Chapter 7
"Christ, what do you want now?" Harley Goddard grumbled over the telephone, annoyed at being interrupted in the midst of work which was getting to be a sticky matter. Someone, he had discovered this morning, had been in his office rifling about for administrative papers atop which sat the check list and new inflationary prices on the black market liquor he was selling to the inmates at the Center. Harley was nervous; someone was on to him.
The chisely tone of voice was not foreign to Sharon. "Listen, Harley, this is important. . . "
"What did you forget on the grocery list now?" he grumbled. Over the line Sharon could hear the rustling of papers which could be anything from the latest issue of Playboy to administrative paperwork.
Sharon's ears buzzed with rage. Since Harley had been appointed the Center's Superintendent, he had been treating her like one of the men in blue jumpsuits: inferior, stupid, emotionally out of control. Yet she knew she was still a beautiful, desirable female, but he hadn't even kissed her since God knew when. If she were a bit younger and financially independent, she would leave the man in the snap of a finger. But times weren't much easier on the single side, either, so her divorced friends confessed. Still, the old grump could be real Don Juan when the mood hit.
"I didn't forget anything, dammit!" she snapped. "I just saw Rover sneaking around the back yard of the Henshaws, and not to long ago John Silverman snuck in the back door. I tell you, Harley, something's going on over there-something fishy and it's your job to keep those men in line."
"What am I supposed to do-put a ball and chain around their ankles for Chrissakes? I know you'd like nothing better than to think they were having an orgy," he bawled. "As a matter-of-fact, woman, there have been reports that certain employee's wives are messing around with our men . . . did you ever think of it that way? Huh? Oh, sure, you women always wanna blame the men when somebody drops their pants, don't you? If you're so damn positive she's being raped, why don't you put that nose to work and sniff out the evidence next door!"
"But I only called to-"
Silence.
"Damn him, anyway!" Sharon heard the noisy click of the receiver being slammed on the cradle. Her eyes swelled with angry tears at his berating insults. Oh, he wouldn't be so cocky sure if he'd been the one to hear the frightened cries carried on the afternoon winds through her window yesterday afternoon, she thought furiously. And now with those two inmates sneaking around the house next door. If John Silverman had forced that sweet little blonde headed wife into submission yesterday, his plotting was unbelievably well-timed; half an hour later Dr. Hanshaw had returned from work. Sharon let out a deep sigh chiding herself for conjuring up stories. Yes, Harley was right: she should have been a detective, with her bent for piecing together facts. But then she should have been other things-like single.
In this dull, dreary Indiana town any bit of scandal was fascinating, real gossip material. For Sharon, intrigue was the sole means of brightening up an unpolished existence. Was it her fault her fantasies ran to the sensual? God knows, if the man would treat her like a woman-even once a week-she wouldn't be imagining rape scenes next door where her green eyes were mesmerically fixed on the side bedroom window facing her house.
Sharon closed her eyes, feeling the warm sun glaring through the living room window warm her emotion-tensed body. Even through her light cotton dress, the sensation of her warm palms running down the smooth, full curves of her voluptuous form sent unusually sensuous thoughts flooding her mind in tidal swells of desire; she wondered fleetingly how Harley would respond if she lived up to her threat of finding a lover. Slowly, she opened her flickering eyelids.
Wouldn't that bounce Harley off his high horse if she did take a lover. Oh, she would love to flaunt that nastiness in front of his uppity nose!
"Ah, shit!" Harley Goddard took a bite out of his half-eaten sandwich and disgruntledly tossed the remainder back on the paper plate. The earlier conversation with Sharon was still ricocheting around in his skull. What if her suspicions that Rover was sniffing around Doc Henshaw's wife were true. Christ, he hoped the idiot wasn't drunk, too. Doc Henshaw, Harley's eyes glistened; he snapped his fingers. Of course, Henshaw was the bastard who'd been snooping around his office! A grin widened. If Rover and John were messing around with the woman, maybe they would scare her off enough to leave town.
Nothing seemed to jibe. Harley scratched his head. He could go for a piece of ass himself right now. Not with Sharon: Oh, sure, she complained that everybody else was getting sex but her, and when it came down to the nitty-gritty . . . no dice. Not that problems at the Center were helping his mood any. Should the State inspectors get wind of the scandal, his job be damned.
"Ah, crap!" he mumbled under his breath, gathering up the monthly report forms and stacking them on the corner of his littered desk. Why not go home and try to cuddle up to the woman. He had been curt and no doubt hurt her feelings. With all this talk of the Center's employees women taking afternoon pleasures with his men, why didn't he knock off a piece for himself!