“It was hot when I brought it,” she said disdainfully. “You’re lucky we didn’t charge you rent.” And she wiggled away. This time Layton noticed. He watched while he chewed on the cold food.
Afterward, driving along in the thickening Saturday-evening traffic, Layton felt the onset of his usual weekend blues. It was too late to arrange a date; there was nothing more he could do tonight on the King case; and the prospect of curling up in his apartment with a good book, or even a bad one — he had stashed away a paperback edition of Tropic of Cancer for just such an emergency — was suddenly without appeal. A movie?
Layton passed a bank clock. Twenty of seven. Automatically he veered off in the direction of Ventura Boulevard.
He was halfway to Chapter Drive in the Valley before he permitted himself to dip deeply into himself.
He had left Nancy King’s ranch house twenty-four hours before with everything settled. He remembered his exact thought on driving away: That’s that, and on going to bed: To hell with her. Last night my mind was made up not to see that loving-husband mourner again, Layton thought, except as the developments of the case professionally demanded. And here I am, like a kid with his first case of she-itis, heading back the next night. What is this?
And what reason could he give for driving all the way out there?
With a shock Layton realized that the compulsion to see Nancy King again had been lurking behind his entire day.
As he swung his car into her driveway, his tires sizzling on the gravel, Nancy backed out of her house and tried her front door. Then she turned around and saw him. She was wearing a dark blue suit and a saucy little matching blue hat with a wisp of half-veil and longish dark-blue gloves.
“Oh!” she said. “Hello, Jim.”
Layton’s stomach felt hollow. “You were expecting somebody else to be driving up,” he said lightly.
“I thought it was the taxi I ordered. How are you, Jim?”
“Didn’t they deliver your car from KZZX?”
“Oh, yes. But I’m still not up to driving, I’m afraid I... didn’t have a very good night.”
Through the veil Layton could see the fatigue smudges under her eyes. “I’d be glad to take you wherever you want to go, Nancy. Cancel your cab.”
“I’m going ’way downtown.”
“Just where I’m headed.”
“Liar.” Nancy smiled. “All right, let me try to catch the taxi.” She unlocked her door and went back in. Layton waited outside in a juvenile glow. She was still smiling when she came out. “He sounded grateful. They hate to send cabs out here.”
He helped her into the heap. Her flesh under the sleeve felt warm and yielding, and he quickly let go and closed the door and went around the car and got in and said over-brightly, “Where to?”
“The Everglade Funeral Home. It’s on Wilshire, near Lafayette Park”
He nodded. “That’s only a short walk from where I live.” He started the car and drove off. The glow was gone. She glanced at him once, with the tiniest frown, then looked straight ahead.
Layton drove rigidly. What had he expected? That she was setting out for an evening of bridge the night after she became a widow? This has got to stop. I’m acting like a love-sick kid...
He had turned into Ventura Boulevard before Nancy spoke. “I promised Mr. Everglade I’d be there between eight and eight-thirty.”
She knows something’s wrong, Layton thought. “There’s plenty of time.”
“The funeral is planned for Tuesday afternoon. That is, if the coroner...”
“I know,” Layton said.
“Mr. Everglade said he expected to know definitely by tonight.” She was still staring ahead. “Was there any special reason for your dropping by, Jim?”
“I guess I thought you might be lonely.”
That made her look at him again. She said softly, “That was kind of you, Jim.”
“I’m the kind kind,” he said. “How did the rest of the press treat you today. Were they the kind kind, too?”
“You know how they were. They were horrible.”
Neither spoke again until Layton drove into the funeral-home parking lot.
He helped her out, and she said quietly, “I’m sorry, Jim, but I always seem to offend you somehow. I wish I knew what I do or say that rubs you the wrong way.”
“It’s not you,” Layton said, and he was appalled at the stiffness in his voice, “believe me, Nancy. I have... certain personal problems. It’s not your fault at all. I’m sorry if I made you think it was.”
“Oh,” Nancy said. “Well. Thanks a lot, Jim, for driving me in.” She extended a slim, gloved hand formally. “I don’t want to waste any more of your evening. Good-by.”
This time he managed to say, “Good-by nothing! I haven’t a thing on for tonight. I’ll drive you back.”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that. I’ll take a taxi.”
“You won’t do anything of the sort. I’ll wait for you out here.”
“Are you sure—?”
“I’m sure, Nancy.”
She looked at him searchingly. Then she touched his arm and turned and walked toward the side entrance of the funeral home.
Layton stood watching her. For some reason a picture of the Beverly Hills carhop’s wiggle flashed into his mind. That had been frank sexual insolence. Nancy’s walk was without guile or challenge — the merest natural sway of the hips, just noticeable enough to make him turn abruptly away. It’s like her perfume, he thought: it doesn’t exist except for somebody very close...
That made him think of Tutter King.
She was even paler than usual when she came out. He held the car door open, not touching her this time, and shut it carefully and went around to slide under the wheel. As he turned on the ignition Layton said, “Bad?”
“I hated it!”
He was surprised by the passion in her voice. “Hated what, Nancy?”
“Picking out the casket, discussing prices, materials, arrangements... People shouldn’t have to buy funerals like a case of beans in a supermarket?”
“I know what you mean.” He released his brake and began to back out of the parking space, deliberately not looking at her. He had seen the tears starting in her eyes.
For Tutter King.
For a two-timing heel on whom she’d thrown away the best years of her life.
Layton drove out of the lot trying to shut his ears against the helpless sounds of her weeping. His gas gauge was hovering around the E and he was short of cash; I’d better stick around the neighborhood, he thought, until she stops crying and I can head into Joe’s. He had a charge account at Joe’s.
He drove slowly, making right turns. When out of the corner of his eye he saw her put a handkerchief to her nose, and then begin looking herself over in her compact mirror, he sighed with relief and made for the gas station.
“All I seem to do when you’re around,” Nancy said in a sniffly voice, “is imitate a waterfall. I’m sorry, Jim. I know men dislike weepy women.”
“Not me,” Layton said. “Nine out of every ten women in this town have forgotten how to cry. Uh-uh,” he said, as if he had just noticed, “I’d better stop for gas.”
She looked down at her lap as he pulled into the station. She kept looking down.
“Fill her up, Joe,” Layton said.
“Hi, Mr. Layton.” Joe stuck the nozzle of the gas hose into the old car’s tank and left it on automatic. He got his squirt bottle and a length of paper toweling and came around to clean the windshield. Joe was a paunchy old-timer with skin like grilled toast. “Say, Mr. Layton, I meant to talk to you about your windshield. The glass is scraped almost clean through. Could be dangerous.”