
I kept my voice down. “You’re wrong, Grace. I had a service call at the shop. I left the store ten minutes ago. They’re having TV trouble here.”
“What were you doing, staring in that window?”
“I wasn’t staring in any window, Grace. You’re drunk and you’re not fouling me up. Move,” I said.
She balked. She pushed back against me. I figured I would fly apart, the way I felt. She turned, with her face squinched up, and cursed me. She was too loud.
“You expect me to believe that?” She said. “Damn you, Jack—you dirty liar!”
I hit her. I hit her so hard she ran sideways off across the lawn, and fell in a heap. I went over and yanked her to her feet. I hit her again. I let her have it hard. Then I turned her, with her sobbing and moaning, and bent her arm up behind her back and ran her staggering out on the lawn. Her car was parked behind the truck. It was a yellow Buick hardtop.
It had me nuts, wondering what went on in that house.
“Now,” I said. “You get in that car and get out of here. You come around me again, I’ll smash your jaw. Get going.”
She stood there with her face full of wrath.
I opened the door on the driver’s side, and flung her under the wheel and slammed the door shut.
“Go,” I said. “Fast.”
Her face was something out of a comic book. She looked crazy.
“I swear it, Grace. You come around me again, it’s a promise. Stay away from me.”
She was sobbing and talking to herself. She kept choking and trying to swallow. She wanted to say something, but she was so mad she never got it out. She started the engine, shoved the car into reverse, backed away from the truck, slammed it into low, and shot past me. She barreled down the street with the gas pedal to the floor.
I ran back to the house, down the side walk of stepping stones. Victor Spondell wasn’t in his bed. I saw him, clinging to the door jamb. He hung there like a kind of ghost in ballooning white pajamas, his hands clawing at the woodwork.
I ran around back. Shirley’s bedroom light was on. The kitchen was bright. I went up on the back porch as softly as I could.
The kitchen door was open. What I saw in there was like some crazy scene out of a movie. The bright neon kitchen light shone down on Shirley and Mayda. Shirley’s face was puffed with anger, tinged with red against that white pallor, in an effort to keep herself under control. She wasn’t doing a good job. There was little she could do. The cat was out of the bag, and running. There was sly scheming in her eyes. Desperation showed in the taut shape of her mouth. She wore the yellow housecoat I’d seen before.
“Just exactly what do you intend to do, then?” Shirley said. Her tone was flat. “You’d have one tough time trying to prove anything like this, Mayda.”
I hugged the porch shadows. Mayda Lamphier’s back was to me. Shirley hadn’t seen me. Mayda’s shoulders were tense under a white sweater, her hands clenched into the dark fabric of her skirt, at her hips.
“You won’t listen to me, will you,” she said.
Shirley didn’t speak. She stood by the sink. The kitchen table was between them.
What happened then, I would never forget. There was something more than horrifying about it.
“All right,” Mayda said. “I’ve tried.” She half turned toward the porch door.
Shirley’s voice rose. “Where are you going?”
Mayda turned toward her again. She didn’t speak. There must have been some readable expression in her face, because Shirley reacted sharply.
“You won’t tell anybody!” Shirley said. “You won’t!”
“Won’t I, though...?”
Mayda turned and moved fast for the porch. I could never let her pass me. I worked on instinct now, and stepped out in front of her.
“You.” It scared her. She stopped, staring at me, her eyes wide and round. “You,” she said again.
Shirley was clawing through a kitchen drawer over by the sink. She whirled, running, the yellow housecoat billowing. She saw me.
“Jack!”
Mayda made a stab at getting past me. I grabbed her shoulders, facing her. She struggled, making hurt sounds in her throat. I shoved her back toward the kitchen, and there was a kind of savage desperation inside me.
“Let’s talk this over,” I said.
Shirley came full tilt across the kitchen. I didn’t see the knife until it arched in a vicious slant at Mayda Lamphier’s back. I tried to fling Mayda aside. I heard her grunt with pain.
“Don’t let her go!” Shirley said.
Mayda lurched free over against the kitchen wall.
“You crazy fool,” I said to Shirley.
She stared at Mayda, one hand at her mouth. Her eyes were like glass.
I thrust her out of the way and stepped toward Mayda. I was scared all the way now. I had no idea whether she’d told Shirley about what we’d done in her car, down by the bay.
Mayda Lamphier moved away from the wall, watching us. She tried to speak. Her hands both reached up behind her back. Her face was filled more with shock than pain. She broke, running for the kitchen door that led into the dinette.