Chapter 8

Adam was eating breakfast when the telephone rang. It was Doctor Gleason.

"Coach, I've some bad news for you."

"Oh?" Adam tried to keep his voice steady, but he knew.

"Nancy Poole died early this morning."

"No! Oh, God no!"

"A sad state of affairs. They've charged young Bryant with first-degree murder."

Adam hesitated. "Did Miss Poole return to consciousness? Was she able to talk?"

"No. She remained in a coma until the end." The doctor cleared his throat. "Coach, as far as I know, Bryant hasn't told the police that he spilled his guts to you. I think he's waiting for his father to get here before he talks to anyone."

"I see."

"Coach, there's one more thing. As you know, I'm an avid football fan, and I think you're doing an excellent job with the team." Adam remained silent. How could he possibly know that the doctor was a football fan ? He'd never met the man. He wondered what was coming.

"You must understand," Doctor Gleason went on, "that if the police question me, I'll have to tell them that you mentioned to me that young Bryant had discussed the matter of Miss Poole's 'accident' with you. I'm legally bound to do so."

Adam felt a chill. This was a warning. Doctor Gleason would protect himself at all costs. He sighed.

"Okay, Doctor. Thanks for the warning." He hung up before the medical man could reply.

Nancy Poole's death did not cause the excitement on campus that Adam expected. He thought ruefully that because she was a "town" girl, nobody cared much. He was surprised, however, that Lafe Bryant's arrest didn't create more of a stir. After all he was a student.

It occurred to him, as the morning progressed and no one mentioned the boy's incarceration, that the news was not yet generally known. Dean Hodgkiss had probably somehow arranged to keep young Bryant's arrest quiet until after the arrival of his father. When the truth became known, the student body would probably attempt to storm the jail with hanging in mind.

That afternoon, Anne Yeaton went downtown and bought herself a voluminous tote bag with shoulder straps. Back at the cottage, she transferred Adam's package of letters to the bottom of the bag, stuffing the contents of her regular bag on top.

That night, she listened with her ear pressed against Miss Quimper's door for fully fifteen minutes before she was positive that the spinster was sleeping. Then, with heart pounding, she quietly opened the door and stepped inside. She started across the room and froze when Miss Quimper's snoring suddenly stopped: But in a moment, the rhythm of the snoring began again. Miss Quimper had merely turned over in bed. Anne tiptoed to the dressing table, picked up the purse lying there, opened it and rummaged inside. Her heart leaped when she felt the sharp edges on an envelope. She removed the letter, closed the bag and noiselessly stole from the room.

Back in her room, she examined the letter by the light of her dressing table lamp. It was the stolen letter! Triumphantly, she added it to the package in her new tote bag. Then she prepared herself for her regular sortie to Adam's cottage.

Adam was waiting for her at the door. He took her into his arms and kissed her passionately. "My dearest. Where have you been? I thought you'd never get here."

She thrust her body up against his. "I had something to do. I'll tell you about it later."

His hands roamed over her body. "You didn't wear your new underwear," he said resentfully.

"That's part of what I have to tell you. Come." She took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. "Undress me, darling."

Afterward, spent and satisfied, they returned to the kitchen, as usual. Adam mixed their drinks, then said, "Now tell me what was so important that you had to do that made you late in getting here."

Anne grinned, picked up her new tote bag and showed him the letters. "They're all here. All of them. I found the one Old Quimper stole."

"Where?"

"She was carrying it around in her handbag, just as we suspected."

"But how did you get it?"

"Waited until she'd been snoring for about fifteen minutes, then sneaked into her room and fished through the old bag's bag."

Adam frowned. "You were taking quite a chance, darling. What if she'd wakened and caught you in the act?"

"So what? If I had known that she had it in her handbag all the time, I'd have taken it by force."

Adam wagged his head. "You're some girl." His expression became grave. "Doctor Gleason called me this morning. Nancy Poole died."

"Who's she?"

"I told you. She's the girl young Bryant found lying beside the road-or said he did, and brought into the hospital."

Anne shrugged. "Well, it's no skin off our behinds."

Mildly shocked at her indifference to the tragic death of the girl, Adam gave her a reproachful look. "It might be if he tells the police he was here with me on the night of the so-called accident."

"Where is the boy now?"

"They've locked him up."

"Well then, we should worry. If he hasn't talked yet, he probably won't." She laughed. "And there won't be any danger of his spying on us again."

Adam's emotions were suddenly mixed. Anne was not at all concerned that a young and pretty girl was dead, and that a boy, however disliked he was by his fellow students, had been arrested and charged with murder. She was, in fact, only concerned with his and her welfare.

He looked across the table. Anne was the most beautiful, the most desirable girl he could ever imagine. He started to say something, changed his mind and picked up his drink instead.

Anne drank with him. She finished her glass with a satisfied sigh. "One more drink," she said. "Then let's return to the scene of more enjoyable activities. I've thought of a new position I want to try out."

Adam nodded agreeably, all other thoughts banished from his mind. His passion was as great as ever. He went to mix the drinks.

The next morning Anne was awakened by someone pounding on her door. A moment later the door burst open and Olive Quimper stormed into the room. The spinster's eyes were blazing. "You little bitch! You stole my letter! I want it back."

Anne yawned elaborately. "Just what the hell are you talking about?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about. You sneaked in my room while I was asleep and stole it out of my bag. You're a thief. I should have you arrested."

"Why don't you do that, old woman? You can describe the letter, of course."

"Of course I can describe it. It-" The spinster broke off. Tears of frustration filled her eyes.

Anne casually pulled the sheet up over her naked breasts.

"That's it," Olive Quimper sneered. "Cover yourself up. You're so goddamn modest. I'll bet that if I were a man, you wouldn't take such precautions."

"If you were the man I'm thinking of, I wouldn't have to cover myself up. I'd be naked."

Olive Quimper's mouth worked. There was a venomous hatred in her eyes. Anne decided that the old spinster was on the verge of hysteria. Loss of the letter had apparently set her off her rocker. When the old woman spoke again, her voice was low and even. "I might just describe the letter. I might just describe it to Dean Hodgkiss. Then where would you and young Mr. Lombard be?"

"Probably in bed," Anne laughed, then added, "I think Dean Hodgkiss would take such a wild story from its source-a frustrated old maid with an unfulfilled passion and a wild imagination."

Anne was prepared for what happened next. She had gauged Miss Quimper's state of mind correctly. The spinster was indeed off her rocker. Her frustration was so great that she was not accountable for her actions.

For fully a minute Olive Quimper stood there and hurled obscenities at the young girl. Then, with an agility that belied her years, she sprang across the room, jerked open the bottom drawer and began flinging the black underwear right and left.

Anne leaped from the bed. Her naked body flashed across the room. She wrapped her strong young arms around the spinster, lifted her bodily, spun her around and threw her to the floor. "Get out of here, you dried-up old cunt! Get out of here before I knock you senseless."

But Olive Quimper was beyond reason. She got to her knees and crouched there, her teeth bared, her eyes spitting fire. "Call me a dried-up old cunt. You'll pay for that. I-I'm not dried up, I-I'm desirable."

Then she sprang. She hurled herself forward, screaming, fists flailing. Anne stepped lightly to one side. She drove her clenched fist forcefully into the spinster's midsection. Miss Quimper grunted and doubled up. Anne seized a handful of her antagonist's hair, jerked her upright, spun her around and sent her lunging toward the nearest wall. Quimper's head hit the wall with a dull thud. She grunted again and slowly sank to the floor. She crumpled there and lay still.

Breathing heavily, Anne came and. stood over her fallen victim. "Damned old fool," she muttered. She turned then, went into the kitchen and came back with a pitcher of water. She had poured most of its contents on the spinster's ashen face before the old woman stirred, sputtered, and at last opened her eyes.

"What happened?" she mumbled.

"You ran into the wall, grandma. Now, will you kindly get your ass out of here before I lose my temper."

Miss Quimper sat up, muttering. Her eyes were glazed. "My letter. I want my letter."

"Sure, sure. You'll get your letter. I'll write you one myself."

Anne helped the old woman to her feet. She led her, still whimpering, into her own room and eased her down onto her bed. For a moment Anne stood there, looking down at the pathetically sprawled-out form. The spinster's mid-calf skirt had ridden up above her knees, revealing her bony shanks. The outline of her sagging breasts were barely visible.

Anne said scornfully, "You sure are desirable, old woman. You sure are."