Wife or Death (6 page)

“Mud in your eye,” Guest said. He took a sip and made a face. “And I mean mud! What kind of sludge are they using in that urn today?”

“Mine tastes all right,” said Denton. “You must still be getting repercussions from that skinful you imbibed Saturday night.”

“I guess. Well, Jim, so you have to bach it, huh? Lucky dog.”

Denton glanced at him sharply. But then he relaxed. There was no reason for old George to doubt the yarn about Angel's visiting her family. George was the only man Denton knew who was as guileless as he looked.

“I don't know yet, George. I don't start climbing into an unmade bed till tonight. I wish Angel'd arranged for somebody to come in while she's away.”

“You want somebody?”

“I'd better get one, I suppose, or the place'll start to smell. Think Corinne could recommend a cleaning woman?”

“My wife?” George exclaimed. “She's a walking directory. Your troubles are over, pal. I'll have Corinne call you this evening.”

Corinne Guest was as good as her husband's word. She phoned to say that she had Bridget White all lined up if he wanted her.

“Bridget can come in mornings for two hours,” Corinne said. “She works for Clara Sommers and Clara says she's marvelous. Just takes over and does without supervision.”

“That's the type character I need,” Denton said. “How early will she come?”

“She can give you eight to ten—she's due somewhere else at ten-thirty. But she'll come earlier if you prefer, Jim.”

“How about seven? I wouldn't be here to let her in much later. I leave for the shop at seven-fifteen.”

“She'll be there at seven tomorrow morning.”

“Corinne—”

“I know, I'm a doll. 'Bye!” And Corinne laughed and hung up.

He had just finished his breakfast the next morning when Bridget White arrived. The cleaning woman was squat and fiftyish, with the shoulders of a cow. He settled her wages and showed her about the house. She kept grunting in disapproval, and Denton grinned to himself. Angel had not been exactly the ideal housekeeper.

“I better do everything,” Bridget said at last, as if she had reached an irrevocable decision.

“You do that,” Denton said meekly. “Whatever you think has to be done. Anything you need in the way of supplies, buy it.” He handed her a five-dollar bill.

She took off her coat, removed her hat, hung both in the foyer closet, donned a spotless apron, marched into the living room and went purposefully over to the sofa. From the way she lifted and moved it, it might have been a light chair. She stared coldly at the accumulation of dust and lint, then set it down.

“Yump,” she said. “I better do
everything
. Well, Mr. Denton? Don't you go to work?”

Denton fled.

7

Denton and young Winchester were seated opposite each other at the long galley table, reading proof, when the reporter suddenly said, “Say, I heard your wife's out of town.”

Denton slowly looked up. “Yes, Ted? What about it?”

“Well, I've been checking the society page, and I don't see it. Isn't it going to look funny for the
Clarion
not to print a social item about the wife of its publisher?”

Denton thought it over. The day before, several people had made perfunctory inquiries about Angel, and he had given them the same story that he had told George Guest. The story would keep spreading, as stories did in Ridgemore, and people might start speculating. The printed word had a magic of its own; people were far readier to believe what they read than what they heard. Publishing the item would probably tend to hold the gossip down.

Eventually Ridgemore was going to have to know that he and Angel were through. It would be less awkward for him if it were kept from them at least until he knew where Angel was and what her plans were. The hiatus would also accustom them to Angel's absence, and so cushion the impact of the fact when he was ready to make it known.

So Denton nodded. “You're right, Ted. I clean forgot about it. You do the item. Say Mrs. James Denton is visiting her parents in Titusville, Pa.”

Winchester scribbled a note. “What's their name?”

Angel's professional name had been Angel Varden, which she always gave as her maiden name. The “Varden” was a phony. She was the daughter of an immigrant coal-miner of Polish origin. For some reason she had considered this a mark of shame.

He got a small measure of satisfaction out of saying to Winchester, “Koblowski, Mr. and Mrs. Stanislaus Koblowski,” and spelling it out like any conscientious editor.

When Denton got home Tuesday afternoon he found a house that sparkled even to his eye, dulled by long exposure to Angel's slovenly housekeeping.

How Bridget White had managed this legerdemain of cleaning and straightening up in a mere two hours defied his sense of the miraculous. She had even changed the beds and stowed the soiled bed linen in the laundry bag. A stickler for detail, Denton thought admiringly, roaming about in wonder. She had not been satisfied merely to empty the wastebaskets, for example; she had burned their contents in the trash burner out back.

On Wednesday, during the late morning, Corinne Guest stopped by the
Clarion
office with an item about her Garden Club.

“How's Bridget working out?” she asked.

“Terrific,” Denton said enthusiastically. “She must be the Houdini of cleaning women. Be sure to thank Clara for me.”

“I'm so glad. Incidentally, have you heard from Angel?”

“She almost never writes.” The old trouble, Denton thought; no lie stands on its own feet, it has to be propped up. “The most she'll do is send a card, ‘Arrived safely,' and another one toward the end telling me when and how she's coming home.”

Corinne laughed. “Sounds like George. Only he sends wires.”

“Speaking of George, I was just going to lunch. How about if I phone him to meet us and we can make it a threesome?”

“George carried his lunch today, Jim. He can't leave the store. Emmet's uncle over in Olean died, and he had to go to the funeral.” Emmet was George's clerk.

“Well, how about a twosome?”

“It's a little early for me. I don't get up at the ungodly hour you do. But I'll have a cup of coffee with you.”

As they waited in the booth at Jordan's for his sandwich and milk and Corinne's coffee, Denton looked her over with approval. She was wearing a jewel of a tailored suit and a cocky little hat.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” Corinne said. “You'll have me blushing in a minute. Is something wrong?”

“Wrong!” Denton said. “As a matter of fact, I was just thinking that you're the only woman in the place who isn't wearing a dish towel tied under her chin.”

Corinne did blush. “The babushka is a local status symbol. I'm the one who's out of style. They're probably all accusing me of snobbishness or something for wearing a hat.”

She was glancing around, and suddenly he saw the blush fade into pallor. “Oh,
damn
,” she said.

“What's the matter, Corinne?” He followed her glance. They were being stared at avidly by two women in a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant. When the women saw him turn to look at them, they quickly giggled and began to whisper. Ellen Wright and Olive Haber—the pair he had overheard gossiping about Angel and Ralph Crosby at the Hallowe'en Ball.

Corinne said in a troubled voice, “Now we'll be talked about.”

“Why be different?” Denton grinned. “Those two talk about everybody.”

“No, Jim, I mean it.” She did not grin back. “A thing like this could turn into something nasty.”

“Oh, for pete's sake, Corinne. Just because you have a cup of coffee with me?”

“It's not just that. Remember Julian Overton's walking in on us in the men's locker room Saturday night? You know what a blabbermouth Julian is. And the billiard twins over there never miss a tidbit. They've probably got it all worked out by now that you and I are having an affair.”

She was really distressed. Denton said lightly, “By God, if it weren't for George, I'd consider that a mandate from the people.” That made her smile faintly, and he said, “Why do you call that pair the billiard twins?”

“It's George's description of them. He says Ellen Wright is built like a billiard ball and Olive Haber like the cue.”

He laughed, and Corinne was infected by it and followed suit, and just then the waitress came up with the tray, so the crisis passed.

But it flared up again as they were leaving. Denton could feel the two gossips' eyes on his back as he went to the cashier's counter. The feeling was still there when he joined Corinne at the door. He turned around abruptly.

Stout Ellen Wright, facing his way, was gobbling them up. Olive Haber, the skinny nurse, opposite the Wright woman, was slued all the way around and leaning out of the booth for an unobstructed view. People at nearby tables were beginning to look, too, their attention caught by the pair's curiosity.

Denton deliberately took Corinne's arm and, holding her close, walked her out of the restaurant. On the sidewalk he released her and chuckled, “I'm sorry, Corinne. I just couldn't resist it.”

“I wish you had,” she said slowly. “That wasn't very kind, Jim. Now they'll be sure we're making a fool of George.”

“Oh, come off it,” Denton said. “Who's going to believe those two?”

“Lots of people.”

“I
am
sorry,” he said contritely. “Anyway, if I'm going to be an adulterer, I can't think of a nicer hay-partner than you.”

“Frankly, I'll take Tony Curtis,” Corinne retorted. “Jim, I'm going to drop in on George. When do you have to be back?”

“Ten-fifteen minutes. I'll drop in with you.”

There was no one in the hardware store but George Guest. He was seated on a stool behind the counter munching away.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully. “Say, honey, this chicken hits the spot. I think I'll have you pack a box lunch for me every day.”

“George,” Corinne said. “I just had a nasty experience. I had a cup of coffee with Jim while he ate his lunch at Jordan's—”

“I know what you mean, baby. I have to drink coffee across from that pan of his practically every afternoon.”

“George, I'm serious! Ellen Wright and Olive Haber—”

Her husband made a face. “Please, Corinne. I'm eating.”

“They kept staring at us and whispering.”

George looked puzzled. “About what?”

“Jim and me. Remember what I told you about Julian Overton's walking in on us in the men's locker room?”

“Yeah,” George said, glaring at Denton. “I've been meaning to talk to you about that, Jim. When you make advances to my wife, please use a little discretion. I don't want her to get the reputation of hanging around men's locker rooms. Wasn't the women's locker room available?”

Denton grinned at him. “Corinne picked it. Seemed to know her way around as well as I did.”

“Will both of you
please
be serious?” Corinne cried. “You know what an old woman Julian is. And Ellen and Olive have smeared a lot of people in this town.”

“Aw, you're imagining things, honey,” George said. “Anyway, who cares what those old hags say?”

“I do, for one. I don't want to have dirt thrown at me.”

“What do you suggest?” Denton jeered. “That I put a full-page ad in the
Clarion
announcing that rumors of the affair between me and Mrs. George Guest are grossly exaggerated?”

“You have a gift for making serious things look silly, Jim,” snapped Corinne. “
I
think it's important.”

“All right. Then we'll stop speaking when we meet on the street.”

“I'll be damned if you will,” George said, not lightly.

Corinne giggled. “That would be worse! Ellen and Olive would run around town saying we'd had a lovers' quarrel.”

George slammed his lunch box shut. “Crisis over, Jim. The old gal's got her funnybone back.”

“Good,” Denton said. “Then I can go back to my galleys. Amos starts sulking if I don't return on the dot of noon.”

At the office he made a resolution. His gag at Jordan's had been childish, even dangerous. Corinne was right. He knew of at least two marriages that had been wrecked by the shark's teeth of Ellen Wright and Olive Haber. He was too fond of George and Corinne Guest to endanger their happiness. And once the news came out that he and Angel had split up, any gossip linking him to Corinne would—to use a word he loathed—proliferate.

He would simply have to stop being seen in public alone with Corinne.

8

On Friday afternoon Jim Denton had his usual cup of coffee with George Guest at Jordan's. The hardware man seemed uncharacteristically subdued and preoccupied.

“Something eating you?” Denton asked idly.

George looked startled for a moment, then put down his cup. “I always was a lousy actor. I wasn't going to say anything, Jim, but … Hell, I guess you ought to know. There's a story going around town—”

“About Corinne and me? I thought we had that one licked.”

George shook his head. “If that's making the rounds, it's bypassed me. This is worse, Jim.”

Denton's brows went up. “What's worse?”

“You know Maury Heffler?”

“Sure. We ran a piece about him this week. He's in the hospital for a capon operation. What about old Maury?”

“Well, you know he goes to our church. I'm on the sick committee, and I went to visit him last night.” George hesitated.

“So? Come on, George, spit it out! What is it?”

“Well, you know how a hospital is,” George mumbled. “A rumor spreads like a brushfire.”

“I know how our hospital is,” Denton said dryly, “with Olive Haber a floor nurse there. What's she saying now?”