Mrs. Holbrook closed the door behind her and bolted it. “I suspect Gretchen of being one of the main stems of the school grapevine. By dinnertime everyone in the school will know that Cleo’s brother was in my office and that he broke the no-smoking rule.”
“She doesn’t know I’m Cleo’s brother.”
“That’s what you think. There are very few secrets around here. It’s often wise to act as if every room was bugged.” Though the smell of smoke was making her slightly ill, she closed the three windows that were open, then went back and sat at her desk, her hands folded in front of her. “Did the directors reach a conclusion?”
“Yes. In the best interest of the school, you are to ask Roger Lennard for his immediate resignation.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“It might be simpler than you think.”
“Indeed?”
“He won’t be surprised, believe me. He’s expecting it. I talked to him late this morning. He refused to admit he’d done anything wrong. In fact, he wouldn’t even tell me where Cleo is. He lied, said he didn’t know. I tried friendly persuasion to get the truth out of him. When that didn’t work I hit him. He still wouldn’t drop his injured innocence act, so I hit him again. He didn’t even have guts enough to fight back.”
“Roger didn’t believe in violence.”
“Well, maybe he does now.” But the satisfaction in his voice had undertones of guilt. “I haven’t hit anyone since I was a kid.”
“Really? I hope you didn’t hurt your hand. I notice you’ve been keeping it in your pocket. Let me see.”
He took his left hand out of his pocket and she saw with pleasure it was almost as swollen and discolored as Roger’s face.
She feigned surprise. “My goodness. Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“You should have this examined.”
“I haven’t time to see a doctor.”
“I didn’t mean a doctor. I meant the police.”
“Police? Are you telling me that little pipsqueak called the police because I hit him, after what he did to my sister, enticed her away from home, seduced her with promises—”
“No, that little pipsqueak didn’t call the police,” she said quietly. “I did.”
“You did? Why?”
“I was the one who found him dead. I phoned the police and then Aragon.”
For a few moments he was stunned and speechless. Then: “I didn’t hit him that hard. I swear I didn’t.”
“Don’t swear it to me. I have no jurisdiction.”
“It’s impossible to kill a man with your fist unless you’re a professional boxer.”
“Perhaps you missed your calling, Mr. Jasper.”
Deliberately, almost maliciously, she withheld the information about the pills.
“Another tenant heard you quarreling with Roger and saw you leave,” she said. “From his description and my own background knowledge I suspected it was you. But I didn’t tell the police. Perhaps I would have if I’d been absolutely sure.”
“Now that you’re sure, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I expect you to do it yourself. Just phone and inform them that you hit Roger twice with your fist because he intended to marry, or had already married, your sister. Does that sound to you like a good story?”
“Not when you put it like that, when you leave out all the details.”
“The details will come out later.”
“For God’s sake,” he said, “I never meant—”
“That’s irrelevant, isn’t it?” She took a certain pleasure in watching him suffer. “The policeman I talked to this afternoon was a Lieutenant Peterson. I asked him what if I’d come sooner, and he stopped me. He said his job was tough enough without the what-ifs. Well, mine is tough enough without the I-never-meants.”
“I went there only to reason with him. But he wouldn’t be reasonable.”
“If you’re setting out to hit all the people who aren’t reasonable, you’re going to be a very busy man, Mr. Jasper.”
“I didn’t intend to kill him.”
“Perhaps you didn’t,” she said. “He took some pills also. The actual cause of death won’t be known until after an autopsy.”
“Damn you, why didn’t you tell me about the pills sooner?”
“Because I don’t like bullies,” she said. “And Roger was my friend.”
11
Frieda spent the afternoon sorting through clothes and bric-a-brac and books to be donated to the Assistance League rummage sale. The clothing would be sent to the cleaners, the bric-a-brac washed or polished, the books dusted. She carefully avoided Cleo’s room and Ted’s. Ted’s would be half-empty and Cleo’s exactly the way she’d left it when she walked away with the dog.
The house was quiet and orderly without the two of them. Each hour came in a neat little package and piled up in corners unopened.
When Hilton arrived home for dinner she went downstairs to meet him.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I can tell time.”
“Oh, we’re in a mood, are we? You must have had a bad day.”
“It was — interesting.”
“That’s more than mine was.” She noticed his hand when he put his hat away in the hall closet. “What’s the matter with your hand?”
“I hurt it.”
“That’s obvious. Let me take a look at it.”
“Stop fussing. It doesn’t suit you. Is dinner ready?”
It was ready. Cook had left some time ago and Lisa, the college girl who did the serving, was waiting in the kitchen. Someone — the cook? Valencia? Lisa? — had removed one or two of the extension boards of the dining room table, so it was smaller and appeared less deserted.
“If you’re going to have difficulty handling a soup spoon with your right hand,” Frieda said, “we can skip that course and go on to the salad.”
“Get rid of the girl.”
“What do you mean, get rid of her? Fire her?”
“Tell her we won’t need her for tonight.”
“Why?”
“I have something important to discuss with you in private.”
“That sounds ominous. I don’t like it. You’re frightening me, Hilton.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Is it about Cleo?”
“It’s about me.”
Lisa came in wearing her usual uniform: skintight jeans and T-shirt partly covered by an apron. She carried two bowls of soup, hot consommé floating sprigs of parsley on lemon rafts.
Frieda spoke in the too-bright voice she used as a cover-up. “Lisa, we’ve decided to have dinner alone tonight. You’re free to leave.”
Lisa put the soup bowls on the table in a manner that clearly indicated her displeasure. “I don’t want to leave just yet. My boyfriend’s not picking me up until eight o’clock.”
“Where is he now?”
“The university library.”
“Suppose you go and meet him. I’ll give you five dollars for cab fare.”
“That might not cover it and I’m broke.”
“All right. Ten dollars.”
“I still think it’d be simpler if I just stayed and served dinner as usual. A cab might get caught in a traffic jam. Or Brent might finish his term paper early and we’d miss each other. I don’t see why I can’t sit quietly in the kitchen and watch television until Brent comes.”
“I don’t want to hear any television sounds coming out of the kitchen,” Jasper said. “And I don’t want any dining room sounds going into the kitchen. Have I spelled that out clearly enough for you?”
“Okay, okay. But I don’t like having my plans screwed up like this.”
“Here.” He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and shoved it at her. She stared at it a moment before accepting it. Then she folded it and tucked it into the rear pocket of her jeans. “I see you hurt your hand.”