Caveat Emptor and Other Stories (2 page)

But there was no point in worrying about this Jared fellow. Maybe he was a Sam in disguise. Maybe chickens had lips, and the moon was made of green cheese. Maybe it was time to start expecting the Easter bunny to show up with a bunch of purple eggs.

The mother-in-law person stood up imperiously and held a lace handkerchief to her nose. “I am going into the garden for a bit of fresh air,” she announced. “Send Jared to me when he appears, Althea. I must speak to him; it is of the greatest importance.”

Hmmm? Had the old bat noticed her repeated glances at the diamond broach? If she were to tattle to this Jared person, Althea might find herself scrubbing pots after all. It seemed prudent to assume the dutiful role.

“Please don't take a chill, Lady Excrutia,” Althea said in a solicitous whine. “Shall I fetch a shawl for you from your dressing room? Allow me to bring it to you in the garden.”

The dowager with the plumes beamed approvingly at Althea's meek posture. “Charming child, just charming. But look, here's Jared!”

Oh, hell. Althea tried to forget about the promised encounter in garden—for a few minutes anyway. Forcing herself into a semblance of pleased surprise, she lifted her eyes to meet those of the unknown Jared.

Oh, my God, she thought with a scowl. Another arrogant one. There went another bodice, ripped into shreds. Endless lovemaking, nothing but simmering frustration as the result. And those granite gray eyes boring into her, for God's sake! It was more than anyone should have to bear … it really was.

“Damnedest thing I've ever seen!” The lieutenant leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the body being wheeled out of the tiny office. For the first time in his career even the paramedics were subdued. The two men waited for the medical examiner to finish wiping the inky smudges off his hands, then crowded into the room. The desk was cluttered with notebooks, chewed pencil stubs, and an overflowing ashtray. A lipstick-stained coffee cup lay on the floor in a dried brown puddle. A typewriter hummed softly, and with a snort the second of the plainclothes detectives leaned over to switch it off.

“How'd you discover the body?” the medical examiner asked. Like Lady Macbeth, he seemed obsessed with the invisible marks on his hands, rubbing them against each other nervously.

“The woman in the next apartment called the super. It seems the woman who lived here was a writer, and the neighbor was used to the sound of the typewriter clattering all day long. She told the super the last couple of days there was no sound, and it was driving her crazy,” the first detective said.

The second snorted again. “If I lived next door to one of these writers, and had to listen to that noise all day, I might have strangled the broad myself. As it is, I have to listen to my wife screaming at the kids every night and—”

“Damnedest thing,” the first repeated, shaking his head. “In twenty-nine years on the force, I've seen a lot of weird things—but I've never seen anyone strangled with a typewriter ribbon.”

The medical examiner laughed. “As good as a wire or a rope, but a hell of a lot messier. All you have to do now is find someone with ink-stained hands.”

The second detective was reading the titles of the paperback books on the shelf above the desk. “Look at this, Carl. Do you know what the victim wrote? Romance novels, by damn! You know the things:
Sweet Moonlight, The Towering Passion of Lady Bianca, etc., etc.”

“My wife reads that stuff,” the first admitted. He shook his head. “I dunno why, though. Gimme a good ball game on television and a six-pack to keep me cool. That's my idea of romance—me, Budweiser, and the Yankees.”

The medical examiner raised his hand in a farewell gesture. “I'll get back to you in a day or two, Carl. Don't waste your time reading the victim's books—unless you think the intellectuals of the world conspired to do her in!” Chuckling to himself, he left the two detectives exchanging glances.

“Naw, Carl,” the second said, “don't get your hopes up. It was a prowler or something. Let's go talk to the doorman and the elevator operator.”

The first sighed, thinking of the tedious interviews that would prove necessary, the trivial gossip that the neighbors would feel obliged to share, the dinner he would not have a chance to eat that night.

“Too bad it wasn't a suicide,” he grumbled. “My wife always makes meatballs on Mondays and then goes bowling with a bunch of the girls. Good game on tonight.”

“Then we'd have our note,” the second added, pointing at a piece of paper sticking out of the typewriter. “But nobody, not even dippy romance writers, can strangle themselves. My money's on the neighbor; she's probably half-deaf from the noise. She just couldn't stand the sound of the typewriter any longer and went berserk. I would've.”

“She's eighty-three,” the first one said. He leaned over to read the manuscript page, then straightened up. “My wife will get a kick out of this, you know. Yours will, too. All women think this stuff is great—all the damned moonlight and wine and deep soulful stares! It spoils them for the real world, Marv.”

“Yeah, my wife wanted me to take her out to dinner for her birthday. Hell, the babysitter drives a damn Mercedes! I can't see spending half a week's salary on fancy food.”

“So what'd you do?” Carl asked as they went out the door of the office and started for the living room.

The one named Marv shrugged his shoulders. “I brought home a real nice pizza.”

Lady Althea wrapped her arms around Sam's stocky waist and snuggled against him, ignoring the black smudges on his back from her previous caresses. For a long time, the horse's rhythmic clops were the only sound on the road. The moon illuminated the trees on either side of them with a silver haze, and the light breeze had an earthy redolence. At last the horse and its two riders were gone into the darkness, although a faint giggle seemed to linger in the air.

Back at the cold and lifeless manor house, the ball was over. The nameless gentility had disappeared, the orchestra vanished, the vast room as quiet as a tomb. In the center of the room lay a body. Two arrogant eyes stared at the darkened chandelier, unblinking and glazed with faint surprise. Blood had long since coagulated on the gash across his neck.

There was more blood in the garden. The figure there had the same surprised expression, and a similar slash across the neck. The bosom no longer heaved, although it had the appearance of a mountain range arising from the manicured lawn. The surface of this alpine region was smooth, except for a tiny rip in its surface where a broach had been removed hastily and without regard for the crinoline fabric.

His majesty's guards remained puzzled by the scene for a few weeks, then dismissed it from their minds. One or two of the younger ones sometimes mentioned it over pints of ale in the new roadhouse, but the older officers usually ignored them. The barmaid, always full of throaty laughter and ready for a frolic, kept them more amused on the feather beds upstairs.

Too Much to Bare

“My husband is going to kill me,” Marjorie announced. It was not the first time she'd suggested the possibility. Anne had lost count. “Oh, honey,” Sylvia said soothingly, “it's not as if we're taking the merchandise home, or even having a chance to do more than study it from a respectable distance. Not that I wouldn't object, should the opportunity arise—if you know what I mean!”

The three other women at the table obligingly giggled at Sylvia's comment. Marjorie, already damp with perspiration in her rumpled polyester pantsuit, flapped a pudgy hand as if to dispel any lingering aura of naughtiness. “You are such a joker,” she said. “I don't know how you think of these things.”

“I would imagine it comes from hanging around outside the locker room,” Bitsy said. Her eyes, heavily accented with mascara and undulating ribbons of blue and gray shadow, closed for a moment as a curtain of black hair fell across her face. She took a sip of beer, wrinkled her nose, and pushed aside her cup. A Christian in the Colosseum could not have looked less delighted.

“Better than hanging around inside,” Sylvia said, “unless we're discussing some little jock's strap.”

Anne busied herself replenishing their plastic cups with beer from the pitcher, keeping her face lowered in order to hide her expression. Sylvia's jokes were always crude. Most of the teachers at the school avoided the lounge whenever Sylvia sailed in for coffee and conversation; Anne had discovered she preferred to stay in the library rather than listen to the barrage of gossip and off-color humor. A thermos of coffee sufficed. But tonight she found herself taking a certain pleasure in Sylvia's company. A certain pleasure, yes.

The Happy Hour Saloon was swelling with a large and raucous crowd. The music blared from omnipresent speakers, too loud and senseless for Anne's taste, forcing voices to compete in shrieks. The throbbing, repetitive beat seemed to stir the two hundred or so women, however, with promises of erotica, of good times to come. Lights flashed in a dizzying pattern that lacked discernible organization, changing faces from red to green to blue as if they were hapless chameleons. The tables were littered with cups, pitchers, ashtrays heaped with cigarette butts, and spreading wet circles that glittered like kisses as the lights swept across them.

“Isn't this a hoot?” Sylvia demanded of the table. “I went to one of these last year, and it was beyond my wildest imagination.” She flung her blonde hair over her shoulder and studied the barnlike room with a complacent smile. “This crowd looks a lot worse. We are in for quite a time this evening, ladies. Quite a time.”

Marjorie drained her cup and pushed herself to her feet. “If Hank's going to kill me, I might as well die happily. I'm going for another pitcher, after a trip to the can to powder my nose. Anyone else interested?”

Bitsy picked up her purse and tucked it under her arm. “I'm tempted to stay in the ladies' room until the show is over,” she said acidly. “I cannot believe I'm actually here. I don't know why we let Sylvia coerce us into this low-class display of vulgarity, although I can understand why it might appeal to her.”

Waggling a finger at her, Sylvia said, “It's time you saw something more exciting than a kindergarten classroom, my dear. You're beginning to look like one of your five-year-olds.”

Bitsy pursed her lips into a pout. “This whole thing is nauseating. I should have stayed at my apartment and washed my hair. Let's go, Marjorie. The ladies' room is probably filthy, but I'm not accustomed to beer. Scotch is less fattening, and so much more civilized than this swill.”

Once Marjorie and Bitsy found a path through the crowd of women and vanished around the far corner of the bar, Anne gazed across the table. “I can't believe I'm here either. It's a good thing Paul's out at the cabin this weekend. Maybe by Sunday night I'll have worked up enough courage to tell him about it.” Or perhaps she might whisper it in his ear, while he lay in a coffin at the funeral home. Even tell him she'd changed her mind about the divorce—he could file it in hell or wherever he ended up. She bit her lip to hide a quick smile. The irony was delicious.

“What's he doing at the lake?” Sylvia asked. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“He said he had a lot of work to do and wanted to put fifty miles between himself and a telephone. He's been under such stress lately; I hope he has a chance to relax.”

“You still don't have a telephone out there? God, Anne, it's halfway to the end of the world.”

“That's why Paul bought it. I don't really enjoy staying there, but he seems to find ways to amuse himself. I haven't been there in months.” She crossed her fingers in her lap. She'd been there two days ago, when she'd called in sick and then taken a little field trip, although hardly in a fat yellow school bus. “He asked if I would drive up this weekend. I told him I absolutely had to finish the semester inventory at the library, but that's only partly true. In all honesty, he's been in a rotten mood for several months, and I have no desire to be cooped up with him in the middle of the woods.”

“Maybe he's in mid-life crisis. My ex went crazy when he hit forty. His shrink said he'd get over it, but I divorced the bastard on general principle. When men get to that age, they don't seem to know what they want—unless it's a combination of cuddle and sizzle.”

“He's not having an affair,” Anne replied firmly. “Paul is much too straitlaced to do anything to threaten his stuffy law practice. I do wish he didn't have to work so hard; we haven't had a proper dinner in three months.” He had, though. She'd opened the bill from the credit card company. Lots of restaurants, but she hadn't been invited for any cozy little dinners with elegant wine. She'd been at home, putting gourmet meals down the garbage disposal.

“The old working-late-at-the-office bit?” Sylvia raised two penciled eyebrows. “Well, if you're not going to worry about it, then neither am I, but I think you'd better keep an eye on him. Paul's an attractive man, and he knows it. Did you hear what happened this morning in the teachers' lounge when the toilet backed up?”

Anne forced a smile as Sylvia began to relate a bit of gossip that would, without a doubt, end on a crude bark of laughter. The music drowned out a major part of the story, but she didn't care. Sylvia didn't require more than a superficially attentive audience. The bitch. So she was surprised there was no telephone at the cabin. As if she didn't know. Of course what she and Paul did at the cabin didn't require a telephone—only a mattress. Or any flat surface, for that matter. Her smile wavered, but she tightened her jaw and willed it into obedience.

“Hank is going to kill me,” Marjorie said as she set the pitcher on the table and sat down beside Anne. “So when do we see the boys?”

Sylvia consulted her watch. “In about ten minutes, I would guess. The management wants to give all of us time to drink ourselves into a cheerful mood.”