Turret Room Read online

  “The truth is,” she cried, “Wendy always did get away with murder!”

  “Ssh.” His eyes had winced.

  “Did you hear something?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. I guess not.” He had lowered his head. “Look, Edie, I’m going out there now and surrender to the guard in front. It’s the best thing and the best time.”

  “Don’t. Don’t,” she cried. “I’m scared.”

  He seemed sorry to hear this. “Ah, no. Why?”

  “How do I know he won’t shoot you down?” she chattered. She did not want him to give up. She did not want him to be beaten. By Wendy.

  “Would you like to go first, then?” he suggested. “I guess he wouldn’t shoot you down … not in that outfit.” He was smiling.

  “I don’t want you to do it at all,” she insisted. “Not yet. Maybe there’ll be a better way. If your Dr. Wesley would only come. He’d stand up to them. At least, he wouldn’t let them hurt you.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if they hurt me,” Harold said.

  “Yes, it would.” She saw that he swayed. “Do you feel dizzy still?” She reached up to touch his forehead. It felt dry and hot, but not as hot as it had been. He was shivering.

  “I guess you don’t see why,” he said.

  “Come. Sit,” she pleaded. “You shouldn’t be chilled. Tell me.” She thought, I am doing wrong not to get him to a doctor. But oh, not a prison doctor.

  He moved around the sofa, limping, and sat down beside her. As she held up the quilt to let him sit, and tucked it back over his lower body, she thought, I could hide him, right where he is, if anybody comes. I don’t want him to go out there and have the guards whistling and shouting and calling the police. I don’t want him pushed around. Or headlines in the papers, “berserk ex-husband.” He’s had enough.

  “It’s bad,” he said seriously. “Listen, I said I was scared of Wendy. But that’s not quite it. Oh listen, Edie”—she felt him trembling—”I loved her. I was crazy about her. And she hurt me worse than anybody ever … The thing is, now I’d like to hurt her. Oh, I sure would. So, see, she’s still there between me and … and being all straightened around. I hate her and I love her, so much … I don’t think I’d dare to meet her, even. I would like to beat her, Edie, until she notices that I’m alive. And that’s the truth that I’m afraid of.”

  “I know it’s hard. I know,” cried Edie instantly. “But don’t let her—”

  “Look, I’m not a vegetable,” he burst, “and she’s telling a lie again, and it makes me plenty mad. But I don’t want to hit her, either. So you see, I’d better go.”

  To Edie, in the moment, the whole situation became even more explosively dangerous than she had, until now, believed it to be. She knew she ought never to have hidden Harold Page in the turret room. She ought to have made him go away, the moment she had realized who he was. Perhaps she ought never to have interfered at all, but called the police herself. Been the good citizen. Washed her hands. No one would have blamed her. She seemed, instead, to have made herself judge and jury, although she was prejudiced, and had insufficient evidence, and took risks. The fact that the boy was aware of his present impulse toward violence did not deny that it was there.

  Edie didn’t yet believe that he had beaten anyone, nor did she quite believe that he ever would. But there had been violence in this house, and now she could feel the threat of future violence to be hanging most dangerously over it. Everyone seemed to have been swinging far out, along an exaggeration of his own tendencies. Something was going to crash; something would be smashed and hurt.

  “You don’t have to meet Wendy,” she said to him. “I won’t let you meet her. I only want to get you completely out of all this miserable …”

  The still air seemed to eddy. “Don’t come in, if you don’t want to.” Wendy’s living voice rang with hostility.

  The boy turned his whole body; a look of terror was on his face. His hand clawed at the back of the sofa and slipped. With a complete swinging out of her own emotions, at the first sound of Wendy’s voice, Edie pushed at him. He slid to his knees on the floor. His head burrowed into the sofa seat, as she pushed it down. She had time to whisper ruthlessly, “Don’t let me be caught like this.” This was her wits in service to the surging of her will. Use anything, use his pity, to made him hide, so that Edie Thompson could snatch, from Wendy Whitman, her prey.

  She took the edge of the quilt in her right hand and swung her arm. The lightweight quilt billowed and settled. He was hidden. She could feel the weight of his arm over her folded knees. She folded her own body, in order to scrunch down and rest her head below the top of the sofa-back.

  She heard Ronnie Mungo’s mocking voice. “Don’t know when I’ve heard a more gracious invitation.”

  She heard the front door thud shut. She heard Wendy’s golden heels, tapping on the tile. She heard her own blood in her ears.

  It was warm and safe, where Harold was hidden. He had a wonderful sense of comfort and safety. He knew that he was in a place where he did not have to do anything at all. He also knew where he was, the way Dr. Wesley would say it.

  “Why can’t we?” Wendy’s mood was stubborn. “That’s what you haven’t explained.”

  Edie kept her head low. She couldn’t see them. But they were in the room.

  Ron said, “It may be a hell of a long drive, but not that long. If we start out now, we arrive too damn early in the morning.” His patience was on the edge of indifference. “And excuse me, my sunshine, but getting married in the first faint dawn—”

  “Oh, stop clowning,” Wendy snapped.

  “Why rush into this, then?” His voice became mild and colorless. “It wouldn’t ‘look well,’ would it?”

  “Another day, another bride?” Wendy was sharp.

  “I didn’t say that. If you want a rough translation, why offend your wealthy grandmother? She isn’t willing all the money to your cousin, is she?”

  Neither of them spoke, for a moment, and Edie was forced to breathe. Then Wendy said, “But Ronnie …” in such a tone as to make Edie swallow hard. If there was going to be any canoodling, all of Edie’s essentially puritanical soul writhed at the thought of eavesdropping.

  “Hey,” she croaked, “I’m sorry, but I’m here.”

  She heard a harsh rustling and then Wendy’s furious face was looking down at her. “What are you doing there?”

  “I was trying to sleep. Excuse it, please.” Edie tried to be flip.

  Ron spoke, behind her. “What have we here, an honest woman? Didn’t care to listen in on two such turtle doves?” Was he laughing? Edie rolled her eyes up and saw his face, upside down. “What’s the matter, Edie, honey? Scared of the bogeyman?”

  “Well, you can just get yourself up and trot yourself to your bed.” Wendy was giving orders.

  “No,” said Edie, faintly.

  “NO!” It was a shriek.

  So Edie unfolded her body enough to sit higher, keeping a tight clutch on the quilt. She felt very steady and not much afraid. You never heard that word before, she thought, did you, little cousin? To herself she said, with resolution and despair, No, I will not expose him and humiliate him and give him up, until I absolutely have to. I will probably have to. But not this minute. Or the next.

  The telephone rang.

  Edie said, clearly and sharply, “But if I get up and go to my room, then I’ll crack my door and listen to everything you say or do and take down notes.” It was childish, but Wendy was childish. Edie was ready to fight with Wendy, childishly, physically, any way that seemed necessary. She thought, Even if I lose, Ron wouldn’t hurt him. She thought, This can’t last many more seconds, but I’ll make it last as long as I can. She found herself nourishing a little hope that Ronnie Mungo would see, would help, if Wendy went into a real tantrum.

  The phone rang again. “She’s got a nice little blackmailing technique there,” drawled Ron, sounding amused. “I’m taking notes, sunshine. Go on, answer
the phone.”

  As the phone rang for the third time, the ring choked off.

  Edie was blinking with surprise. She wiggled her stiff body even higher and twisted to see where they were. Wendy had gone to the phone and stood with the instrument in her hand, although evidently too angry to speak into it. Ron was sauntering toward a chair, and as Edie twisted far enough around to see him plain, he grinned at her and perched on the chair arm. Does he know? she thought. And if so, is he helping me?

  “By the way,” he said, as benign as an old gentleman of Victoria’s day, “you look very pretty.”

  Edie felt terrified. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Not I.” His smile crinkled.

  Did he think he was pleasing her? Her hands still tight on the quilt, Edie bowed her head. “Don’t tease me,” she begged, and thought to herself, But he is teasing Wendy, of course.

  Oh, Lord, get us out of this? Her knees had shifted. She wondered briefly whether the boy was there. He was completely hidden. It was as if he existed only in her imagination.

  Wendy said into the phone, “Yes?… Oh yes, Doctor.”

  Doctor! Well, there it goes, thought Edie. It must be Dr. Wesley, calling back, too soon. She would have to move; she would have to speak to him. She had a prevision of the quilt, rising uncannily, and then falling away from the boy, and people screaming.

  Wendy said, “Oh yes, this is her stepdaughter … No, I think he’s …” She took the instrument from her ear and said to Edie, “Where is Daddy?”

  Edie said, “Asleep, I imagine. He said he’d take his phone off.”

  Question and answer were commonplace. They were spoken in an, intermission, commonplace, outside of fear, outside of rage, outside of stratagem, outside of war.

  Wendy purred into the phone. “He is asleep. Must I disturb him?… Oh, I see … Yes, I will … Thank you, Doctor”

  She hung up and hugged her short white wrap. Her yellow skirt fluttered. Edie had a sudden hope.

  “Anything …?” she cried.

  “Myra’s scheduled for surgery at six A.M. instead of seven. He just wanted to let us know.” Wendy was sullen.

  Ron said, “Want me to wake your father?”

  “Oh, why?” said Wendy. “No use to go down there now.”

  “Was she conscious?” said Edie. “Did she speak?” This was her hope. Maybe the whole thing was over!

  “How can she speak,” said Wendy, furiously, “until they fix whatever’s the matter with her? Edie, if you don’t begin to mind your own business, and not everybody else’s, I’ll tell Daddy to throw you out. And he will, too.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” murmured Edie, scrunching down.

  “Go to bed.”

  “Don’t you tell me what to do, Wendy, please.” Another prevision: Wendy peeling the quilt away and the boy, exposed, cowering. Helpless. Crying salt tears. No.

  But Ron, who was back of her head and unseen now, said, “Why don’t you go to bed, Wendy, and sleep that off?” His voice was flat.

  “Sleep what off?”

  “Whatever foul mood you’re in. I’m not driving to Mexico with it, I’ll tell you. Matter of fact, I’m going to bed.”

  Edie could see the tea-colored eyes narrowing. “Alone?” said Wendy, nastily.

  Ron said, “It could be.” Unperturbed.

  He must be going. Wendy was being drawn away. Edie found that her head could turn. They were close to the steps to the foyer. Her hands relaxed on the quilt, and dared to lift it, just a little. If he was there, could he breathe? He was there. Her fingers touched his cheek. He was breathing, quietly. She could feel his breath on her hand. She pressed two fingers into his cheek, and tried to send a silent message. Be still. Wait.

  And strained to hear what they were saying.

  “Well? Are we getting our blood tests tomorrow, or are we not?” Stormy.

  “Just in case, eh?” Ron’s voice was its normal faintly mocking drawl. “Why not, then?”

  “So, in three days? Or never?” Wendy seemed to be threatening. There was a brief silence.

  Then Rod said, “Or sooner? You can drive to Mexico by daylight, you know. In a sunnier frame of mind. Tomorrow?”

  “If you are here early. And I mean early.” Still threatening.

  “And if not?”

  Edie could hear no answer.

  “Then never, eh?” he said, with light acceptance. “Right. I’ll sleep on it.” His voice became louder. “Good night, Cousin Edie. I’m sorry if I teased you.”

  “Sleep well,” said Wendy grimly.

  He was gone and Edie was trembling. Who would help her, now, to cope with Wendy? The guard, she thought. I can always call for him. But maybe … Maybe. “Good night, Wendy,” she said on a yawn, with good hope.

  Let Wendy go up to her own nest. Let the boy go back to his safe prison. Let everything hold, simply hold, the way things were.

  Chapter Seven

  RONNIE MUNGO’S headlights illuminated the figure of Mrs. Beck, just as she was turning into the path that led around the house. She knew who it was; Wendy was in, then. She tried to walk a little faster.

  The moon was up. The flagstone path was clear. The night air was pleasantly cool and her dark coat was comfortable. She said, “Good evening,” to the first guard. To the second guard, at the dining room corner where she must turn, she said something about a double feature being much too long. She noted, with satisfaction, the relaxed friendliness of their responses. Evidently, there had been no excitement here. They had seen no madman.

  She took from her handbag the back door key and the paper napkin which she meant to destroy. She had chosen to bring it with her, all the way home, because across the corner was printed the Whitman name. She had every right to have it. And all was well, now.

  Charles Tyler said to his wife, “Could be, he suicided. That’s where the ‘berserk’ ones are usually headed.” Heading for oblivion, he was thinking. They don’t believe in heaven or in hell. What do they care how many innocent souls get hurt on their way? People who jump off buildings, and never mind what decent citizen is minding his business on the street below. Or what cop has to risk his life, either. People who turn on the gas and blow out the wall, and never mind who might be living his inoffensive life on the other side of the wall. Kooks. Augh … He stretched in anger.

  There used to be the good old days in crime, he mused. Criminals who went professionally about their business, with understandable motives. They wanted money that they hadn’t earned in the common market. So, they’d have a project. Took intelligence, of a kind. But not so much anymore. Now it was the kooks, infesting the world. And breeding like maggots. Violence for violence’s sake. For no gain, all loss. Sometimes he sure felt he’d like to give them violence, but he knew that was old-fashioned and useless. He could be as sorry for some poor kook as anybody else—but if one of them broke the law, then he broke the law. If that wasn’t clear, then Charles Tyler didn’t know where he was.

  “Guess I’m getting old,” he mumbled.

  His wife patted him. She herself had never liked his sister Myra, a cold and greedy little package if Josie Tyler had ever seen one. It didn’t matter what Josie felt, but she suspected it mattered that Charles had never much liked his sister, either. He’d be feeling guilty for it now.

  Josie said, “You’ll get him.”

  “Whatever that’ll mean,” he grumbled.

  “That means you’ll get him, because you are good, and you will,” said Josie loyally, and thought, Poor Charles. Poor Charles. “Go to sleep,” she soothed.

  Two police cars kept circling the neighborhood of the Whitman house, using spotlights on the shrubbery.

  Inside, old Mrs. Whitman was asleep and snoring, daintily. Her son, Ted, was having a dream.

  In the big room, Wendy Whitman was raging at her cousin.

  “What do you mean by hanging around down here? Were you going to say a few well-chosen words against this marriage? Or maybe you thought
you’d wait, for Ronnie to see how ‘pretty’ you look, in bed! Too old for me, is he? But just right for you? Is that it? You keep away from Ronnie Mungo.”

  Edie sat up and wiggled cautiously out from under the quilt. Her feet hit the floor and she stood up and moved toward the fireplace. Wendy turned and Wendy followed. Edie knew, now, that if only the boy kept quiet he was safe. It would cross nobody’s mind that he could possibly be where he was. But she was afraid that Wendy might snatch at the quilt, Wendy might even launch herself at Edie, to scratch and bite. Wendy was in a towering rage.

  “I’d be very glad to let Ronnie Mungo alone,” Edie said, rather primly.

  “I’m going to marry him,” cried Wendy. She wasn’t pretty, now. She was quite frighteningly ugly. “Nobody’s going to stop me.”

  Berserk? thought Edie. She remembered that she could always yell for the guard to come. She thought she would prod, she would attack, she would go on the offensive. Wendy was in a fit state to say too much.

  “Tomorrow?” drawled Edie. “What is the big hurry?”

  “Cousin Edie, remember what I said.…” Was Wendy struggling to control herself?

  “So Myra tried to stop you last night?” said Edie. “What well-chosen words did she say? And what did you do about it?”

  Wendy was visibly trembling. But she suddenly wrenched her body around as if she spun on the tip of one toe, and ran for the stairs. “Who listens to Myra?” she said, gutturally. “Or you? Or anybody so stupid?”

  Wendy was going to run upstairs to her own room and it was best that she go. Yet, in the moment, Edie felt that she had failed and that she must try again. She had forgotten where the boy was. But she remembered the boy.

  “Wendy.” She stepped close to the stairs and looked up. “If you are running off tomorrow, won’t you at least, before you go, admit that you might not have seen Harold Page?”

  “Oh, what’s the matter with you now?” wailed Wendy.

  “Don’t you know there isn’t really any other evidence against him?” Then Edie could have eaten her words. What was she doing, trying to reason? With this enemy?”