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  The room was very large and colorful, furnished in rat­tan and bamboo and glass like a tropical lanai. There were growing plants everywhere, philodendron and ivy hang­ing from copper planters on the walls, azaleas in tubs, and cyclamen and coleus and saintpaulia in bright coralstone pots on the mantel and on every shelf and table. The air was humid and smelled of moist earth like a field after a spring rain.

  The whole effect of the room was one of impossible beauty and excess, as if the person who lived there lived in a dream.

  “She loves flowers,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “She isn’t like Willett, my son. He’s never cared for anything except money. But Virginia is quite different. Even when she was a child she was always very gentle with flowers as she was with birds and animals. Very gentle and understanding . . .”

  “Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “. . . as if they were people and could feel.”

  “Mrs. Hamilton,” Alice repeated, and the woman blinked as if just waking up. “Why is Virginia in jail? What did she do?”

  She was fully awake now, the questions had struck her vulnerable body as hailstones strike a field of sun-warmed wheat. “Virginia didn’t do anything. She was arrested by mistake.”

  “But why?”

  “I’ve told you, Paul’s wire to me was very brief. I know none of the details.”

  “You could have asked Mr. Meecham.”

  “I prefer to get the details from someone closer to me and to Virginia.”

  She doesn’t want the facts at all, Alice thought. All she wants is to have Virginia back again, the gentle child who loved animals and flowers.

  A middle-aged woman in horn-rimmed glasses and a white uniform came into the room carrying a cup of coffee, half of which had spilled into the saucer. She had a limp but she moved very quickly as if she thought speed would cover it. She had a spot of color on each cheekbone, round as coins.

  “Here you are. This’ll warm you up.” She spoke a little too loudly, covering her embarrassment with volume as she covered her limp with speed.

  Mrs. Hamilton nodded her thanks. “Carney, this is Alice Dwyer. Alice, Mrs. Carnova.”

  The woman shook Alice’s hand vigorously. “Call me Carney. Everyone does.”

  “Carney,” Mrs. Hamilton explained, “is Paul’s office nurse, and an old friend of mine.”

  “He phoned from the hospital a few minutes ago. He’s on his way.”

  “We are old friends, aren’t we, Carney?”

  The coins on the woman’s cheekbones expanded. “Sure. You bet we are.”

  “Then what are you acting so nervous about?”

  “Nervous? Well, everybody gets nervous once in a while, don’t they? I’ve had a busy day and I stayed after hours to welcome you, see that you got settled, and so forth. I’m tired, is all.”

  “Is it?”

  The two women had forgotten Alice. Carney was look­ing down at the floor, and the color had radiated all over her face to the tops of her large pale ears. “Why did you come? You can’t do anything.”

  “I can. I’m going to.”

  “You don’t know how things are.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “This is bad, the worst yet. I knew she was seeing Margolis. I warned her. I said I’d write and tell you and you’d come and make it hot for her.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  Carney spread her hands. “How could I? She’s twenty- six; that’s too old to be kept in line by threats of telling mama.”

  “Did Paul know about this—this man?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he did. He never said anything.” She plucked a dried leaf from the yam plant that was grow­ing down from the mantel. “Virginia won’t listen to me any more. She doesn’t like me.”

  “That’s silly. She’s always been devoted to you.”

  “Not any more. Last week she called me a snooping old beerhound. She said that when I applied for this job it wasn’t because Carnova had left me stranded in Detroit, it was because you sent me here to spy on her.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Hamilton said crisply. “I’ll talk to Virginia tomorrow and see that she apologizes.”

  “Apologizes. What do you think this is, some little game or something? Oh, God.” Carney exploded. She covered her face with her hands, half-laughing, half-crying and then she began to hiccough, loud and fast. “Oh—damn—oh—damn.”

  Mrs. Hamilton turned to Alice. “We all need some rest. Come and I’ll show you your room.”

  ‘‘I’ll—show—her.’’

  “All right. You go with Carney, Alice. I’ll wait up to say hello to Paul.”

  Alice looked embarrassed. “I hated to stand there listen­ing like that. About Virginia, I mean.”

  “That’s all right, you couldn’t help it.” A car came up the driveway and stopped with a shriek of brakes. “Here’s Paul now. I’ll talk to him alone, Carney, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why—should—I—mind?”

  “And for heaven’s sake breathe into a paper bag or some­thing. Good night.”

  When they had gone Mrs. Hamilton stood in the center of the room for a moment, her fingertips pressing her tem­ples, her eyes closed. She felt exhausted, not from the sleep­less night she had spent, or from the plane trip, but from the strain of uncertainty, and the more terrible strain of pretending that everything would be all right, that a mis­take had been made which could be rather easily corrected.

  She went to open the door for Paul.

  He came in, stamping the snow from his boots, a stocky, powerfully built man in a wrinkled trench coat and a damp shapeless gray hat. He looked like a red-cheeked farmer coming in from his evening’s chores, carrying a medical bag instead of a lantern.

  He had a folded newspaper under his arm. Mrs. Hamil­ton glanced at the newspaper and away again.

  “Well, Paul.” They shook hands briefly.

  “I’m glad you got here all right.” He had a very deep warm voice and he talked rather slowly, weighing out each word with care like a prescription. “Sorry I couldn’t meet you—Mother.”

  “You don’t have to call me Mother, you know, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Then I won’t.” He laid his hat and trench coat across a chair and put his medical bag on top of them. But he kept the newspaper in his hand, rolling it up very tight as if he intended to use it as a weapon, to swat a fly or discipline an unruly pup.

  Mrs. Hamilton sat down suddenly and heavily, as though the newspaper had been used against her. The light from the rattan lamp struck her face with the sharp­ness of a slap. “That paper you have, what is it?”

  “One of the Detroit tabloids.”

  “Is it . . .?”

  “It’s all in here, yes. Not on the front page.”

  “Are there any pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of Virginia?”

  “One.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It’s not very pretty,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better not.”

  “I must see it.”

  “All right.”

  The pictures occupied the entire second page. There were three of them. One, captioned Death Shack, showed a small cottage, its roof heavy with fresh snow and its win­dows opaque with frost. The second was of a sleek dark-haired man smiling into the camera. He was identified as Claude Ross Margolis, forty-two, prominent contrac­tor, victim of fatal stabbing.

  The third picture was of Virginia, though no one would have recognized her. She was sitting on some kind of bench, hunched over, with her hands covering her face and a tangled mass of black hair falling over her wrists. She wore evening slippers, one of them minus a heel, and a long fluffy dress and light-colored coat. The coat and dress and one of the shoes s
howed dark stains that looked like mud. Above the picture were the words, held for question­ing, and underneath it Virginia was identified as Mrs. Paul Barkeley, twenty-six, wife of Arbana physician, al­legedly implicated in the death of Claude Margolis.

  Mrs. Hamilton spoke finally in a thin, ragged whisper: “I’ve seen a thousand such dreary pictures in my life, but I never thought that some day one of them would be ter­ribly different to me from all the others.”

  She looked up at Barkeley. His face hadn’t changed ex­pression, it showed no sign of awareness that the girl in the picture was his wife. A little pulse of resentment began to beat in the back of Mrs. Hamilton’s mind: He doesn’t care—he should have taken better care of Virginia—this would never have happened. Why wasn’t he with her? Or why didn’t he keep her at home?

  She said, not trying to hide her resentment, “Where were you when it happened, Paul?”

  “Right here at home. In bed.”

  “You knew she was out.”

  “She’d been going out a great deal lately.”

  “Didn’t you care?”

  “Of course I cared. Unfortunately, I have to make a living. I can’t afford to follow Virginia around picking up the pieces.” He went over to the built-in bar in the south corner of the room. “Have a nightcap with me.”

  “No, thanks. I—those stains on her clothes, they’re blood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose blood?”

  “His. Margolis’.”

  “How can they tell?”

  “There are lab tests to determine whether blood is hu­man and what type it is.”

  “Well. Well, anyway, I’m glad it’s not hers.” She hesi­tated, glancing at the paper and away again, as if she would have liked to read the report for herself but was afraid to. “She wasn’t hurt?”

  “No. She was drunk.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Yes.” He poured some bourbon into a glass and added water. Then he held the glass up to the light as if he was searching for microbes in a test tube. “A police patrol car picked her up. They found her wandering around about a quarter of a mile from Margolis’ cottage. It was snowing very hard; she must have lost her way.”

  “Wandering around in the snow with only that light coat and those thin shoes—oh God, I can’t bear it.”

  “You’ll have to,” he said quietly. “Virginia’s depending on you.”

  “I know, I know she is. Tell me—the rest.”

  “There isn’t much. Margolis’ body had been discovered by that time because something had gone wrong with the fireplace in the cottage. There was a lot of smoke, some­one reported it, and the highway patrol found Margolis inside dead, stabbed with his own knife. He’d been liv­ing in the cottage which is just outside the city limits be­cause his own house was closed. His wife is in Peru on a holiday.”

  “His wife. He was married.”

  “Yes.”

  “There were—children?”

  “Two.”

  “Drunk,” Mrs. Hamilton whispered. “And out with a married man. There must be some mistake, surely, surely there is.”

  “No. I saw her myself. The Sheriff called me about three o’clock this morning and told me she was being held and why. I wired you immediately, and then I went down to the county jail where they’d taken her. She was still drunk, didn’t even recognize me. Or pretended not to. How can you tell, with Virginia, what’s real and what isn’t?”

  “I can tell.”

  “Can you?” He sipped at his drink. “The sheriff and a couple of deputies were there trying to get a statement from her. They didn’t get one, of course. I told them it was silly to go on questioning anyone in her condition, so they let her go back to bed.”

  “In a cell? With thieves and prostitutes and . . .”

  “She was alone. The cell—room, rather, was clean. I saw it. And the matron, or deputy, I think they called her, seemed a decent young woman. The surroundings aren’t quite what Virginia is used to, but she’s not suffering. Don’t worry about that part of it.”

  “You don’t appear to be worrying at all.”

  “I’ve done nothing but worry, for a long time.” He hesi­tated, looking at her across the room as if wondering how much of the truth she wanted to hear. “You may as well know now—Virginia will tell you, if I don’t—that this first year of our marriage has been bad. The worst year of my life, and maybe the worst in Virginia’s too.”

  Mrs. Hamilton’s face looked crushed, like paper in a fist. “Why didn’t someone tell me? Virginia wrote to me, Carney wrote. No one said anything. I thought things were going well, that Virginia had settled down with you and was happy, that she was finally happy. Now I find out I’ve been deceived. She didn’t settle down. She’s been run­ning around with married men, getting drunk, behaving like a cheap tart. And now this, this final disgrace. I just don’t know what to do, what to think.”

  He saw the question in her eyes, and turned away, hold­ing his glass up to the light again.

  “I did what I could, hired a lawyer.”

  “Yes, but what kind? A man with no experience.”

  “He was recommended to me.”

  “He’s not good enough. Virginia should have the best.”

  “She should indeed,” he said dryly. “Unfortunately, I can’t afford the best.”

  “I can. Money is no object.”

  “That money-is-no-object idea is a little old-fashioned, I’m afraid.” He put down his empty glass. “There’s another point. If Virginia is innocent, she won’t need the best. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go to bed. I have to keep early hours. Carney showed you your room, I sup­pose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make yourself at home as much as possible. The house is yours,” he added with a wry little smile. “Mortgage and all. Good night, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Good night.” She hesitated for a split second before adding, “my boy.”

  He went out of the room. She followed him with her eyes; they were perfectly dry now, and hard and gray as granite.

  Red-faced farmer, she thought viciously.

  3

  In the summer the red bricks of the courthouse were covered with dirty ivy and in the winter with dirty snow. The building had been constructed on a large square in what was originally the center of town. But the town had moved westward, abandoned the courthouse like an ugly stepchild, leaving it in the east end to fend for itself among the furniture warehouses and service stations and beer-and-sandwich cafés.

  Across the road from the main entrance was a supermar­ket. Meecham parked his car in front of it. Its doors were still closed, though there was activity inside. Along the aisles clerks moved apathetically, slowed by sleep and the depression of a winter morning that was no different from night. Street lamps were still burning, the sky was dark, the air heavy and damp.

  Meecham crossed the road. He felt sluggish, and wished he could have stayed in bed until it was light.

  In front of the courthouse a thirty-foot Christmas tree had been put up and four county prisoners were stringing it with colored lights under the direction of a deputy. The deputy wore fuzzy orange ear-muffs, and he kept stamping his feet rhythmically, either to keep warm or because there was nothing else to do.

  When Meecham approached, all four of the prisoners stopped work to look at him, as they stopped to look at nearly everyone who passed, realizing that they had plenty of time and nothing to lose by a delay.

  “Speed it up a little, eh, fellows?” The deputy whacked his hands together. “What’s the matter, you paralyzed or something, Joe?”

  Joe looked down from the top of the ladder and laughed, showing his upper teeth filled at the gum-line with gold. “How’d you like to be inside with a nice rum toddy, Huggins? Mmm?”
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br />   “I never touch the stuff,” Huggins said. “Morning, Mee­cham.”

  Meecham nodded. “Morning.”

  “Up early catching worms?”

  “That’s right.”

  Huggins jerked his thumb at the ladder. “Me, I’m trying to inject the spirit of Christmas into these bums.”

  Three of the men laughed. The fourth spat into the snow.

  Meecham went inside. The steam had been turned on full force and the old-fashioned radiators were clanking like ghosts rattling their chains. Meecham was sweating before he reached the middle of the corridor, and the pas­sages from his nose to his throat felt hot and dry as if he’d been breathing fire.

  The main corridor smelled of wood and fresh wax, but when he descended the stairs on the left a new smell rose to overpower the others, the smell of disinfectant.

  The door lettered County Sheriff was open. Meecham walked into the anteroom and sat down in one of the straight chairs that were lined up against the wall like mute and motionless prisoners. The anteroom was empty, though a man’s coat and hat were hanging on a rack in the corner, and the final inch of a cigarette was smoldering in an ash tray on the scarred wooden counter. Meecham looked at the cigarette but made no move to put it out.

  The door of the Sheriff’s private office banged open suddenly and Cordwink himself came out. He was a tall man, match-thin, with gray hair that was clipped short to disguise its curl. His eyelashes curled too, giving his cold eyes a false appearance of naivete. He had fifty years of hard living behind him, but they didn’t show except when he was tired or when he’d had a quarrel with his wife over money or one of the kids.

  “What are you doing around so early?” Cordwink said.

  “I wanted to be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  “You bright young lawyers, you keep me all the time in stitches. Yah.” He scowled at the cigarette smoldering in the ash tray. “What the hell you trying to do, burn the place down?”

  “It’s not my . . .”

  “That’s about the only way you’ll get your client out of here.”

  “Oh?” Meecham lit a cigarette and used the burnt match to crush out the burning remnants of tobacco in the ash tray. “Have you dug up any new information?”