The Impetuous Mistress. George Harmon Coxe
been highly recommended by two of Rick’s friends, and he had been impressed by the man who had directed the camp for more than twenty years and by the number of college boy counselors who worked there each summer.
The values that Rick wanted his son to know were taught here in a simple and direct way and each camper had work to do. His allowance was limited and parental visits were discouraged except on Sundays; punishment, when necessary, took the form of additional chores and loss of privileges. His son had thrived on such a regime and Rick remembered the last Sunday that he had driven up there with Nancy, who had come bearing a gift.
When he had thanked her, Ricky had eyed the candy box curiously and then, glancing up, had asked if he could open it now.
“Of course,” Nancy said, and they watched him loosen the ribbon and lift the lid to find three layers of brownies neatly fitted inside.
“Boy,” he said joyously. “Brownies. Homemade, too.”
“Sure they’re homemade,” Rick said.
Then, as though aware of his obligations, Ricky extended the box. “Will you have one, Nancy?” he said, remembering that she had asked him to call her by her first name.
Nancy said no, that they were for him, and Rick, very proud now but finding a small lump in his throat, rumpled his son’s blond hair.
“Just be sure you share them with your tentmates.”
“Oh, sure, Dad,” the boy had said. “All the guys do.”
Rick’s thoughts jerked back to his problem when he heard Nancy’s voice. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I wasn’t listening.”
“I—I was wondering if you’d like me to tell him. I could get the day off and drive up there—”
“No,” Rick said. “I want to talk to him but he may be off somewhere. They’re always having projects of some kind up there.” He drove another silent mile and said: “I think I’ll talk to Pop Wayne, the camp director, first. He understands a boy’s mind better than I do and Ricky thinks he’s the greatest guy in the world.”
“Next to you.”
“And I can see what Pop says and then fix it so I can call back again and talk to Ricky.” He hesitated, his thoughts depressed and uncertain. “Right now I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t know when the funeral will be or what Mr. Brainard wants to do or whether I should tell Ricky to come or tell him to stay.”
“Couldn’t you—well, sort of leave it up to Ricky? He’s nearly thirteen.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“You can probably sense how he feels about it when you talk to him. It might be kinder to let him remember his mother the way he last saw her but I don’t think I’d be insistent no matter what he decides.”
They fell silent after that and it was not until they were on the outskirts of the city that he spoke of the other matter which could no longer be ignored.
“I’ve got to have help, Nancy.”
“About Ricky?”
“About me. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Unless the police find out who killed Frieda I may have to stand trial for murder.”
“I don’t believe it. How can—”
“And even if I don’t,” he said, ignoring the outburst, “I’ll always be under suspicion. Suppose they don’t try me? Suppose they don’t try anybody? The fact is, somebody did kill her. If this thing isn’t cleared up Brainard is going to keep on thinking I did it and got away with it. I certainly had good motives. People are going to keep wondering. How can Ricky be sure when he grows up? How would you like to be the wife of a guy whose first wife died in an unsolved murder?”
“But I know you didn’t do it.”
She hesitated, and a sidwise glance told him that the thought had frightened her.
“Your friends will know you couldn’t have done it,” she said, but her argument was more stubborn than convincing.
“We’ll go to parties and even if people aren’t wondering they’ll remember what happened. We’ll never know for sure what they’re thinking and it’ll always be there beneath the surface. And that’ll be the best that can happen. I may even be in jail tomorrow and—”
“Please, Rick,” she cried. “Don’t talk like that.”
“But it’s true.” He rapped the wheel with the heel of his hand. “So long as the police figure me as the prime suspect they’re bound to try to clinch the case. Let’s not kid about it. I’ve got to get something working on my side while I’ve still got time.”
She leaned back in the seat, shoulders slumping and her hands limp in her lap. After a while she said:
“Do you know anyone you can talk to?”
“I’ll call Neil Tyler, my lawyer, first and see what he says. I might as well get him prepared. Maybe he can recommend a good private investigator.”
“All right,” she said quietly. “And I can get time off from my job if there’s any way I can help.”
He put his hand on her knee and squeezed gently. “That’s better,” he said, and with the words, felt a little better himself.
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