Friends till the End (16 page)

“It’s not just that. It’s him and Daddy. They can’t seem to get along at all. Of course things were never great between them before, but now …”

“I take it your father’s not exactly the happy invalid.”

Isabel launched into a long tirade against her father. Richard had a right to be angry, she said. Daddy was being impossible. He was so demanding, so difficult. He was just a big baby …

Snooky listened silently, brushing the flies away from his head.

Finally Isabel paused in her invective and looked thoughtfully at the young man stretched out next to her.

“You know what, Snooky? You’re a good listener.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I mean it. It’s a rare trait in men.”

“Come on, Isabel. That can’t be true. Maya says I never listen to her about anything. She tells me that a lot, in fact.” He gazed absently over the lake. “I never hear her anymore.”

“More cake?” said Isabel. “There’s still some left.”

“No, not right now.” He got to his feet and brushed off the crumbs. “Let’s try the nature trail, okay?”

The afternoon passed quickly. After taking the trail encircling
the lake, they sat back down again on the blanket and talked quietly. Isabel dozed for a while, her head against Snooky’s shoulder. There was no sound except for the faint humming of a bumblebee. Snooky watched the rippled shadows of minnows darting back and forth in the water.

Finally, as the tree shadows lengthened over the lake, they reluctantly packed up the picnic basket and set off in the car. On the way home they were both rather subdued. Now and then Snooky stole a glance at the young woman next to him. Isabel’s face was calm and composed; her eyes glittered turquoise in the late afternoon light.

It was a long drive back to Ridgewood. When Snooky drove up in front of the Sloane house, Isabel gave him an odd sideways glance. “Thank you, Snooky. It’s been a lovely day.”

“Yes, hasn’t it?”

“We’ll have to do it again.”

“Okay, well, fine,” he mumbled, suddenly shy. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

She sat in the twilight, smiling at him, her blonde hair shining like a halo around her face. He did not say anything. Finally, sliding over on the seat, she linked her arms around his neck and kissed him.

After that she didn’t leave the car for a long time.…

Maya was in the kitchen when Snooky opened the front door and drifted down the hallway.

“Hello, little one,” she greeted him. “In here. Want some cocoa?”

“Okay.”

“I’m making some for Bernard. He gets crazy if he doesn’t have his hot chocolate at night.”

“Bernard is too weird.” Snooky sat down at the kitchen counter and smiled mysteriously to himself.

“What is it?” asked Maya with the wisdom born of experience.

“What is what?”

“What’s happened? You look funny.”

“What do you mean, funny?”

“I mean funny. Sort of googly-eyed and very pleased with yourself. Oh,
no
,” said Maya in alarm. “Not you and that—that
tramp
?”

Snooky was offended and said so in very definite terms. “She’s not a tramp. She’s a wonderful person and—”

“Don’t say it, Snookers. Please don’t say it.”

“What? She’s a wonderful person and I think I’m in love.”

He drifted away with his cup of cocoa.

“Oh,
damn
,” Maya said, and bore off Bernard’s cocoa to his study.

“Snooky’s in love,” she told him.

“What?” said Bernard. “With someone besides himself?”

“With Isabel.”

“Oh,
God.
”

They sat together miserably.

“It’s hard, being a parent,” said Maya.

It was late Saturday night and Freda was out drinking herself silly at a bar. She had always had a drinking problem—in her lucid moments she admitted that to herself—but ever since Laura had died she had been drinking uncontrollably. Morning, noon and night. She signaled to the bartender for more of the same and smiled at her companion, whose name, rather tediously, had turned out to be Freddie. It was a curse, these rhyming names—Eddie, Freddie, Teddy—how she longed for a good solid Larry or Frank.

However, “Freda and Freddie” sounded sort of cute together, she thought. She toyed with her drink and smiled at him.

“What did you say you do for a living?”

Freddie was a doctor. A doctor! That would make a change from the circus clowns and deep-sea fishermen she had been dating recently. Something solid. Something respectable. Her eyes glinted. How Heather and Ruth would talk!

Freda knew how her crowd—well, it wasn’t really
her
crowd, it was Laura’s crowd, and now frankly it wasn’t
either of theirs anymore—had felt about her assortment of boyfriends. Even Ruth, barely scraping by on Sam’s salary, had put on airs when confronted with someone whom she felt was beneath her class. Freda laughed silently to herself. Beneath her class! What a joke!

But a
doctor
, now …

It turned out that Freddie practiced internal medicine. He had a flourishing private practice, but he was lonely. He was divorced, with two kids, both teenagers, both difficult. Freda listened while his troubles began to unfold. That was her one redeeming trait; she had always been a good listener.

Now she nodded and drank and nodded some more and drank some more, while Freddie, his face flushed with self-pity, told her the story of his life. Becoming a doctor had not solved all his problems, as he had expected it would. He was vehement on this point. It
should
have solved all his problems, but it hadn’t, and now he was somewhat at a loss. His kids were both turning out to be real trouble, and they were in college at the same time and in addition he had to support his ex-wife, who showed no inclination to go out and get a job to support herself. Freddie felt that was unfair. He felt many things were unfair.…

The music was loud in the bar and some of his words were drowned out, but it didn’t really matter. Freda nodded sympathetically and ordered another drink. Before she could touch it, however, Freddie snatched it away from her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He was a nice man; she could see that in his eyes. “I’m a doctor. I think you’ve had enough.”

Freda looked down at the whiskey-and-soda she had ordered and thought,
But I wanted that drink
 …

And then froze suddenly as the memory came back to her complete in every detail—the memory that she had been trying to recall for so long now …

She was laughing over Eddie’s shoulder. Behind Eddie stood Walter, a whiskey-and-soda in his hand. As Freda watched, Laura came and snatched it away from him with a warning look, one of her famous
Don’t you give me any trouble
looks—

But not before—

Not before Freda saw who had put the poison in that drink
.…

“Freda?” It was her companion. His face was troubled. “You all right?”

“Yes.” She mumbled something, pushed herself off the barstool and said rather incoherently, “Don’t go—don’t go—I’ll be right back.”

She fled for the phone booth.

Naturally the phone would be out of order. She tried it impatiently, once, twice, jangling the hook, but it made no difference. Damn it! She swung the door open and pushed her way through the crowded bar toward the exit.

Once out in the street she glanced around quickly. There was a row of phone booths over on the other side.

She swung the glass door closed and forced the coin in. She dialed quickly, with trembling hands. She found she was shaking all over; trembling with the shock of discovery and the sudden nausea she felt.
She knew who had killed Laura
 …

The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” said Freda and suddenly, helplessly, began to cry. She sobbed for a few moments into the receiver; then flung herself against the side of the booth and wept uncontrollably.

“Who is this?” the voice on the phone was saying, “who is this?”

“It’s me,” she said venomously, through her tears; “Freda.”

“Freda? What is it? What’s the matter?”

Freda held the phone very close to her face, cupping her left hand around the receiver. She said quietly:

“
I saw you do it.
I saw you murder Laura. I was watching—I didn’t know I was until just now—I just realized—
you murderer
!”

There was silence on the other end.

Freda began to hiccup. She felt acutely nauseous.

“I saw—you do it—” she said between hiccups, “and I’m going to—make sure—everybody knows!”

She was shaking violently now.

“God damn you!”
she screamed into the phone.

“Freda—” the voice said in a conciliatory tone. She hung up and leaned against the booth, breathing deeply.

Nausea overwhelmed her and she staggered out into the bushes. There, with the helpless childish feeling this always gave her, she threw up everything she had consumed that evening. She thought this might make her feel better, but it didn’t. She was in shock.

And now she felt thirsty. Terribly thirsty.

She went back into the bar and, sitting down beside Freddie, proceeded with determination to drink herself silly.

Freddie brought her home around one o’clock in the morning. He had found her address in her wallet and, draping her over the front seat, he drove her home slowly and cautiously. In spite of his warning she had consumed far too much alcohol at the bar, and now she could barely stand up. She fell sound asleep in his car, her head lolling back, her bright flame-colored hair spilling onto his shoulder.

She managed to get out the house keys herself. Once safely in her own living room she collapsed on the sofa and went promptly to sleep. Freddie, who was in fact a nice man, made sure she was comfortable and shook his head over her for a bit. She seemed like a decent person, he thought. She certainly was a good listener. She had listened sympathetically to his stories right up until the time when she had passed out. Freddie didn’t meet very many good listeners in his life.

He shook his head one more time and let himself out, making sure the door locked securely behind him.

Freda awoke with a sense of panic. Where was she? What had happened—?

She fumbled for the light and turned it on.

Oh. Her living room. She must have gotten home, somehow. Yes. She had a vague memory of that nice man, Freddie, helping her through the door—

Good Lord, how her head hurt! And her stomach. She still felt nauseous. And confused …

Where was Freddie? Had he left?

The door bell rang again and she turned her head slowly. Yes. That must have been what woke her up. The door bell.

She got up painfully and moved uncertainly toward the door. Perhaps it was Freddie, coming back. Perhaps he had forgotten something, or had decided to spend the night with her …

Her pace quickened.

“Freddie?” she said, opening the door.

The scene repeated itself with the inevitability of history.

The phone rang. Ruth Abrams muttered, “Twelve ounces of chocolate, or eighteen?” and cursed mildly to herself. She was trying out a new recipe Heather had given her—of course she had made a few substitutions, chocolate and sugar instead of carob and honey, that kind of thing—and it was, as usual, not going well. She was elbow deep in cookie dough and had confectioners sugar all over her arms and face. Her hair, already silvery, was further frosted with flour. Reaching over, she managed to locate the phone behind the mixing bowl and the recipe file

“Ruth?” It was Heather, sounding distraught. “Ruth? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” Ruth said irritably.

“Something terrible has happened!”

“What?” Ruth asked vaguely. Were those—were those actually
roaches
she saw at the bottom of the flour canister …?

“Ruth, it’s Freda. She’s been killed—strangled!”

“What?”

“Strangled. Freda. In her
home
!”

“But—but that’s terrible,” Ruth said. “Terrible!”

“I just got a call from Isabel. She’s hysterical, poor thing.”

“Yes … yes.”

“Ruth? Are you all right?”

“I just can’t take it in,” Ruth said, sounding bewildered. “Laura … then Walter … then Freda. It’s all so—so
unsuburban.
”

“Yes,” said Heather, thinking how
like
Ruth it was to come out with a comment like that at this time. “Yes, indeed. I know what you mean. It’s unbelievable that it could be happening here, among our friends.”

A new idea had occurred to Ruth.

“I suppose this means that awful policeman will be back.”

“Isabel says that the police are at Freda’s house right now, looking for clues and examining the—the—”

“The body.”

“Yes. She was strangled last night. Late last night. Oh, Ruth!”

“If the policeman comes here,” Ruth said, “at least I’ll have some cookies ready for him.”

“Cookies?”

“Chocolate chip cookies.”

Poor Ruthie, Heather thought. She was having a hard time dealing with all this. She had never been good at handling strain. “Call me tonight,” she said and hung up.

“Yes,” said Ruth to the empty phone line. She put the receiver back and wiped her sticky hands on her apron. She rubbed her face absently, leaving a smear of cookie dough across her cheek, and surveyed her kitchen in its state of disarray.

Well, that was just awful about Freda!

Not that she had ever liked her much.

She wondered if she had sounded appropriately—
regretful
on the phone? It was always so hard to know what to do or say …

Her eyes wandered back to the recipe book. She had better get going on these cookies. Marcia and Melvin were coming back from the park any minute now, and there would be a scene if Melvin’s snack wasn’t ready and waiting.

She went back to the chocolate. Twelve ounces, or eighteen …?

*      *      *

Bernard was in a bad mood. Snooky had told them all about Freda’s untimely death over lunch. Bernard had looked fiercer and fiercer until, with a muffled roar, he had stood up and left the room.