Three Bedrooms, One Corpse(30)

Martin’s face was blank.

Ulrich was so upset his features were distorted. I

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wondered if between rage, and relief, and shock, he would have a heart attack on the way home, and I found myself not much caring if he did. “Martin, could you please walk Mr. Ulrich to his car?”

“Sure, honey,” Martin agreed, with a dangerous kind of smoothness. “Come on, Ulrich. You’re lucky I asked the lady. I would have put you in the hospital if it had been up to me.”

Or the morgue, I thought.

Sam Ulrich rose slowly. He took a step forward and then stopped. He was afraid to go closer to Martin. He was not such a fool as he looked. Martin moved back, and Ulrich preceded him down the stairs. I heard the back door open and close, and wondered if I’d left it unlocked when we’d gone upstairs for the night. I didn’t think so. Not a very good lock. I’d get a better one.

Being left alone for a few minutes was a great relief, and I burst into tears and tried very hard not to picture myself at the mercy of the man now being marched to his car.

I was rinsing my face at the sink, the cold water making me shudder, when Martin returned. I saw his reflection in the mirror beside mine.

“You’ve been crying,” he said very gently, putting his gun on my vanity table, where it lay looking as out of place as a rattlesnake. I turned and put my arms around him. His bare chest was cold from the outside air, and I rubbed my cheek against him. “He’s driving home,” he said, answering a question I was scared to ask.

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“Martin,” I said, “if you hadn’t been here . . .” “You would have called 911, because I wouldn’t have been between you and the phone,” he said practi- cally. “They would have been here in two minutes, maximum, and you would have been fine.”

“So this doesn’t count as a rescue?” I asked shakily. “We’re even on this one. You kept me from doing something stupid to him. I would hate to have to spend the night down at the police station because of Sam Ul- rich. You saved his family, too.”

“Martin. Let’s just get in bed and pile all the blan- kets on, and you can hold me.”

I was trembling from head to toe. I realized, as I lay with my eyes wide open in the dark, that I had had to wait to find that Sam Ulrich had left in his own car— alive—before I could let myself have the luxury of re- laxing, believing the incident was over. Martin was awake, too, listening. I didn’t think Ulrich was stupid enough to come back; he should be in his own bed counting his blessings.

I began to count my own.

At least Martin didn’t try to get to the plant early on Saturday, but he felt he should go in, especially since he’d been out of town. “I think my weekend hours will decrease now things are beginning to shape up at this plant,” he told me over our morning coffee, “especially now that I have a reason to stay away.” I tried to smile back, but my attempt must have been a miserable failure.

“Roe,” he said seriously, “it’s me that got you into

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the trouble last night, and for that I am so sorry. He wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t for me. I hope you don’t hate me for that.”

“No,” I said, surprised. “No, never think it. I’m just tired, and it was very upsetting. And you know—you do have to tell me why you brought a gun when you came to spend the night with me.”

“I’ve had a hard life,” Martin said after a moment. “I have a job that requires me to do difficult things to other people, people like Ulrich.”

I closed my eyes briefly. This was all probably true, as far as it went. “All right,” I said. “Do you think you’ll feel like going to that banquet tonight?”

I’d forgotten all about it. Of course, I wasn’t wild about going, but on the other hand, when I pictured my mother asking me why we hadn’t come, I just couldn’t come up with a believable excuse. “I guess so,” I said unenthusiastically. “I’d rather drag myself there than think about last night.” “Don’t forget to wear your hair up,” Martin re- minded me later as he gathered all his things to stow in his company car. “What time should I come by?” “I think cocktails start at six thirty.” “Six thirty it is. Dressy?”

“Yes. Everyone can bring two other couples as guests, so there’s usually a decent crowd, and there’s a speaker.” I was leaning on the door frame, and Martin was halfway to his car when he dropped the things he was carrying and came back. He held my hand. “You aren’t off me because of last night?” He looked at me steadily as he asked.

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I shook my head slowly, trying to analyze what I did feel, why things seemed so grim. “I just realized I’d taken on more than I’d anticipated,” I said, giving him the condensed version.

He looked at me quizzically. I was so tired that my judgment was impaired, and I went on. “You’re a dan- gerous man, Martin,” I said.

“Not to you,” he told me. “Not to you.” Especially to me, I thought, as I watched him drive away.

had completely forgotten to make an appointment to Iget my hair put up. Of course, all the hairdressers who were open on Saturday were fully booked. But with some wheedling and bribing, I got my mother’s regular woman to stay open late to work with my mane. I would be done barely in time for the dinner. That suited me just fine. I climbed wearily up my stairs and went back to bed. It was becoming a habit. When I woke again at two o’clock, the gray day didn’t look any more inviting, but I felt much better. I decided to cram the night before into a mental closet for the time being, to take some pleasure in going to a social function in Lawrenceton with Martin for the first time. I was human enough to relish the anticipa- tion of eyebrows lifted, of envious women. I was con- vinced any woman with hormones would want Martin. I even turned on my exercise tape and got at least halfway through it before getting fed up with the dicta- torial instructress. Madeleine watched me, as usual, her eyes round and disbelieving. She followed me upstairs

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for my shower, watched me put on my makeup and dry my hair. I changed my sheets, too, and ran a carpet sweeper over the bedroom hurriedly.

I would be running so short on time I decided to put on everything but the actual dress before I left for my hair appointment. So I looked through my closets. I’d wear the dress I’d worn the year before. Martin hadn’t seen it, even if everyone else had, and I’d only worn it that once. It was green, and after simple long sleeves and a scoop neck, the bodice descended to a point in front, and the short skirt flounced out in gathers all around. I’d have to wear black heels . . . I needed some of those shiny lamé-looking shoes that were so popular now, but I didn’t have the energy or time to go shop- ping. Black would have to do. I had a little black eve- ning purse, too. So I put on the right bra and slip and hose, and a dress that buttoned down the front over them.

I hurried out to my car and started across town to my mother’s hairdresser. I’d looked up an address be- fore leaving home, and I took a little detour. There was the Ulrich house, a three-bedroom ranch style in one of Lawrenceton’s prettier middle-class neighborhoods. And there was a for sale sign in the yard.

Chapter Fourteen

A

ìHow do you want it done?” Benita asked briskly. It was clearly the end of a long day for her. Her own red hair was wild and dark at the roots, and the beige-and-blue uniform all the operators at Clip Casa wore was rumpled and—well, hairy.

“Could you do it like this?” I’d spent my waiting time leafing through professional magazines. “Yes,” Benita said briefly after a thorough look at the enigmatically smiling model, and set to work. It was one of those hairdos with the braid miracu- lously inside-out. French braiding, I thought it was called. I’d never understood how that was done, and now it was about to be accomplished on my very own head. In the picture the model’s hair wasn’t pulled back tightly but puffed around her face. The length of hair at the base of the neck was also braided, and the model had a ribbon around the end. I had no fancy bows, but ~ 192 ~

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Benita had some for sale, including a gold lamé one I thought would be pretty. I didn’t know if Martin would like the hairstyle, but it struck me as very fashionable. Plus, it didn’t seem possible that my hair could come loose, as all too often happened when I put it up myself. “Roe,” drawled a voice close by, and I recognized the apparition under the dryer as my beautiful friend Lizanne Buckley.

“I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!” I said happily. “How are you doing?”

“Just fine,” said Lizanne in her slow sweet way. “And you?”

“Pretty good. What have you been doing?” “Oh, I’m still down at the power company,” she said contentedly. “And I’m still dating our local representa- tive.”

Lawyer J. T. (Bubba) Sewell, whom I’d met in a pro- fessional capacity, would be home from the Capitol for the weekend, and he and Lizanne were also going to the Realtors’ banquet, she told me. In fact, Bubba was the speaker.