Donna laughed, though she didn’t feel at all like laughing. The increasing pressure about Aaron and what could possibly be developing in connection with him was bad enough, and now Gussie’s chatter about Serena’s waste of her assets had made matters even worse and more depressing by reminding her of her mother, who had also wasted what she might have used.
Gussie gone, she resumed work on her sketch, but she was unable to accomplish anything that pleased her. Her feeling of guilt was developing abnormally to include much more than her legitimate responsibility, not only her evasion of a clear obligation, if not actually a betrayal of trust, but also an irrational feeling of having been instrumental, somehow, in Aaron’s death. It would have been a relief to confide in Gussie, to call her back and tell her just what had happened and to achieve in the telling a measure of catharsis. She was not restrained by a lack of confidence in Gussie, for she knew very well that Gussie would collaborate in good faith. She truly did not know what restrained her, but only that she had better adhere to the policy of solitary deception, except for her mother, that she had set for herself.
After she had worked with little effect for about an hour, she got up and went forward into the salon; it was then a few minutes after ten o’clock. Both Gussie and Serena were busy with customers, and she waited at the rear, smoking a cigarette, until Gussie was free and came back to her.
“Has Aaron come in?” she said.
“Not yet.” Gussie removed a thin brown lozenge from a box and put it on her tongue. “I’m satisfied these filthy things will destroy me in a little while, but in the meantime they keep me from coughing. Perhaps he’s still not feeling well and won’t come in at all.”
“I don’t know. There is something I particularly want to speak with him about, and he assured me Saturday night that he would be here this morning.”
“It’s only around ten, darling. Probably he’ll be here soon.”
“His wife’s not at home, you know.”
“Yes, I know. That hypochondriac bitch is gone off to Florida again, and don’t I hate her guts because she’s there instead of me.” Gussie stared at Donna intently. “But why mention his wife? What’s the significance?”
“Nothing, I guess. I was just thinking that he’s all alone in the house. Do you suppose anything could have happened to him?”
“Like another heart attack?”
“Yes.”
Gussie’s face expressed a kind of undirected anger at the filthiness of things in general.
“Damn it, darling, let’s not start anticipating anything. If he’s not here in another hour, we can call his house or something.”
Donna returned to her room and sat down to the sketch, but she no longer tried to work. The promotion of deception, especially her easy accomplishment of it, filled her with self-disgust and actually made her physically ill. After a few minutes, she got up and went out and opened the door to Aaron’s office so that she could hear the phone in there if it began to ring. Then she returned and sat down again and stared at the sketch without seeing it, and waited and waited for the ringing to begin. Surely Mrs. Cassidy — was that her name? — had arrived long ago at the house to discover Aaron in the hall, and if she had discovered him, which she surely had, what had she done about it? What would one do naturally in such an event? It was quite likely that she had first called a doctor, even though Aaron was obviously dead and had been dead for a long time and had no need of a doctor, simply because calling a doctor was what one would instinctively think of and do. The doctor would come and would in turn call the police. The police would come, and all this would take time, of course, but surely there had been time enough. Surely they were there now, or had been there, and why in God’s name didn’t one of them call the shop, which would seem a reasonable thing to do.
Sitting and waiting and visualizing the probable sequence of events, she felt her tension increasing to an intolerable degree. She wanted desperately to get up and do something to relieve it — to run or scream or destroy something with her hands, or best of all to call Aaron’s home number at once and get it over with — but she knew that it would not be wise to display an anxiety out of proportion to its cause. So she forced herself to sit and wait with apparent calm until most of another hour had passed. At ten minutes to eleven, Gussie came into the room, and it was she who assumed in the end the position of suggesting some kind of action.
“Damn it, Donna,” she said, “you’ve started me worrying. I think I’ll call Aaron’s house. Not that it’ll do any good, so far as I can see. If he’s there alone, and something’s happened to him, he won’t be able to answer.”
“A cleaning woman comes in some days. She might be there this morning.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten about her. Do you think I should call?”
“No.” Donna stood up. “I’ll call, Gussie. I was just thinking about doing it when you came in.”
She went out of the room and into Aaron’s office. Gussie followed and stood in the doorway, watching her as she dialed the number. At the other end of the line, the telephone rang in three long bursts, and at the completion of the third burst the receiver was picked up and a man’s voice came through.
“Hello,” the voice said.
“Hello.” There was a painful constriction in Donna’s throat, and she could not understand how her own voice slipped so easily through it. “Is this Aaron Burns’ residence?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mr. Burns there?”
“He’s here, but he can’t come to the phone. Who’s calling, please?”
“This is Donna Buchanan, Mr. Burns’ assistant.”
“Assistant?”
“At the shop.”
“Would you care to tell me what you want with Mr. Burns?”
“I don’t think so. At least, not unless you would first care to tell me who you are.”
“Sorry. My name’s Daniels. I’m a policeman.”
“Policeman! What’s the matter? Has something happened to Mr. Burns?”
“I’m afraid so. As a matter of fact, he’s dead.”
“Dead? Mr. Burns is dead?”
“Right, Miss Buchanan. He’s dead.”
“Why are the police there?”
“He was alone when he died, Miss Buchanan. The cleaning woman found him when she arrived for work this morning. It’s required that the police make a routine investigation of such matters.”
“I see. Was it his heart?”
“I wouldn’t know, Miss Buchanan. I’m a policeman, not a doctor. What makes you think it might have been his heart?”