Gwen, in Green

In one respect, at least, Ocean County had not changed since 1937. Good people did not automatically suspect other good people of murder. Not only did those good people, among them Dr. Peter Braws, not suspect, but the possibility did not even enter their minds. Therefore, no autopsy was performed on the remains of Dr. Irving King, late of Port City, the psychiatrist who came to dinner and stayed to die.

Good people said, “How terrible it must have been for that nice young couple.”

Ruth Henley sat at King’s desk and wept. Her aged shoulders heaved for a few moments, and her faded eyes bled tears uncolored by mascara. Then she rose and began the task of destroying the doctor’s files. If, in the process of sorting and packing for the incinerator thirty-­five years of a man’s work, she felt that she was also preparing to burn away that many years of her own life, she gave no outward sign. It was only when she found a copy of the doctor’s will in his desk, with a short note attached, that she wept again. By that time the workmen hired to burn the records had gone. The note said, “Ruthie, go to Greece.” The contents of the will made it possible.

The funeral was attended by a large mass of people, among them the nice young couple in whose home the doctor had suffered his fatal cardiac seizure. Gwen cried. George wiped his eyes.

Then it was over.

There was only the daily mutter of the heavy equipment, the hooting of the dredge airhorns. There were only the few more weeks of pain to endure, and then, and then. . . .

And then Cowboy Gore, old, equipped with the mind of a boy, attracted by the search activity which had turned up two bodies in one hole, still another in a separate hole, stumbled upon the shallow water. Cowboy’s memory was a clouded uncertainty, but there were things which were strong. She was one of those things. He stood watching. She was dressed in one of those tiny bathing suits and it made Cowboy’s old body seem young again, and he whistled. It was automatic, that whistle. It was a one-­toned blast of sound which came from between his teeth and rang out over the pond to turn Gwen’s head and to attract the attention of George, reading on the balcony. Gwen looked, saw the hat, the old face, and was puzzled. She had told them, all of them, never, never to come to the house on the weekend. But then she was relieved, because she didn’t know the man who stood on the other side of the pond. He whistled again and waved. She turned and looked up at George.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

George put down his book and came down the stairs. When Cowboy saw him he bolted, crashing through the brush with all the grace and quietness of a stampeded elephant. George laughed. “Jesus, am I that frightening?”

“You don’t scare me at all,” Gwen said.

“I’ve been meaning to do something about that,” George said.

She held her breath. What did he mean?

“I saw tracks over there the other day.” He grinned. “I’m afraid, my shy and bashful wife, that our open-­air exhibitions may have had, at one time or more, an audience.”

“Oh, no,” she gasped.

It was a torrid and humid August afternoon, but he’d been putting on weight lately. He went in, dressed for the job in boots and work clothes, came out equipped with ax, saw, and determination.

“Don’t, George,” she said, following him toward the far side of the pond. “I like it that way. It’s so natural.”

“I’ll just clear away the close stuff, right next to the pond. Then the little bastards won’t have a place to hide.”

“George, please don’t?” He looked at her, concerned by the pleading tone. “Let’s just—”

“It needs to be done,” he said. “I’ve been intending to do it.”

“George—” What could she say? She couldn’t tell him it would hurt. She had already concluded that Dr. King’s visit had not been accidental or coincidental. It had followed too closely upon George’s last visit to Port City. So he was already half-­convinced that she needed professional help. To tell him the truth would, she knew, confirm his suspicion.

“I’ll need a brush stacker and burner,” George said. “Know anyone who’s interested in the job?”

“No,” she said curtly, leaving him and running toward the house.