“Did you do the shopping, too?”
“I did.”
“Did you see Mr. Anthony drink much?”
“I saw him take a drink only now and then, especially when guests were drinking.”
“Miss Fitzgerald, you have stated that you often heard the Anthonys argue. Do you mean Mrs. Anthony nagged him?”
“Yes.”
“Over what?”
“Over everything. Money, his drinking and his swimming —not watching his heart. She had a sharp tongue.”
Jackson stopped his walking. “Did you say she had a sharp tongue?”
“I did.”
Wagner seemed undecided whether to object or not, let it go.
“What does a sharp tongue mean, Miss Fitzgerald?”
“Well, she was not gentle in her comments, she was a blunt woman.”
Jackson solemnly nodded, as if in agreement that this was a horror. Then he asked, “Did Mr. Anthony use his house for both a home and an office?”
“He wrote every day.”
“In the house?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have any other office, any other place where he worked?”
“Not that I know of. Every day he went to his den and worked.”
“Would you say Mrs. Anthony nagged him every day, every other day, or every week?”
“Oh, I'd say every day.”
Jackson said that would be all. Wagner stood up and asked, “Miss Fitzgerald, did Mr. Anthony nag his wife every day, too?”
“Well... it takes two to tango,” May said to faint laughter in the courtroom.
When May stepped out of the witness box the judge announced the court was recessed for lunch. I waited for the others to come out. I shook hands with Brown and asked how things were. He said, “I have a good job as a mathematician with a manufacturer out West—non-defense production. At least I had it before the trial started.”
“Have lunch with me,” I said, keeping an eye out for the Hunters.
“No, I think it best I duck reporters and people.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I haven't been able to locate a room yet. Most places are filled.
“I'm at the motel up on the hill. Twin beds in the room if you want one.”
“Young man, I keep telling you it's risky to be seen with me if—”
“Nonsense, Hank.”
“Thank you for the kind offer. I may take it. I'll see you later, Norman.”
Joel came out with May and Wilma. Joel said, “Come with as, I need a drink something awful.”
I nodded at the women and we headed for a restaurant across the street. A photographer begged us—or rather Joel and May—to pose for a picture but Joel refused, practically ran across the street and into the restaurant. Wilma squeezed my arm, asked, “I thought you were going to call us?”
“I did one Saturday afternoon, but no answer,” I lied. “We've been busy—fixing up a house in the country. Soon as it's presentable, I intend to ask you and Joel up.”
“Careful, you know what happened the last time we were house guests.”
We found a corner table and several people stared at us. We ordered cocktails and lunch. Joel said bitterly, “Oh, that Wagner, that cool sonofabitch, why did he have to make me the star witness?”
“Well, you should have stood up to him instead of acting so mealy-mouthed,” Wilma said.
“Oh, that would have been dandy, get me reams of publicity, all lousy! 'Joel Hunter, writer of juveniles, balks D.A.' The libraries would love
Wilma reached across the table and patted his hand, a motherly gesture. “Honey, you did fine. Say, isn't that Clair an odd one? What a homely face, and so attractive.”
“Norm, you know about these things, will this hurt my sales?”
“I hardly think so. You know the old saw: nothing as old as yesterday's headlines.”
“You were only a witness, not involved,” May said.
