This Game of Murder

Chapter V

The sun was rising when Marshall got home. As he plodded tiredly up the stairs his parents’ bedroom door opened and his father peered out.

“What was the trouble?” Jonas asked.

“Betty Case accidentally shot her husband,” Marshall said.

He moved on to his own room, but left the door open. Jonas, barefoot and in pajamas, quietly closed his and his wife’s bedroom door so as not to disturb his wife and trailed his son across the hall.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.” Briefly Marshall explained to his father what had happened.

When he finished, Jonas frowned. “The poor girl shouldn’t be left alone at a time like this. She doesn’t have a living relative left in town since her parents died, does she? What’s the matter with Emmet Derring? He should have insisted on sending his wife over.”

“Betty says she’ll be all right,” Marshall said.

“Nonsense,” Jonas said in his crispest executive-editor tone. “I’ll get your mother up and you can run her out there.”

When he used that tone there was no point in arguing with Jonas. Deciding he wasn’t going to get any more sleep, Marshall showered and shaved while his father went to rout his mother out of bed.

Sylvia Marshall was dressed and all ready to go when he came downstairs. However, she didn’t quite seem to understand who it was that she was expected to offer solace to.

“Elizabeth Case, dear,” Jonas said with enormous patience. “You know the Cases. Bruce was in law partnership with Henry Quillan.”

When Sylvia continued to look puzzled, her son offered, “Betty Runyon, Mom.”

“Oh,” Sylvia said with an enlightened expression on her face. “She married that nice young lawyer with no family background.”

“Now you have her identified,” Jonas said approvingly. “That same nice young lawyer is the one she accidentally shot.”

“How awful,” Sylvia said with compassion. “Betty Runyon is such a sweet girl. I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

It was six thirty a.m. and quite light by the time Marshall and his mother got to the old Runyon place. But the big houses at Rexford Bay were all set well back from the road and were screened by trees so that the houses couldn’t be seen from the road. Therefore Marshall and his mother couldn’t see what was occurring on the roof until they drove down the long driveway, parked in front of the porch and got out of the car.

Sylvia looked upward and said, “Whoever is that on the roof?”

Peering in the direction of his mother’s gaze, Marshall saw Betty, in slacks and a sweater, kneeling on the front slope of the roof, examining the metal pipe of an air vent.

Betty saw them, too. Waving to them, she walked up to the roof peak and disappeared down the rear slope.

“Who do you suppose that was?” Sylvia asked.

“It was Betty, Mom.”

“Betty Runyon? Why is she climbing around on roofs?”

“Let’s go see,” Marshall said, taking his mother’s elbow and steering her around the side of the house to the rear.

Betty was climbing down a ladder when they reached the back of the house. Lightly dropping the last few feet to the ground, she brushed her hands together and smiled at her visitors.

“You didn’t have to come back, Kirk,” she said. “Hello, Mrs. Marshall.”

Sylvia took her by the shoulders and kissed her. “I’m so sorry about your trouble, dear. I’m going to stay right here with you until things are organized again.”

“Thanks, but it’s really not necessary. You’re welcome, of course.”

“Then it’s settled,” Sylvia said. “I have to stay. Jonas said to.”

Despite herself Betty couldn’t avoid an amused smile. “We wouldn’t dare disobey Mr. Marshall. Of course you’ll stay.”

“Whatever were you doing on the roof?” Sylvia asked.

“Looking for more evidence that the cat burglar was actually here last night. I found it.”

“What was it?” Marshall asked.

“There’s a short length of rope tied to an air vent directly over the hall window where the screen was cut. The shot must have put him into such a hurry to escape that he cut the rope instead of taking time to untie it.”

Marshall wondered why she couldn’t have waited for the police to discover the rope. Perhaps, despite her earlier complaint that she was unable to feel guilt over the accident, she was now beginning to develop some guilty feeling and had found it necessary to convince herself beyond any doubt that the cat burglar had actually been there.

He said, “Does Bud know what happened yet?”

Betty’s expression turned worried. “He’s still asleep. I’ve been mulling over what to tell him. I suppose the kindest thing is to tell him the truth at once, instead of letting him eventually hear it from some playmate.”

“Who’s Bud?” Sylvia asked.

“Her son, Mom. Bruce Case, Jr. You know him.” He turned back to Betty. “Are you up to telling him?”

“I don’t want anyone else to. Don’t you think I ought to tell him at once exactly what happened, Kirk? I mean, instead of just vaguely talking about an accident and having him find out later that I shot his father?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s going to take a lot of courage.”

“He might not forgive me if he learned what happened from someone else. He may not anyway, but I think there’s a better chance if I’m frank with him right from the start.”

“I’m sure he won’t blame you,” Sylvia said, giving Betty a pat on the arm. “As I remembered him, he’s an awfully nice boy.”

“Suppose we go inside and let Mom drum up some breakfast,” Marshall suggested.

“All right,” Betty agreed. “Bud will be waking up any time now.”

Inside, Betty directed Sylvia to the kitchen and oriented her on the locations of cooking utensils and supplies. Despite her poor memory for faces, there was nothing vague about Sylvia when it came to cooking. She was perfectly at home in any kitchen. When Betty left her alone to go upstairs she was mixing a coffee-cake batter before Betty got as far as the entry hall.

Betty was gone a full half-hour. When she finally came back downstairs she had young Bud by the hand. The boy was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His face was expressionless, but his red-rimmed eyes showed that he had just stopped crying.

“Hello, Mr. Marshall,” he said formally.

“Morning, Bud.” He gave Betty an inquiring look.

“I explained exactly what happened,” she said. “He understands that it was just an unfortunate accident.”

Marshall said, “We’re all sorry about your father, Bud.”

“Thank you,” the boy said in the same formal tone.

Marshall’s heart went out to the youngster. It must have been a tremendous shock for a ten-year-old to be awakened with the news that his father was dead. After the first flood of grief, the boy obviously was attempting to prove he was a man by exhibiting no emotion whatever.

He wasn’t quite succeeding, despite his poker face, though. He was clinging so tightly to his mother’s hand, Marshall wondered if the grip was hurting her.

At least he seemed not to blame his mother for the accident. By the relieved look on Betty’s face Marshall realized she had dreaded that he would. It must have taken considerable courage to face him and frankly tell him everything.

Sylvia came from the direction of the dining room and said, “I’m all ready for everyone. We’ll just use the kitchen table.” She looked curiously at Bud. “Hello, young man.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Marshall,” Bud said.

Sylvia’s memory seemed to be working better than usual at the moment. After only momentary puzzlement at how the young man knew her, she said, “You’re Bud, Betty’s son, aren’t you? I’m sorry about your father.”

“Thank you,” Bud said.

Sylvia, who was a marvelous cook, had managed to turn out a delicious coffee cake during the half-hour Betty was upstairs. She offered to cook bacon and eggs also, but no one wanted any. Bud, who probably ate a substantial breakfast ordinarily, if he had a typical ten-year-old’s appetite, merely picked at a piece of coffee cake and drank a glass of milk. Marshall managed to eat two pieces and Sylvia had one, but Betty had only coffee.

By eight a.m. the breakfast dishes were done and they were all seated in the front room when the doorbell rang. Marshall went to answer it.

It was Chief Meister and a tall, unsmiling man in civilian clothes who carried a large square box by its handle. Beyond them, in front of the porch, Marshall could see a uniformed policeman seated behind the wheel of a squad car.

The chief introduced the unsmiling civilian as Harold Farroway of the state police crime lab. Inviting them in, Marshall re-introduced Farroway to everyone in the front room. When this formality was completed, the chief asked Betty’s permission to show Farroway around upstairs.

“Of course,” she said. “Want me to go with you?”

“I know the way around,” Meister said.

He left the lab man upstairs and returned alone.

“We’ll want to take a look at your roof,” he said to Betty. “Got a ladder around here?”

“There’s one already in place at the back of the house,” she said. “I’ve already been up there this morning. There’s a piece of rope tied to an air-vent pipe right over the window where the screen was cut.”

Meister frowned, apparently not appreciating amateur investigation in advance of police investigation, but he made no comment. Excusing himself, he went outside.

Marshall trailed after him, and after a moment Betty and Bud came outdoors, too. The boy was again gripping his mother’s hand tightly.

Marshall recognized the stocky, red-haired man behind the wheel of the squad car as a patrolman named Charles Graves. Chief Meister was leaning in the window of the car talking to him, and Graves was nodding his head understandingly.

The man climbed from the car just as Marshall reached the bottom of the porch steps and Betty and Bud came out the door.

“Hi, Kirk,” he said. “ ‘Morning, Mrs. Chase.”

He went around the side of the house to the rear.