Because Matthews was following me in the other car, I didn’t get any chance to talk to him on the way out. I pulled in front of the Jeffries cottage, wondering in that moment if I would have to pack up their things and ship them north, and wondering if I would have to drive the car north.
Matthews pulled in beside me. You can’t see the beach proper from directly in front of the cottages, on the road. He was an angular man with a weather-marked face, lean throat, wattled jaw, prominent Adam’s apple, narrow blue eyes.
We got out of the cars and he looked in at the back seat of Jeff’s car and said, “That the weapon?”
“Yes,” I said, and opened the door to get it.
“Leave it be,” he said sharply. “You put it there?”
“Yes,” I said.
He spat and glanced at the sky. “Well, where are they?”
“Down on the beach. We were lying in the sun. Mr. Jeffries was shooting at floating cans. My wife took the rifle. She shot Mrs. Jeffries in the head from close range. She aimed at Mr. Jeffries. He ran. She hit him and knocked him down and shot him again. I got the gun away from her. She’s been... acting strange lately.”
We walked toward the road and the beach. Two other cars had pulled up beside the road. People had gotten out. They saw where we were heading and they began to drift in the same direction.
“Killed ’em both, eh?” he said.
“Killed Mrs. Jeffries. Maybe Mr. Jeffries was only seriously wounded. But I think he was dead.”
“Didn’t you look?”
“No. I... I should have. But I was shocked. I went after help.”
We stood on top of the sand rise and looked down at the beach. From that distance and that angle, Stella could have been sunbathing. I could see the dark glasses on the corner of her towel, see the glint of her lotion bottle in the sun. My blanket was spread out beside her body.
And that was all. Jeff’s body was gone. Linda was gone. I couldn’t understand it. I had all sorts of crazy conjectures. Linda had drowned herself. Jeff had crawled up to the cottage somehow.
We walked down toward the body. I forced myself to look at it. When I saw the sharp circling of the flies I looked away.
“Where’s the other body?” Matthews asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t as badly hurt as I thought.”
“Where was he?”
“Right there,” I said. “Right about there.” I pointed. I walked over with him. He sat on his heels and looked at the sand. He stood up.
Six people had moved down to within twenty feet of the body. They were all staring at the body. “Git back, dammit. Git back!” Matthews bawled. They all moved back a half-step, still staring. He strode over angrily, snatched up my balled towel, snapped it out and spread it with surprising delicacy over Stella’s broken head.
I looked at the sand. Hot dry sand takes no tracks. The sand spills loosely into any depression. A bare foot makes a depression indistinguishable from that made by a shod foot. I searched the water, far out, looking for a head. I looked north along the deserted beach, and south to the headland. The wide beach was empty. Terns dipped and laughed.
“Where’d she stand?” Matthews asked me.
I stood where Linda had stood. With my towel across Stella’s face, I could bear to look at her. It was a dark maroon towel. I remembered when Linda had bought the set. They had been on sale. I saw a small white diamond scar on Stella’s slack knee. The body bears the marks of life. A wound from skating, or a bold venture in a playground swing. Tears and comfortings, and a scab to go almost too tritely with the braces on her teeth. I tore my mind away from such imaginings.
Matthews squatted beside the cartridge case which had been ejected after Linda had shot Stella. He regarded it somberly, sighed and stood up and spat again.
“I’ll go look in the cottages,” I said.
“We’ll both go.” Now there were eight people standing around. I had not seen the other two arrive. Matthews bullied them back and then said, “You, Fletch.” A fat man in torn khaki pants nodded. “Keep ’em all back, will you? Don’t let ’em stomp around none.”
We went up to the cottages. Another car was stopping. The people got out and glanced at us and then hurried down to the beach. We went in our cottage first. It was empty. It felt empty. Our footsteps were loud. We looked in the other one. It was just as empty. We went in back and looked at the dock.
“What does Dooley get a month for these, this time of year?” he asked.
“A hundred and fifty apiece.”
“Hmmm,” he said softly. “You all friends to these Jeffries long?”
“About a year.”
“Drive down together?”
“My wife and I drove. The Jeffries flew down. Got here two days after we did.”
“Who owns the weapon?”
“Jeffries did.”
“Bring that on the plane?”
“No. We brought their bulky stuff down in the car. It’s his car, actually. He was going to drive it back and we were going to fly, leaving Saturday.”
“Sort of changes all your plans.”
“Yes,” I said. “It does.”
“Know why she up and shot them?”
“I haven’t any idea. She’s sick, I think.”
“Any medical history of being sick like that?”
“No. None. But I guess nearly anybody can go off the deep end.”
“We better get back on the beach before somebody gets the idea of looking under that towel.”
I counted fifteen people on the beach. Two small boys had lost interest. They were up the beach, excavating a sand crab.
Matthews herded the others back. He sat tirelessly on his heels, quite near the body. He had picked up a small white shell. He flipped it up and caught it, flipped it up and caught it.
“I’ll walk on down the beach and look,” I said. “You stay right here. Sheriff should be here by now.” Sheriff Vernon was a sick-looking man. He was heavy, short of breath, and his face was sweaty gray. Four men followed him, two of them in the uniform of the county road patrol. He shouldered through the crowd, turned on them and said, “Back!”
They moved back a few feet. “Back to the road,” he said. “All the way. All of you. Whoever belongs to those kids, get them back too.” His voice was like a whip. The spectators moved back sullenly, but they moved back all the way. They stood on the high mound this side of the road, outlined against the sky, watching us.
“Doc show yet?” he asked Matthews.
“Not yet.”
Vernon grunted as he stooped and lifted a corner of the towel. He looked for long seconds and dropped it again. He straightened up, glanced at me and said to Matthews, “Well?”
“This here man is named Paul Cowley. He and his wife was taking their vacation together with the Jeffries in those two cottages Dooley built. He says his wife...”
I stopped listening. I looked to the north again, and then to the south. As I looked to the south I saw two small figures in the distance come around the headland, walking toward us, walking side by side, a man and a woman.
“Somebody coming now,” Matthews said.
We all looked toward the two figures. They both began to hurry toward us. I recognized Jeff and Linda. Jeff carried a fishing rod. He began to run toward us, outdistancing Linda. I stared at him incredulously. He slowed down as he came up to the group, his face harsh with strain.