Chapter 7
Amy Jarrell tried not to stare at Stan. She sat across the kitchen table from Bob, with Stan sitting at her left. She looked at Stan whenever Bob's attention was diverted in another direction. She was obviously afraid Bob would see something in her eyes if he caught her looking at Stan. Stan had always affected her that way whenever she looked at him. It was like warm bells ringing inside her, and it was something hard to hide.
They had finished lunch, she had cleared away the dishes and poured the cups of coffee and now they were drinking the coffee and smoking. Stan seemed in a hurry to leave. He had even wanted to skip the coffee. She wondered why he should be in such a hurry to leave. They hadn't seen him for almost a year. "'
She was glad Bob had asked him over for lunch. It was almost like it had been when Bob and she were first married, when the three of them sat in the kitchen and drank beer.
She remembered ... Stan had saved her marriage in a way. She had met Bob in college and had fallen in love with him. Bob had quit college and joined the state police and asked her to quit college and marry him. That was when she began to suspect she was pregnant. She'd missed one period. Not proof of pregnancy but enough to start the little itchings of panic.
She'd been going with three different boys in college and doing it with all three of them, alternating between them, doing it with one boy a night. She'd tried to be careful and, in addition, they had tried to be careful, but someone had slipped. College had been boring except for the boys she'd met and so, with the idea she might be pregnant, she had agreed to marry Bob.
When it became obvious she was pregnant, Bob had been happy, as happy as any man in the world. She had felt a kind of sorrow that was sickening, a kind of sorrow she could never tell anyone. The baby wouldn't be Bob's. It belonged to one of the three boys she'd made love with while in college and she didn't even know which boy!
The baby had been born at "seven months" and did not look like a premature baby. It didn't remotely resemble Bob.
That was when their marriage had begun to go bad. Although Bob never accused her, she knew he'd suspected the baby wasn't his. The big clincher was that she'd never had a premarital relationship with Bob and, on their wedding night, Bob had discovered she wasn't a virgin. She had covered that with a story about having an accident when she was a little girl, but with the seven-month baby, Bob must have begun to suspect.
To make it worse she had always felt those warm bells ringing inside her whenever she looked at Stan. She felt attracted toward him-sexually, physically, emotionally, in every way possible. One night-when Stan was at their house, shortly after the first baby was born after they had all drunk too much beer, they had put some records on the phonograph and danced.
She had danced with Stan a few times-holding him close, too close, pressing her breasts hard against his chest, brushing her thighs and stomach against him. After Stan left that night Bob had struck her for the first and only time in their marriage.
He had noticed the way she'd been dancing with Stan, the way she'd looked at Stan. The way she felt toward him must have shown in her eyes-that was why she had to be so careful now. She still felt the same way-and she didn't want Bob to know she still felt the same way.
After that night, Bob went to live in a hotel in Trenton. Their marriage would have broken completely because Bob was determined to get a divorce, but Stan had talked with Bob and persuaded him not to get a divorce. Stan had stopped at the house after talking with Bob and told her he'd talked Bob out of getting a divorce. Stan had tried, in subtle ways, to prepare her for Bob's return....
Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn't paid attention to the conversation. She brought herself back from the past with effort and heard Bob say, "The chief is convinced there must be some kind of evidence in Sellers' Park. He wants another search when the snow melts."
"Oh?" She glanced at Stan and noticed he seemed strangely happy there would be another search.
"I think it's awful," she said quickly, realizing she should get into the conversation. "Four innocent girls ... some maniac comes along and rapes them and kills them. I keep thinking about that poor little girl. Cathy Renslow was her name, wasn't it? I keep thinking about how they found her. I'm always afraid to read the newspapers, afraid I'll see the story about how some maniac has-"
"It might not be a maniac," Bob interrupted.
"What do you mean might not be a maniac? Any man who'll attack and kill four girls has to be a maniac!"
"We don't know they're dead. So far all we've found is their car."
She sipped her coffee and lit another cigarette.
"They must be dead," she insisted. "If they weren't dead, they would have been found by now."
Bob nodded. "They might be dead. I'm just saying we don't know they're dead. And I wouldn't compare this case with the Renslow case. Cathy Renslow was a child ... six years old, I think. These girls-you call them girls but they're women. And not bad-looking." He winked at Stan.
"Not bad-looking is putting it mild," Stan said. "Ellen Porter and Irene Hughes have shapes...."
He hesitated. Bob frowned. "I didn't know the papers published anything other than photographs of their faces. I've seen pictures of them-their husbands gave us every picture they had, but-"
"I saw some photographs in the Philadelphia papers."
"I wouldn't doubt it," Amy laughed. "Those Philadelphia papers print pictures of every woman in a bathing suit. Doesn't make any difference what they've done-anything from being murdered to getting a parking ticket."
"Sex sells newspapers."
"Sex sells a lot of things."
Stan chuckled and rose from the table. "If you two are going to start talking about sex, I'll leave. This is no place for a single man."
Amy felt her heart sink. "Did you finish your coffee? Do you have to leave so soon?"
Bob glanced at his wristwatch. "I have to get back to the station."
As Stan slipped into his overcoat, Amy stood close, so close that he had to be careful not to brush against her breasts.
She smiled. "Still not married?"
"Not yet."
"You wait. Some lucky girl will get you. How would you like a blind date?"
Bob had been in another room. When he came into the hallway, she stepped back from Stan and turned toward him. "Bob, why don't we fix Stan with a blind date with Betty Borden? We could make it a double date."
"Maybe Stan doesn't want anyone playing cupid. Maybe he wants to do his own looking."
"Maybe I do."
They walked out to the driveway. Bob's car was facing the main road and he kissed Amy goodbye, climbed into the car and pulled out onto the main road while Stan turned his car around in the back yard.
When he drove by where Amy was standing, she motioned for him to stop.
He rolled down the window and she leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. She was shivering, hugging her arms across her breasts to keep warm, her breath spurting from her mouth in white puffs.
"Come back again soon, Stan. Please!"
"I will, Amy."
He felt the old, old attraction for her. She was cute. A cute little bug with jet-black hair and liquid black eyes. She always wore deep red lipstick and her lips had always looked incredibly soft-softer than Ellen's or Irene's or Emma's or Janie's. Softer than the lips of any woman he'd ever known. He'd only kissed her once, he remembered. That had been at a New Year's Eve party and he'd been so drunk he could hardly remember it. He could remember she had clung to him, jabbing her body against him.
"Please, Stan. I'd like to see you again. It gets-awfully lonely out here."
"I will, Amy."
He eased his foot off the brake and the car drifted down the driveway toward the main road. He smiled and her smile in return sent a strange sensation along the length of his spine.
When he was on the main road and the big white house was a small image in the rear-view mirror, he knew what that smile meant.
It was something he had never really wanted to admit to himself.
Amy wanted him. Years before when they'd seen a lot more of each other-when Bob and he were closer friends-he'd suspected she wanted him but he'd always carefully shoved the thought into the back of his mind, classifying it as hopeful imagination.
It wasn't imagination.
He could remember the way she had always looked at him. There had been a certain something in her expression, in those liquid black eyes, whenever she looked at him. Whenever they danced together-whenever she thought Bob wouldn't notice-she had always pressed close ... very close....
A few minutes ago she'd said "please." And that damned smile ... that damned smile had been almost a plea!
His fingers were cold and he reached with his right hand to turn on the heater. When he brought the hand back to the steering wheel, he realized he'd left his gloves behind, left them on the telephone stand by the front door.
Good! It would give him a reason for going back.
He realized suddenly he wanted to go back, wanted to make love to Amy. Ten years ago he wouldn't have dreamed of making love to his best friend's wife. But now, he knew, something had changed him.
He knew also ... he'd blundered. Saying that about Ellen and Irene having good shapes. A blunder like that could kill him!