The Drowning Pool (12 page)

“Are you still feeling ill? Nauseous, dizzy?” Mike asked solicitously.

A startled expression crossed her face. “How did you know?”

“That you might be pregnant? I have two kids. I must have lived every symptom with my wife. After a while, we weren’t quite sure which one of us was having a baby. You haven’t told your husband yet?”

“No, the way he’s been acting, I’ve been too scared.”

“Are you certain he hasn’t already guessed?”

“I’ve been very careful. The evening I went to the doctor for my examination, I told him that I was going shopping with a friend. Bill never has been eager for children, and now, with his jealousy so acute, I’m afraid if I told him, he might think…” her voice trailed off.

“That it was Bradshaw’s child?” Gardner said.

Her expression told him that he assumed correctly. “You can’t keep it a secret from him forever. And the longer you wait, the more likely he’ll consider that reason enough to believe the baby isn’t his.”

“You think I should tell him then as soon as possible?” She seemed desperately eager for advice.

“Not necessarily.” It wasn’t his place to counsel her.

“I’ve been thinking about getting an abortion, but I don’t feel comfortable with the idea.”

“I’m not the right one to advise you. You really ought to get professional help for you and your husband. A marriage counselor, a psychologist, or even a clergyman.”

She listened intently, and he realized she was making a strong effort to appear calm.

“Do you think your husband might have killed Bradshaw?”

Her beautiful features registered pain. “A few weeks ago, I would have said it was impossible. Now, I just don’t know.”

Anyone could kill, he thought. It was just a matter of being placed in the right circumstances. That’s what made a homicide like this one so difficult to solve.

“We’ll be investigating and if we come up with something that can help you, we’ll see that you know about it.” He kept his tone of voice reassuring.

“Thank you. I know you both want to help me. I appreciate that.”

He patted her hand paternally, aware that her fingers were as cold as ice cubes.

“When we leave, why don’t you warm some milk? Ever seen a cow that needed to visit a psychiatrist? Maybe lie down and take a nap. Getting plenty of sleep makes most problems easier to cope with.” Gardner was satisfied when he saw Louise Scofield smile as they left her.

Kim turned to him and brushed his cheek gently with her fingertips before getting back in the car.

“Did I do something you liked for a change?”

She smiled up at him. “You do lots of things I like. You were very good with her. In fact, you’re very good at your job. You really didn’t need me along.”

“Yes, I did. More than you know.” He got into the driver’s seat. “So what about dinner?”

“Sorry, I’ve made other plans.” She closed down.

Kim didn’t need to tell him. He knew the professor was on the menu for tonight. His hands balled into fists, but he refrained from further comment.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said with stiff formality.

They didn’t talk much on the short drive. But he knew he didn’t want to leave it this way. “Kim, I’m off tomorrow. What about coming over to the house lunchtime for a barbecue?”

She hesitated, looking searchingly into his eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Absolutely certain. I was wrong to act jealous. I’m not another Othello or a Bill Scofield.”

She smiled at him. “No, you’re not. And I shouldn’t have doubted you.” She kissed his cheek and started to get out of the car.

Gardner pulled her back, took her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. He loved the fresh smell of her, the sensual female essence. His hand glided over her breasts. Kim let out a soft moan. He felt a raw rush of desire. With deep reluctance, he released her.

“That’s so you don’t forget me.”

Kim shook her head, meeting his gaze. “Not possible,” she said.

* * * *

He had an early dinner with the girls and then decided to check back at headquarters. It was a humid August evening with the temperature hovering around eighty-three degrees and the moisture in the air reaching saturation. He tugged at his shirt collar uncomfortably and removed his jacket and tie as a concession to the weather. Winter or summer, he wore the same short-sleeved white shirts, never varying his professional wardrobe. Tonight he wished he could drive back to the municipal complex in the buff. Wouldn’t that have brought interesting comments as he walked into the office? Maybe he would’ve had to arrest himself. His irreverent musings made him smile.

Bert was waiting in the squad room when he returned. “Anything new?” she asked.

“Nothing that helps our investigation. How would you feel about phoning the Baincroft Richardson ad agency in Manhattan? Leave a message. We might find out why Scofield left his job there. Being the possessive husband he is, I would’ve thought he’d want to continue working as close to his wife as possible.”

“Great minds think alike, or so they say. I already checked on it and found out something interesting. Scofield didn’t quit his job. He was axed. Seems he got into a violent quarrel with a co-worker, a guy who he claimed was trying to hit on his wife. Scofield punched the dude right in the face there in the office. His boss asked him to resign.” Her eyes were thoughtful, two candles reflecting darkly in a mirror. “This Scofield fits a classic pattern.”

“Think so?”

“Sure. You still consider Scofield a suspect, don’t you?”

“I haven’t crossed him off our list.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “He has a definite motive.”

“Mainly, there are three motives for murder: love, hate, and greed.” He counted them off on his fingers as he spoke.

“What about insanity?”

“Not a motive but certainly a cause,” Gardner observed. “You think Scofield might be insane?”

“He’s not too tightly wrapped. A few slices short of a loaf. But I’d definitely classify his motive as love. Oh, incidentally, I asked that our inquiry be kept in the strictest confidence.”

“I agree. It’s best Mrs. Scofield doesn’t find out. She’s got enough on her mind without worrying about that. And it’s also better if Scofield doesn’t know we’re checking on him. We can get more from a suspect if he’s off-guard.”

In their mutual concern for Mrs. Scofield’s welfare and suspicion of Mr. Scofield as a murder suspect, he and Bert seemed to have struck some sense of solidarity and mutual accord.

Gardner was just finishing his reports for the night when the telephone rang at ten p.m., jarring him out of his thoughts. He quickly lifted the receiver and identified himself.

“I need your help!” It was a woman’s voice, shrill, nervous.

“Miss Nevins?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Sonny’s here where I work. He’s stinking drunk and causing trouble. He came in that way,” she quickly added, probably afraid Gardner might think she’d been serving liquor to a minor in a public place. “He keeps saying crazy things. I’m afraid if someone doesn’t get him out of here soon, I’ll lose my job.”

“Where are you?”

“It’s the Galaxy Lounge on Route 9. Know it?”

“Right. We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

Bert was eager to be on the move. Gardner was pensive as they drove along the highway. The Galaxy Lounge was a relatively new establishment in the area but already had something of a reputation for a pick-up joint. The locals or
townies
never went there—too new and fancy for their tastes. The townies liked their watering holes old and disreputable-looking. Their favorite place was Slater’s, a tumbledown tavern with a huge sign that read “Female Dancers” in bold red letters. Every cop in town had been called on at least once to break up a fight at Slater’s. The Galaxy was entirely different. It was strictly a hang-out for the emigrant New Yorkers who inhabited the luxury condos, garden apartments and housing development complexes, and as such, boasted a classy veneer.

The original residents of the area resented the presence of the city people, resented the term
bedroom community,
which had been tagged on to their township in recent years. They themselves refused to buy any of the new dwellings or rent the new apartments. Those who sold their farmland were looked down upon with scorn and referred to as “traitors” by the others. The locals were proud of the old sections of Webster where white frame, clapboard houses of another era stood on parcels of land that were still farmed. Many of the locals could trace their origins back before the Revolution.

Gardner was not unsympathetic to these people, although he was certainly not one of them. He understood their point of view. His own home was between the largest of the housing developments and the old section, actually set off from both. His simple, modern dwelling was a real source of pride. Gardening or mowing in the large yard gave him a feeling of tranquility, no matter how hard a day he’d spent on the job.

He looked over at Bert and wondered how many of life’s small satisfactions had been denied to her. “We’re off-duty tomorrow. Why don’t you come over to my house? The girls and I usually barbecue outdoors in the summer on weekends. It’s pretty informal, but there’s always plenty of food and we’d enjoy your company. Come around lunchtime”

“Aren’t you a little sick of my face?”

“Not yet.”

She refused at first, but Gardner was insistent. By the time they pulled into the parking lot of the Galaxy, the invitation had been tentatively accepted.

The inside of the cocktail lounge was very dark, walls black and tablecloths blood red. Tapered red candles were at each table, but only the bar itself was crowded. Soft music was being piped in from somewhere. The only unusual thing was the ceiling: some aspiring Michelangelo had painted the universe there. It was hardly the Sistine Chapel, but Gardner had to admit the artwork made the place stand out from most run-of-the-mill gin joints.

A number of single men and women were socializing at the bar. Gardner hadn’t forgotten the murder he’d investigated here last year. A woman had been picked up here, never to be seen again. They’d found her raped and mutilated body in a drainage ditch, but the murderer was never caught. The victim left behind a small daughter and a grief-stricken mother. He’d always felt badly about being unable to solve that homicide. In his mind, it remained open and would until he finally did solve it, no matter how long that might take.

April Nevins had apparently been watching for them. She came toward them almost as soon as they entered and quickly signaled the sequined hostess not to bother trying to seat them. April’s blond highlighted hair was pulled back from her face and neatly parted down the middle. Yet her costume was anything but prim. A black velvet micro skirt barely brushed the tops of her thighs. Her white satin blouse, cut very low, loosely covered her well-endowed breasts and emphasized her bronzed cleavage.

“He’s in the back. I didn’t serve him anything. Like I told you, he was totally polluted before he got here.” She walked ahead of them with a brisk step; her voice trailed back in a breathy whisper. Gardner realized it was the first time he’d heard her make an attempt to speak softly.

“Why did he get drunk?” Bert asked.

“We had a quarrel this evening before I left for work. I wish you’d let them re-open the pool so he wouldn’t come around so much. You’re causing me trouble.”

“What did you quarrel about,” Gardner asked, ignoring her comment.

“Rick’s death.”

“What aspect of it?”

“What difference does that make?” Her voice was shrill again. “Just get him out of here.” She walked away as soon as they were in view of Sonny. The boy was holding his head between his hands. His pale blue eyes were glazed over. It was obvious he was not used to drinking.

“Come on, we’ll take you home,” Gardner said.

“I’m not going nowhere. Go away!”

“Get on your feet,” Gardner said in a quiet but firm voice. He took the boy by the arm, but Sonny thrust him off with a strong heave. Bert pulled the youth out of his chair, pressing his arms together. Sonny broke free and tried to take a swing at her. Bert was quick. Before Gardner could even step in, she’d handled the situation. Ducking the punch that came at her, she moved into Sonny with a stiff karate blow to the gut. The kid groaned and sat down heavily on the floor.

“Get up,” Bert demanded in a tight voice. “We’ll help you walk. Any more trouble and we’ll have to cuff and arrest you.” She positioned Sonny between Gardner and herself. The boy, no longer protesting, leaned on Gardner for support.

April Nevins watched at a discreet distance, but as they marched the boy out, he caught sight of her. “It’s all your fault,” Sonny yelled back at her as they guided him toward the door. She turned on her stiletto heels and clicked away.

Once they were outside, Sonny quieted down. They seated him in the back of the car, and Bert positioned herself beside Sonny.

“Where do you live, kid?” she asked. Bert had to ask a second time before Sonny answered in broken, near incoherent syllables.

Gardner knew the street and took a sharp turn on to Jake Blackwell Road to head toward the old section of town. He didn’t need to use the GPS.

“Why did you get drunk?” Gardner asked, keeping his eyes on the road to look for street signs.

“’Cause of her. I tol’ her I want them back. She says she don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.” Sonny’s voice trailed off.

“What did you ask her to return?”

Sonny didn’t seem to hear him. “Called her a liar. She got mad, real mad. Said I was good for only one thing. She said never to come back. After all I done for her.”

“What was it you did for her?” Gardner got no response.

Bert smacked both of Sonny’s cheeks. “What was it, kid?” Her voice was harsh and demanding.

“I got him in the water. For her. Pull over, I’m sick. Gotta barf. Come on, pull over for Christ’s sake!”

Gardner drove off the road and pulled the car over on the shoulder. Sonny staggered out and pushed his way through brambles and briars into the woods.