A Room to Die In (2 page)

A month later,
out of long habit Ann sent her mother a birthday card, addressing it “828
Pemberton Avenue, North Hollywood.” Motivated by a mixture of malice and
curiosity, she wrote at the bottom
Any luck with Roland?

In due course
the envelope came back, stamped
No forwarding address.
Ann tossed it into the waste-basket.

A week later she
passed her own twenty-sixth birthday. Before she knew it she’d be thirty.
Unmarried, a schoolteacher to boot. Unpleasant visions of loneliness began to
take shape in her mind. But she mustn’t panic; that would be the surest way to
frighten off the few eligible bachelors she knew.

What she needed
was a change, Ann decided. Scenery, friends, profession, outlook—everything! A
completely new life . . . Easier said than done, however. She had no talent for
frugality; her savings were modest. Enough to take her to Mexico, or perhaps
even Europe for a couple of months, since her teacher’s salary continued
through the summer. But returning to the apartment, to the second grade at Mar
Vista—what a dreadful anticlimax! . . . Of course, there was always the Peace Corps.
Ann gave the idea serious consideration. But was she really that dedicated?
Probably not.

About this time
she met Jim Llewellyn at a party and fell madly, instantly, in love. There were
problems, naturally. Jim was married. His wife was hell on wheels, Jim said;
they had occupied separate bedrooms now for two months. The only consideration
that deterred him from divorce—and he meant it, he said—was the two kids. There
was an affair that persisted until Jim’s wife telephoned Ann and wistfully
asked if they could have a talk. Ann said, “Yes, of course,” in a tremulous
voice; and presently Dorothy Llewellyn appeared—an obviously decent woman whose
basic deficiency seemed to be her looks: she was as homely as a coal scuttle.

Ann was stricken
with guilt, and felt a fool as well. Not only a fool, but a cheap, vulgar,
common little tramp. She assured Dorothy Llewellyn that the episode was at an
end. The woman sadly confessed that this was a yearly task, this herding Jim
back to the fold. “I know I’m not pretty—but he begged me to marry him, and I
did. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. I suppose in time he’ll get over
this—this . . .” She hesitated over the word.

“Philandering,”
said Ann.

Dorothy
departed, and Ann’s depression became more acute than ever. Jim Llewellyn never
called again.

During May, Ann
definitely decided not to renew her contact with the Mar Vista Elementary
School. Or
almost
definitely.

On the evening
of Thursday, May 30, Ann had barely arrived home when her doorbell rang. She
answered, to find in the corridor a serious young man in a dark blue uniform.
The insigne on his arm read
Deputy Sheriff, County of
San Francisco.

“Miss Nelson?”

Ann nodded.

“May I come in?”

Ann stepped
back; the deputy entered. He seemed ill at ease. “I’ve come on a very
unpleasant errand,” he said, looking everywhere but at Ann.

“Oh? What have I
done?”

“Nothing, far as
I know. The fact is, I’m the bearer of bad news.”

Ann waited.

“It concerns
your father.”

“Oh? He’s had an
. . . accident?”

“Worse than
that.”

“He’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so,
Miss Nelson.”

Ann went
thoughtfully to her kitchen cabinet. “Can I pour you a glass of sherry?”

“No, thanks.” He
added earnestly, “But by all means have one yourself.”

Ann smiled in
wan amusement. “I’m not about to collapse. I usually have a glass of sherry
when I come home.”

The deputy
raised his eyebrows a trifle. “I see.” It was obvious that he didn’t.

Ann returned to
the living room. “How did it happen?”

“I don’t have
the details. I understand he was shot.”

Ann stared. “Shot?
With a gun?”

“So I
understand.”

“You mean . . .
an accident? Or did somebody murder him?”

The deputy shook
his head. “I honestly don’t know. If you telephone Inspector Thomas Tarr, at
the Marin County sheriff’s office, he’ll give you the details. The number is
Glenwood 4-4010.”

Ann went to the
telephone. “Are you sure you won’t have some sherry?”

“No, thanks.” He
was no longer solicitous. He said in a formal voice, “If everything’s all
right, I’ll be going.”

Ann said, “I’m
not cold-blooded; it’s simply that my father and I weren’t at all close.”

“I’ll be going
along, then.”

He departed. Ann
dialed GL 44010 and asked to speak to Inspector Thomas Tarr. An easy, rather
husky, voice said, “Tarr speaking.”

“This is Ann
Nelson. I’ve just heard about my father.”

Tarr’s voice
turned grave. “Oh, yes, Miss Nelson. A very bad business.”

“What happened?”

“This morning
your father was found dead at his home. We haven’t completed our investigation
yet, but the circumstances seem to indicate suicide.”

Ann stared
unbelievingly at the telephone receiver. “Did you say
suicide?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe
it.”

“There doesn’t
seem to be any other explanation.”

“I still don’t
believe it. When did it happen?”

Tarr’s voice
became cautious. “I don’t have a definite report. He’s been dead several days,
at least.”

“It’s fantastic,”
said Ann. “Anyone who knew my father . . . it’s
incredible”

“He never spoke
of suicide?”

“Never.
Although—”

“He did mention
it, then.”

“No.” Ann’s
voice took on an edge. “When I last saw him I thought he seemed preoccupied.
But this was months ago, and he’d just separated from his wife.”

“He was
depressed?”

“Not to the
point of suicide. He said something about being in a state of ‘transition,’ but
I don’t pretend to understand what he meant.”

“He seems to
have been a strange man.”

“He was.”

“You’re his
closest blood relative?”

“His only blood
relative. I suppose I’d better do something. Arrangements, and so on.”

“I guess it’s up
to you. We’ll also want an official identification.”

“Oh, heavens.
Must I?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Tonight?”

“No, that’s not
necessary. In fact, I’m about to go off duty. But if you’ll telephone in the
morning, or meet me here at, say, ten o’clock?”

“I’ll be there
at ten.”

“I’ll see you
then.”

Ann rose slowly,
stood for a moment in the middle of the room, then poured herself another glass
of sherry and sat down again. Shock had worn off; something like awe took its
place. Suicide! Inspector Tarr had been definite; she would have to accept it,
unbelievable as it was.

She thought of
her father as she had known him over the years: a man of protean complexity,
tall and spare, with assertive aquiline features and a ruff of thick,
prematurely gray hair. Many times Ann had tried to puzzle out the rationale by
which her father lived. Always she had arrived at the same conclusion. Roland
Nelson—stating the case in its crassest form-cared not a thistle for anyone’s
good opinion but his own, and often was driven to makeshifts that might have
demolished the dignity of a man less assured. She thought of their meeting the
previous summer. She had chanced upon him in an art shop, where he had just
placed a number of “non-objective” sculptures cynically welded from oddments of
junk. Obviously squandering his entire capital, he had taken Ann to lunch at
the best restaurant in town.

Over coffee he
mentioned, as an item of no great importance, that he and his second wife had
come to a parting of the ways.

Ann, accustomed
to capricious, apparently self-defeating acts on the part of her father, was
not surprised. She expressed mild disapproval. “You were lucky to find someone
as nice as Pearl.”

“No question but
she’s nice,” Roland agreed. “Too nice. And she worked hard. Too hard. I’m not
used to having my every wish anticipated. Especially when I might not have been
planning to wish in the first place.”

“It wouldn’t
have taken her long to learn. You’ve only been married six months.”

“Going on seven.
But it’s over with.
Kaput.
I’m now in a state of transition.”

“What do you
mean by that?”

“I’m making
rearrangements. Shifting the internal furniture. It takes a while.”

“Where are you
living?”

“Out in the
country, near Inisfail. I don’t see anyone for weeks on end. It’s remarkably
pleasant.”

“I suppose your
art makes heavy demands on you,” said Ann, in ironic reference to the
avant-garde
“sculptures.”

Roland smiled
his harsh, uneven smile and called for the check.

A week or so
later, at eleven o’clock of a rainy night, Ann’s telephone had rung. At the
other end was Pearl. She apologized for calling so late in the evening; Ann
assured her that she had been reading a book; and they discussed Roland for
half an hour. Pearl was melancholy but philosophical. She had married Roland
Nelson fully aware of his peculiarities; things simply hadn’t worked out. “Roland
is a very obstinate man, especially where women are concerned. He won’t believe
that someone can say no and mean it. It may take him a while to come to his
senses.”

“You’re probably
right,” said Ann, uncertain of what Pearl was talking about. Only later did she
speculate that Pearl might have been referring to someone other than herself.
And soon afterward Pearl had died. Ann wondered what had caused Pearl’s death.

A new thought
occurred to her, a startling, exciting thought that burst in her head like
fireworks. Roland had inherited from Pearl; Ann would presumably inherit from
Roland—and apparently a great deal of money was involved. Unless Roland had
left a will making other provision—which she doubted. How strange! Money,
originally the property of a total stranger, would now become hers! Ann could
not restrain a thrill of joy at the prospect. She instantly scolded herself for
rejoicing in a situation which had cost two lives. And she thought of her
mother, who would certainly expect a share of the inheritance. Elaine would
first hint, then supplicate, then viciously demand. It might be wise to move to
a new address, thought Ann.

Tomorrow was
Friday, a workday. She telephoned the principal at Mar Vista, and explained the
situation. Mrs. Darlington expressed sympathy and said of course take as much
time as necessary.

In the morning
Ann dressed in a dark-gray suit and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge,
through the hills of Marin County, to San Rafael. Inspector Thomas Tarr proved
to be a man in his early thirties, of middle height, unobtrusively muscular,
wearing gray flannel slacks, a jacket of nondescript tweed, and a tie selected
apparently at random. He had mild blue eyes, an undisciplined crop of sun-bleached
blond hair, and an air of informality that Ann found disarming.

He greeted her
with gravity. “Sorry I have to bring you here on such an errand, Miss Nelson.
Shall we get the worst of it over? Then we can relax?”

He ushered her
down a flight of steps, along a brightly lit corridor, into a chilly,
white-tiled room. He slid out a drawer; Ann peered gingerly down into austere
features, now blurred. She backed away, shuddering. Tears that she had never
anticipated came to her eyes.

Inspector Tarr
spoke in a sympathetic voice. “This is your father, Miss Nelson?”

Ann gave a jerky
nod. “Yes.”

They returned
upstairs, Ann drying her eyes and feeling a little embarrassed. Tarr was
understanding itself. He led the way to a small private office and seated Ann
in a worn leather chair. “It’s a job I never get used to.”

“I don’t know
what came over me,” said Ann with vehemence. “Certainly not grief.”

“You weren’t
close to your father?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m glad for
your sake, Miss Nelson.” Tarr rolled a pencil between his fingers. “Can you
think of any reason why your father should have wanted to kill himself?”

Ann shook her
head. “It’s hard to believe that he did.”

“There’s not the
slightest doubt.”

“Couldn’t it
have been an accident? Or an act of violence?”

“Definitely not.
You saw him last when?”

Ann gave Tarr a
frowning inspection. Something in his manner suggested that he knew more than
he was telling. “Toward the end of last summer. I believe it was August.” Ann
described the episode, trying to convey its special flavor. Tarr listened with
polite interest. “When she had finished, he reflected a moment, staring at the
pencil. “You don’t believe, then, that he was broken up by his separation from
his wife?”