“Son of a gun,” I said. “Thank you.”
She hung up. Susan looked at me and raised her eyebrows.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just a confirmation on the cause of death. I asked Healy to let me know, and he did. I didn’t think he would.”
“Who’s Healy?” she asked.
“State cop.”
I looked across the kitchen and was suddenly aware that I didn’t know where Marge Bartlett was. “Where’d Marge Bartlett go?” I said to Susan.
“I don’t know. Just a minute ago she was over there talking to a fat guy with a mustache.”
I walked through the kitchen to the dining room. And on into the living room. No sign. I felt the first small tug of anxiety in my stomach. Atta boy, lose your goddamned assignment in her own house. On either side of the fireplace in the living room were French doors, thinly curtained. One was slightly ajar, and I walked toward it. Outside I heard someone say in a half scream, “Don’t, don’t.” The little tug in my solar plexus darted up to my throat, and I jumped through the door. I was on a screened porch that ran the whole side of the house. In the dim light I could see a man and a woman struggling. The man had his back to me, but I could see the woman’s face across his shoulder, white in the dimness. It was Marge Bartlett. She wrenched away from him as I came onto the porch. I took one step with my left foot, planted it, turned sideways, and drove my right foot into the small of the man’s back. He said, “Ungh,” and went headfirst through the screen and into a mass of forsythia. I went after him. Marge Bartlett was screaming.
The man was sluggishly trying to get out of the forsythia. I got his right arm bent up behind him and my left hand clamped under his chin and dragged him back on the porch.
He was protesting, but not coherently. The porch light snapped on. People were crowding out on the porch. The guy I had hold of was Vaughn, the fat man with the crew cut and the big mustache who had been one of the first to arrive.
“Goddamned tease,” he was yelling now. “She got me out here; I didn’t do anything. Goddamned stinking tease.
Get you hot and then scream when you touch her. Bastard.
Bitch.” There were scratches on his face where he went through the screen. There was lipstick on his face too. I looked at Marge Bartlett; her lipstick was smudged. The deep V-neck of her blouse was torn, and some of a black longline bra showed.
“Let him go, Spenser. Are you crazy? We were just talking. For God’s sake, haven’t you ever been to a party?
We were just talking, and I guess he got the wrong idea.
You know how men are.” Dimly visible through her makeup her face seemed to be red. “They always get the wrong idea. I was just surprised. I could have handled this.
Look at my screen. Look…” I let the man go.
“Goddamned liar: You got me out here and started playing goddamned kissy-face with me and rubbing your boobs up against me and when I get serious you start screaming and yelling and your goddamned gorilla comes charging out and hits me from behind.”
“Gorilla?” I said.
Susan Silverman had come up beside me. “Goddamned gorilla,” she said.
Chapter 16
It was two thirty-five in the morning. The noise was dense and tangible in the living room. Marge Bartlett had changed from a lavender to a yellow top, and the lavender trimmings she still wore glared more brusquely than ever. Vaughn, his back sore but unbroken, had collected his very silent and thin-mouthed wife and departed. The stereo was playing, and Billie Holiday’s remarkable voice cut through the coarse air. “… Papa may have, but God bless the child that’s got his own..
.” I edged a little closer so I could listen.
Two women, one red-haired, one brunette, both wearing pants suits a little tighter than they should be, were talking between me and the speakers.
“Do you think she’ll pass out?”
“Why should this party be different?”
“She’s got to be drunk out of her mind to be wearing that top with those earrings. She’d never do that sober. One thing you can always say for Margie, her taste in clothes is terrific.”
“It’s a little wild for her age.”
Across the room Susan was talking with a tall, thin dark-faced man with flaring nostrils that gave him the look of an Arabian horse. It was Dr. Croft. His hair was short and slicked straight back. His sideburns, thin and barbered, came to his jawline. He patted her hip. I squeezed past the fashion commentary and came up beside Susan and put my hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, Spenser,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Doctor Croft.” I said, “We met briefly. How are you, Doctor Croft?”
He smiled and put out his hand. “Ray,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
We shook hands. His fingers were very long and showed the marks of a manicurist. They thickened at the ends.
“What’s your specialty?” I asked.
