Going to sleep the afternoon away?
“Be too late for a swim soon,” Wilma said. She got up and went over and tickled Joel's ear with her big toe. “Rise and shine, sleepy-head. It's nearly four.”
Joel sat up, yawning. “Wish I'd put some oil on myself. Scotch and the sun—best sleep pill ever invented.”
Matt said softly but clearly, “You've been snoring for the last three quarters of an hour. I could hardly finish this article for the racket.”
“Now, Matt, I really don't snore.”
“Yes, you do.” Matt reached over and stuck his wrist in Joel's red face. “Remember when you asked me the time before and I showed you the watch and you saw it was only 2:45? Well, now it's 3:30 and man, you should have the appetite of a lumber jack because you've been sawing logs and making a hell of a racket all that time.”
“Prof. Anthony and his corny lectures on the fine art of snoring,” Wilma said. “Frankly, if Joel does snore he does it artistically, like he does everything else.”
“Thank you, my good wifey,” Joel said. “Fran have any hick?”
“Why, I didn't hear her return,” Matt said. “Surprising, too, she usually doesn't have patience for more than an hour's fishing.” Matt rubbed his eyes. “I read a lot, listening to Joel snoring. Rather interesting article on Africa. Read it, Joel, you might try a serious kids book—plight of two half-colored kids in Capetown.” Matt shadow-boxed his way over to the house, called for May. When she appeared— an apron over her shorts—he asked, “Has Fran come back yet?”
“No. I haven't seen her.”
“Would you mind going down to the beach and if she's within shouting distance, tell her we're ready to go swimming,” Matt said, thinking: It should take her about three minutes to reach the dock.
He glanced at his watch as he returned to the Hunters. Exactly three minutes and eight seconds later they all heard May scream.
Matt was dictating in his den when the village cop knocked on the door. He'd had several good hookers and while Matt wasn't high, his nerves were relaxed. To his surprise— and admiration—he had been able to get into the story he was working on and had actually done a dozen pages.
Matt stood in the doorway and nodded at the local cop, said, “Hello, Ted,” and glanced at the thickset man standing behind the young policeman. The dumpy-looking man was wearing a cheap and badly fitting summer suit. The coconut straw hat—still on his head—was stained with sweat and other things. The plain sports shirt struggled to circle the bull neck. The man looked like a barrel of lard to most people, but Matt, who had gone in for weight lifting and had studied muscles, knew the man was tremendously strong.
With a mild note of apology in his voice, Ted said, “Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Anthony. Ah... this here is Detective Walter Kolcicki, from the D.A.'s office in the county seat.”
“Not disturbing me at all. How do you do, Detective Kolcicki,” Matt held out his hand. Kolcicki's hand weighed a ton.
“Let's sit down. I got some routine questions.” The detective's voice was low, almost bored.
“Of course,” Matt said, amused by the round stupid face. He walked to his desk and pulled up two chairs. “I was in the midst of some work. I not only have a deadline to meet, but I find work helps take my mind off the tragedy.”
Kolcicki sat down beside the desk, nodded at Ted who had remained in the doorway. As Ted started to close the door, from the outside, Matt called out, “Ask May to give you some imported beer I have.”
Matt sat down and tried to smile. Kolcicki stared at Matt, his eyes large and emotionless. Matt asked, “Have you ever read any of my books?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I'm anxious to cooperate in every way.”
Kolcicki pushed his hat back on his head, said nothing.
“You may be interested in knowing I have worked with the New York City Police Department, and with the D.A's office in Los Angeles. In my work I...”
“Did you threaten to kill your wife this afternoon?” Kolcicki's voice was hard and blunt.
Mart's heart began to race as he held out his hands, shrugged. “No. Not really.”
“These other people, the Hunters, they say you did.”
“Oh I said it, you know, we had a little fuss. Words that have no real... hell, man, you call somebody a bastard without meaning it.”
“I never say it unless I mean it. You bastard, why did you kill her?”
Matt nearly jumped out of his chair. He fought to control his voice as he asked, “Do you realize what you're saying?”
“Yeah.”
“Now see here, while I understand you have a job to do, I've been through a great deal today and... Look, there's nothing to be gained by bluffing. I talked to the police and the medical examiner, and both their reports clearly state my wife's death was an accident. Obviously while fishing she—”
Detective Kolcicki said a common four letter word, one that Matt had used hundreds of times in his books, yet it never sounded as harsh and brutal as when it came from the detective's fat mouth.
Matt began to sweat and the pounding of his heart shook his whole body. He had read and written a great deal about the third degree methods of the police, undoubtedly exaggerating it in his mind, and had a deadly fear of such torture. There was a case where the police drilled a suspect's teeth until... Matt ran a hand over his face, forced
