Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016

End of the Affair by Bill Pronzini

Bill Pronzini and his wife writer Marcia Muller (who also appears in this issue) are one of only two couples (after Ross Macdonald and Margaret Millar) who have both achieved Grand Master status from the Mystery Writers of America. Pronzini’s most famous creation, the Nameless Detective, first appeared in a 1971 novel and has since featured in more than forty more books. One of the most versatile writers in the field, the California author is also a prolific short-story writer. He has won multiple Shamus awards and a best-novel Edgar.

Jenna was early for the Friday noon rendezvous with Clayton at L’Aubergine. Deliberately early. What she had to do here today was not going to be easy. Some pre-luncheon fortification would help her get through it as painlessly as possible.

The little French bistro had been their weekly meeting place throughout the eight months of their affair. Not only because the food was good and the service excellent, but because it was located just three short blocks from Clayton’s apartment. Daytime lovemaking on an empty stomach had never appealed to her. A martini, a light lunch — salade de crevette, sole meunière, quiche aux épinards — and a glass or two of imported wine relaxed her and did wonders for her libido. Clayton’s, too, for that matter.

The restaurant was already partially full. More than one male head turned in her direction as Armand, the head waiter, escorted her to the private booth she and Clayton customarily shared. Jenna was used to this sort of attention. Naturally her dark good looks drew the male eye. She exuded, with no particular effort on her part, what Adam had referred to as his trophy wife’s “smoldering Mediterranean sexuality.”

In the booth she ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini, very dry, and asked that it be delivered quickly. While she waited she exchanged smiles with some of the men at nearby tables. Not being coquettish about it, merely acknowledging their open admiration. It was one thing to possess a healthy vanity, quite another to flaunt it in public. Not even the cattiest of jealous females could deny that Jenna Burroughs was well bred and a model of decorum everywhere except in the bedroom.

She drank the martini in small, ladylike sips, not too quickly. The gin warmth immediately began to relax her. By the time she finished it, at one minute till noon, the mild glow she felt made the task ahead seem less difficult.

Clayton arrived promptly at twelve. Punctuality was one of his virtues, along with good manners and mostly faultless taste in clothing. As well bred as she, in that regard. He was also handsome in a blond, fresh-faced, boyish way. And a fantastic lover — oh my yes! Altogether a fine specimen of the male animal, Clayton Marlow... or he would have been if it weren’t for his shortcomings.

He kissed her cheek, whispered, “Darling, you look wonderful,” in her ear, seized one of her hands as he seated himself across from her, and gazed unblinkingly into her eyes. Shortcoming number one: that worshipful devotion of his. It was all well and good for him to be in love with her, as he’d often enough professed, but to practically wag his tail every time they were together had ceased to be amusing and become tedious.

“God, it’s good to see you, Jenna. I couldn’t stand being away from you another minute.”

“It hasn’t been that long, really.”

“Two and a half weeks. Ten days since your husband’s fall, and nearly a week before that. I wish you’d been able to get away sooner.”

“I had a great deal to attend to. Funeral and burial arrangements and meetings with Adam’s attorney and business associates, among other things.”

“Still, you could have found time to call. I mean, before yesterday to arrange this lunch. We have so much to talk about, plans to make.”

“Plans?”

“For our future, now that you’re free.”

Shortcoming number two: his possessiveness. It had grown to an annoying degree even before Adam’s death. If there was one thing she couldn’t abide in a man, it was a self-entitled sense of ownership. First her husband, then her lover. Intolerable.

Jenna withdrew her hand from his. Clayton frowned, then for the first time seemed to notice her empty glass. “You’ve already had a martini,” he said.

“Yes. Do you mind?”

“Well, no, but you should have waited for me. You don’t want another, do you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“All right, then, I’ll have a double to catch up. Then we’ll talk about us. Or would you rather order lunch first?”

“I’m not hungry, Clay.”

“Not hungry? Why not? You’re not sick, are you?”

Yes, she thought, I am. Of you, dear heart.

“Jenna?”

“Order the drinks, please.”

Clayton signaled the waiter, placed the order. He tried then to continue the conversation about future plans, and when she resisted, saying, “When the drinks come,” he made one of his pouty mouths — shortcoming number three — before once more fixing her with that intense puppyish gaze.

Shortcoming number four: He simply wasn’t very adult. Reasonably well-educated and a moderately successful architect — one of his designs had been showcased at a municipal fund-raiser, which was how she’d met him — but with a somewhat dull, narrowly focused mind and an ingenuous outlook on life. A boy, really, in a man’s body. There was no way she could spend her newfound freedom with a worshipful, possessive, naive boy-man, no matter how fabulous he was in bed. The world, the great wide wonderful world, was full of men who were fabulous in bed.

When the martinis arrived he clinked his glass against hers. “To us,” he said. Jenna sipped without answering.

“Now, then. Plans. How soon do you think—?”

She knew what he was about to say — “How soon do you think we can be married?” — and cut him off before he could finish the sentence. It was time to take the initiative. “Plans, yes,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve made some, after a lot of thought the past several days, but I’m afraid you won’t like hearing them.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t include you, at least not for the present.”

“Don’t include me?” The pouty mouth, and he grasped her hand again, more tightly this time. “What’re you talking about?”

“I need time to myself. Time to come to terms with my loss, to decide what I—”

“Your loss? For Christ’s sake, you hated that husband of yours.”

“Hate is too strong a word. Adam was an old bore, but he cared for me, he gave me everything I asked for—”

“Not everything, not by a long shot. Not what I’ve given you, what I intend to keep on giving you.”

“Clay, please try to understand. I can’t marry you, at least not for a while. I’m not ready for another commitment, I may never be ready. All I’m sure of right now is that I need a change of scenery, a getaway trip to Europe—”

“Europe!”

“Yes. Paris, the French Riviera.”

“Alone?”

“Of course alone. You don’t think I have another lover?”

“Do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know there’s been no one else but you.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind. I can’t stand the thought of you being with another man.”

“I tell you there is no other man.”

He was angry now. She could see it sparking in the clear blue of his eyes. “Then why are you trying to end things between us? Here, in a public restaurant, just like that?”

“I told you—”

“You told me crap.” His grip on her wrist was painful now; she tried in vain to pull free. “You can’t do it, Jenna. You can’t blindside me like this, I won’t stand for it.”

“Let go of me—”

“No, I won’t. I won’t let you go.” He leaned toward her across the table. “Not after all we’ve been to each other. Not after what I did so we can be together.”

“... What do you mean, what you did?”

In a fierce whisper: “You and everybody else think your husband’s death was an accident. Well, it wasn’t. The old bastard didn’t trip and fall down those beach steps, I threw him down.”

Jenna stared at him open-mouthed. His words seemed to reverberate inside her head. My God, she thought. My God! She snatched up her martini, drained it at a gulp.

“I waited for him out there that night.” Still in that low, fierce whisper. “In clear weather he always went for a walk alone along the bluff before going to bed — you told me that. You also told me you had a concert date with your friend Ellen that night, so I knew you wouldn’t be home. I slipped onto the grounds and hid in the shrubbery by the stairs. And when he came by I grabbed him and shoved him down.”

All she could think of to say was, “You must be mad.”

“Mad for you, yes. So now you see how much I love you, why I can’t and won’t let you go.”

Jenna struggled again to free herself. When he still wouldn’t let go she scratched her nails across the back of his hand, not quite hard enough to draw blood. That made him release her. She pushed back from the table, started to rise.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“Where do you think? The police.”

“No, you’re not. Sit down, Jenna.”

“I don’t want anything more to do with you—”

“Sit down, I said.” Harshly, much more harshly than he’d ever spoken to her before.

Heads and eyes turned their way. To avoid a scene, she sank back into the booth.

“You wouldn’t get rid of me by going to the police,” Clayton said, leaning forward and whispering again. “You’d only end up hurting yourself. Turn me in and I won’t deny that I did it. But I’ll tell them it was your idea, that we planned it together.”

“No! You wouldn’t do that—”

“Oh yes, I would. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep from losing you.”

“They wouldn’t believe you.”

“I’d make them believe me. I’d be very convincing. We’d both go to prison.”

“Prison!”

“So there’s only one thing you can do and that’s to marry me, let me take care of you for the rest of our lives.”

Emotional intensity caused the blue eyes to bulge and glisten; ridges of muscle showed whitely along his jawline. She had never seen him like this before. She’d been so sure she knew him, so sure she could handle this situation, so sure of herself...

“Well?” he said.

“I... I can’t think straight right now. I need time to come to terms with this. Please, Clay.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know. A day, two days...”

“No. Take the rest of today, that’s long enough.”

There was no use arguing with him. Despite their lowered voices, some of the other diners were still casting glances in their direction. “All right. I’ll come to your place tonight—”

“No, I’ll come to yours.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea...”

“I do. I want to see the house we’ll be living in together.”

Jenna drove home in an angry half-daze. Thinking over and over: What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

Adam had always called their property “the Burroughs estate,” though the term was a little on the grandiose side. An eleven-room house on two well-and-scaped bluff-top acres that overlooked the ocean and a strip of rocky private beach some sixty feet below. He’d been a successful developer, rich by his standards if not quite by hers. She had already arranged to put the property on the market as soon as Adam’s will was probated, which should be fairly soon, and if it could be sold at or near the asking price, she stood to clear more than a million dollars after the agent’s commission. Investments and liquid cash accounts amounted to another million or so, all of which she also stood to inherit. Two and a half million dollars was more than enough to finance a permanent move to Europe, years of first-class travel, and a luxurious lifestyle. That had been the plan, such a wonderful plan. Now...

What am I going to do about Clayton?

She put her BMW away in the garage, went into the house to change into more casual clothes, then made her way through the rear garden and down the long sloping lawn to the path that stretched along the bluff top. The path was set back some distance from the shrubbery-bordered edge, so there was no danger to anyone walking along the flagstones — even at night, as long as one carried a flashlight as Adam always had. The only perilous spots were the short sandy strip that sloped off to the stairs leading down to the beach, and the stairs themselves — closely set wooden risers cemented into the steep bluff face. Handrails on both sides made descent and ascent safe enough on clear, dry days. No one, not even Adam, had the poor sense to venture down the steps at night or in rain or fog.

But what Adam had liked to do on his nocturnal walks, especially on moonlit nights, was to detour to the narrow platform at the top of the stairs and stand there looking out over the ocean. Flash beam and/or moonshine lighted the way, so there was no risk in doing this under ordinary circumstances.

Under ordinary circumstances.

Jenna picked her way down the sandy strip to the platform. The day was windy; white-crested waves broke over the rocks below, sending up great fans of froth and foam. Very pretty effect, but she had no interest in the whitewater view today. She knelt and carefully examined the bottoms of the support posts for the railings on both sides.

No marks had been left by the woven vines she’d looped and tied very low around the posts, then concealed with leaves and twigs — the wirelike strand that had tripped Adam as he stepped onto the platform ten nights ago and sent him hurtling downward to his death. She’d made sure of that when she returned from the concert and discovered his body, by removing all signs of the deathtrap before calling nine-one-one. Still, she’d felt compelled to go over the area once more, to reassure herself that there were absolutely no traces.

Damn that crazy, possessive fool Clayton and his false confession! Everything had gone so perfectly according to plan until he’d sprung that lie on her. The police hadn’t suspected Adam’s fall was anything other than a tragic accident, the result of age and carelessness. Even if they had, her concert alibi was unimpeachable. All that had remained for her to do before she set off on her new life, she’d thought, was to end the affair with Clayton. How could she possibly have foreseen that he’d claim to have murdered Adam, and worse, much worse, threaten to tell the police it was her idea if she didn’t submit to his demands?

Jenna shivered as she stood up, and not just from the chill of the sea wind. Quickly she made her way back to the flagstone path, then up to the house. Inside she poured herself a large snifter of brandy, sat with it in the Frenchprovincial living room.

Marry Clayton! No way was that going to happen. She’d never felt anything for him other than sexual desire, never thought of him as anything more than a temporary diversion. Her mistake was in misjudging the intensity of his feelings for her, the extent of his possessiveness. Now that she knew what he was really like under that naive exterior, the lengths to which he was willing to go to hold onto her, he’d become as repellent as a bug under a rock.

Yet she couldn’t just walk away from him now. God knew what might happen if she tried. As obsessed with her as he was, he might even go to the police himself and carry out his threat to blame her for his fantasy crime.

There was only one thing she could do, then.

She would have to kill him.

The prospect was distasteful, but no more so than her decision to end her stifling marriage to Adam. It was a simple matter of doing what was necessary in order to survive and survive securely.

The question was how to do it. Not with a knife or gun or blunt instrument; she was not a violent person, couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Poison? No. An accident of some kind... that was the best, the safest way. Not the sort of accident she’d arranged for Adam, of course, but one equally clever and with absolutely no risk of her being suspected. She’d done it once, she could do it again. All she needed was a little time to work out the details.

Meanwhile, she would pretend to have had second thoughts about ending the affair, convince Clayton she still cared for him and would consent to his wishes. Sleep with him, make plans for a future with him, string him along until she could be rid of him once and for all.

Clayton had told her to expect him at seven o’clock, but he didn’t arrive until almost eight. He wore the same clothing as at L’Aubergine, but the attire was no longer faultless; his suit coat was rumpled, his shirt front spot-stained, his tie slightly askew. He’d been drinking — even at a distance Jenna could smell the liquor on his breath. She’d never seen him drunk, and he seemed steady enough, but the glaze on his eyes told her he was far from sober.

She’d put on one of the sexy peignoirs he liked, pale blue and virtually transparent, but he seemed not to notice. He made no effort to kiss or embrace her. Just as well, for now. It would be difficult enough feigning passion in bed later if he insisted on spending the night. She led him into the living room. He’d never been here before, of course, but contrary to what he’d said in the bistro, he showed no interest in the décor or the furnishings. He looked nowhere but at her.

She considered offering him a drink, decided he’d had more than enough alcohol, and went to sit on the love seat in front of the white marble fireplace.

He followed her, but he didn’t sit next to her. Just stood stiffly looking down at her, unsmiling.

“Well?” he said.

“I’ve thought it all out, Clay. I won’t leave you, not even for a little while.”

“Because of what I told you earlier, the threat I made.”

“Yes, partly, but—”

“It was all a lie, you know. I didn’t kill your husband.”

She couldn’t help blinking her surprise. “Then why did you say you did?”

“I was desperate after you blindsided me, I couldn’t think of any other way to keep us together.”

“Suppose I had gone to the police. Would you have carried out your threat?”

“I don’t know. I might have.”

“Then why are you telling the truth now?”

“I did a lot of thinking today too. Reached a decision. I can’t hold onto you with lies. I love you too much.”

Careful now, Jenna. Careful! “I had no idea your feelings ran so deep. No one has ever loved me that much before.”

“But you don’t love me at all.”

“But I do. Oh, darling, I was wrong to think of leaving you... I know that now. I know we belong together.”

“So you’ll marry me.”

“Yes. Not right away, of course — it wouldn’t look right, it’s too soon after Adam’s death. A few months. Meanwhile, we’ll see each other as often as we can—”

“I don’t believe you,” he said flatly.

“... What?”

“No more lies, Jenna.”

“I’m not lying—”

“Yes, you are. No — more — lies.”

She got quickly to her feet, letting the bodice of the peignoir gape open, and reached out to touch him. He backed away from her. Damn! This was not going at all as she’d planned. She’d misjudged him again; he was no longer the naive boy-man she could wrap around her little finger. A stranger... a halfdrunk, none too stable stranger.

“You think I’m a fool, but I’m not,” he said. “I know you’re just pretending now, trying to placate me until you’re ready to go away, alone or with some other man.”

“There’s no one but you. I swear there isn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. If there isn’t one now, there would be soon enough. I won’t let another man have you, Jenna. Now or ever.”

He’d slipped his hand into his coat pocket; he took it out as he spoke. Lamplight glinted off the metal object that came with it.

A gun, oh God, a gun!

And he pointed it straight at her heart.

Shocked disbelief held her rooted in place. “Clay, what’re you doing—”

“What you wanted all along. End the affair. The right way, the only way for both of us.”

“No!”

“Together, always,” he said, and fired.