Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 2, April/May 1966

A Deadly Secret by Beatrice S. Smith

They had a secret and they kept it well... but in the end it killed them.

Early September in the midwest is often unbearable, with a humid heat that digs deep under your skin and stays there. This was one of those days. The dried fields actually shrivelled under the sun’s glare. Feeling pretty shrivelled myself, I watched them from the dusty window of the Long Lake bus. One thing, I had absolutely no premonition of disaster. Only a fierce urge to kick somebody, preferably a man, in the stomach.

Two weeks before, during our coffee break, Brad Halloway, the man I intended to marry, looked at me over the edge of his paper cup and told me he’d fallen in love with somebody else. “A blonde,” he said, as though that explained everything and maybe it did. I haven’t been able to drink coffee out of a paper cup since.

Since Brad was head of the department where I worked, I naturally turned in my resignation. No dying swan act for me, thank you. Mr. Field, the personnel manager and a real sweet guy, found me this job in Long Lake. I was to be secretary to the principal of Long Lake Grade School, of all things. The idea tickled me. I’m no burlesque queen, but I’m a lot closer, as far as looks and personality are concerned, to being a stripper than I am to being a teacher.

I was the only passenger getting off the bus at Long Lake, which wasn’t unusual. It was a real small town. But when the bus pulled away, I had a crazy notion to run after it. I remember that, though I’d hardly call the feeling a premonition.

There was a cab parked at the curb, the only cab in the whole place, I found out later. “Three-sixteen Maple Street,” I told the driver, a short, long-nosed, bald-headed fellow, a Jimmy Durante type.

“Oh, Nettie Barnard’s place over by the school. What you want over there? You sellin’ something?” the driver asked me, giving me the big eye from under his cap.

“I’m going to work at the school,” I said, then, figuring there was no sense hiding anything, I gave him the rest. “I’m the new secretary. My name is Marta Hale and I’ve rented a room from Miss Barnard. Do you know her?”

“Yep,” he said and spit out the window. “You’re takin’ Aggie Drury’s place, eh?” I said I didn’t know. “She was the secretary at the school for nearly forty years,” he told me. “Forty years!” I said. “I didn’t think anybody was a secretary that long.”

“Yep, Aggie was. And I reckon she’d be here yet if she hadn’t caught a lead ball.”

“Hadn’t what?” I leaned forward, sure I hadn’t heard right. But the cabby didn’t answer. He acted as if he didn’t hear me. Maybe he didn’t, I don’t know. Anyway, a few seconds later we pulled up in front of a big two-story house. A screened porch covered with the standard grape vines stretched across the front with red geraniums beside the steps. A pretty place, in a small town sort of way. Cheap rent, too. And with my own private bath, yet. At least that’s what Miss Barnard had said in her letter.

“Thanks,” I said to my peculiar little driver. “I wonder if anybody’s home.” The house looked very quiet, even for a small town. A motel room was what I should have rented. More my type.

“Oh, Nettie’s home all right. She don’t go out much. Bad legs. Varicose veins, I guess. My brother Fred’s got veins, too. Big ones. Like that,” my friend told me, with gestures, of course. I paid my fare and started up the steps.

“Thanks. You want a cab sometime, you call me. My name’s Oscar,” Oscar yelled after me. I nodded and rang the doorbell.

Then, “Yes?” I couldn’t talk. Never in my life had I ever seen such a character as this one. Purple eyeshadow, black mascara, pencilled-on eyebrows. That wasn’t so bad. But add red rouge, pink lipstick, lavender hair and long ropes of beads and bands of bracelets and you have quite a picture. “I... I’m Marta Hale,” I stuttered, really overcome and I’m no innocent abroad, if you know what I mean.

“Come in, my dear. I’m Nettie Barnard. I’ve been expecting you, but I wasn’t expecting anyone as — anyone quite so young and pretty as you.” She flubbed it. But she had a very nice voice. It didn’t match her get-up at all. Actually, she looked a lot like a white slaver I used to know. The whole house smelled of disinfectant, too. A good clean smell, but inappropriate, somehow. It was awfully strong, if you know what I mean.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you exactly when I’d be here, but you see I—” I stopped. I couldn’t very well spill out my life history to this perfect stranger, but it would have been easy. White slaver or not, she had a very sympathetic way about her, and I was lonely. In fact I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, though, I felt a lot better. The day was bright and I’d slept like a baby, in spite of my broken heart and jittery nerves. I went to the drugstore for breakfast. Nettie had said the night before that she positively wasn’t interested in giving me any meals, which was all right. I’m not fond of cooking myself. There was just one other person at the counter, an old gent with a cataract in one eye. To tell the truth, I was hoping I might meet someone interesting. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t husband-hunting. Far from it. I just wanted- a man. Any man. To bolster my morale, so to speak. But I didn’t find him in the drugstore.

When I got to school, teachers were grouped in twos and threes outside their rooms, gossiping, I suppose. They were all female, unfortunately. A young girl, very pale and thin with long wispy brown hair, looked up as I walked into the outer office. “Hi,” I said to her. “I’m Marta Hale.”

“Oh, hi,” she said. “I was wondering — that is, you’re nothing like Miss Drury — I mean, well, I’m Betty Lou Sheldon. I help out here sometimes.”

“Fine. I’m happy to meet you,” I told her, really making it warm and cheerful. Sixteen or seventeen, I figured, seven or eight years younger than I was, but she looked like something left behind in Greenwich Village.

“Mr. Van Buren’s expecting you. His office is straight through that door over there, the one that’s open.”

“Come in,” a deep voice called from the inner sanctum.

I moistened my lips and smiled, the way I’d been taught by my mother who, when she was younger, had been a Vegas showgirl. And there he was. The man I’d been looking for. Tall and dark, the way Brad was, but more mature. Quite mature, as a matter of fact. Middle forties maybe, but he’d do. I decided that right away.

“I... I wasn’t expecting anyone like you,” he said, stuttering somewhat. “From Mr. Field’s letter, I’d assumed you would be older.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone like you either,” I told him, smiling, giving him the whole treatment. But gently.

“You’ve met Betty Lou, of course. She’ll help you whenever you need her,” he went on, very formal-like. “I’ll introduce you to the teachers this afternoon. The children, of course, won’t arrive for another week. That will be all, Miss Hale, unless you — unless you have a question.”

I stood up. I have a pretty good figure, better than Mother’s ever was she tells me, and I stood straight, with my shoulders back. “Thank you. I think I’m going to like it here,” I said, politely, but with a meaning he could take or leave. A tiny movement of his head showed that he’d taken it all right. I was satisfied and left, swaying ever so slightly.

Betty Lou showed me the ropes that morning and when she left at noon, I decided to work right through the lunch hour. But about twelve-fifteen this tall, sleek woman with silvery blonde hair done in a big pouf, stalked into the office. And I mean stalked, just like a big cat. “I’m Christine Anderson,” she said. “I teach second grade. Let’s go to lunch and get acquainted.”

Puzzled, I introduced myself and told her I’d love to go to lunch. I tried not to show it, but I was surprised that a teacher would bother with a mere secretary. She wasn’t young. I saw that right away. She had a creamy complexion and no wrinkles, but there was a faint crepiness around her throat and a thickness around her waist. Late thirties, maybe. I noticed that she was looking me over as carefully as I was her. Then it hit me. This was my competition. I grinned to myself. I like competition, so long as it doesn’t sneak up from behind me like that dirty blonde of Brad’s. I didn’t even know she existed until that morning during coffee break, can you imagine?

“The school doesn’t have a hot lunch program, so everyone has to go out at noon,” Christine said, her eyes on my left hand. She looked rather wistful.

“Oh,” I replied, wishing as much as she did that I was wearing a diamond. We both took a breath, ready to tee off.

“A kitchen would dirty up the place. Roger hates mess and disorder. Most men do,” Christine said, carelessly dropping Mr. Van Buren’s first name, thus letting me know her experience both here and afar.

“Is Mr. Van Buren married?” I asked, laying my cards on the table. I think if he had been, I would have left him to Christine. Back street affairs never interested me very much.

There was a pause. “No, he isn’t.” Short and to the point. I liked that in Christine. “Nor ever apt to be,” she added bitterly. “All he thinks about is this school. He doesn’t go anywhere or do anything. You should see where he lives. Way out in the country all by himself.” She cocked her head at me. “By the way, where do you live?”

“With Nettie Barnard. Do you know her?” I asked, wondering if anybody else had the same impression of Nettie that I did.

Christine snorted. “That crazy old witch! I know her all right.”

“She’s been nice to me,” I said, somehow anxious to defend the old lady. Witch or bitch, it didn’t matter to me. I liked her.

Christine looked at me. “You’re very young, aren’t you, Marta?”

I laughed. “I don’t know. I’m twenty-three, is that young?”

“Yes, that’s young. What are you doing here anyway?”

I shrugged. Christine wasn’t the type of person I felt like confiding in. You don’t show your opponent your cards, do you?

When I didn’t elaborate, Christine straightened her face and we went on to the hotel. At lunch she chatted about the town, the school, the people. All that. It was really quite boring.

“Did you know a Miss Drury?” I asked, more to cut her off than anything.

Christine spoke quickly. “Yes, of course I knew her.”

“Why did she leave? Was she fired?” I didn’t mention what Oscar had told me. I learned to keep my mouth shut a long time ago.

“Poor Agnes.” Christine’s comment sounded as if it had been made many times.

“What happened?”

“She shot herself.”

“Shot herself?” So Oscar had been telling the truth, I hadn’t misunderstood him.

“Yes. Poor Agnes. There are all kinds of rumors. But cancer is what I think she had. Ask Nettie. She and Agnes were good friends.”

“How awful. The poor thing.”

“Yes, it was awful—” Christine trailed off, sort of absentmindedly and that closed the conversation. I’m not fond of lingering over the gruesome details of anything anyway, so I didn’t press her.

That same afternoon about four-thirty after all the teachers had left Betty Lou came tip-toeing in. “Is Mr. Van Buren still here?” she whispered, looking first one way then the other like a bedraggled little Red Riding Hood in fear of the wolf.

“No,” I told her. “He left about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Good. I wanted to tell you about Miss Drury when he wasn’t around. You know Miss Drury, the secretary here before you came.”

“I know about her, Betty Lou. Miss Anderson told me.”

Betty Lou peered at me from under her long bangs. “Did Miss Anderson tell you Miss Drury was murdered?”

“Murdered!” I yelped. “You’re kidding!” I felt as if I’d been hit in the back with a sledge hammer.

Betty Lou shook her head. “I heard Mr. Van Buren say so right after it happened. He was talking to Nettie on the phone and he said, ‘My God, that isn’t suicide, it’s murder!’ Those were his very words and his face got as white as a sheet.”

I examined Betty Lou’s flushed little face, feeling very sorry for her. Someone should have taken her in hand a long time ago. “Betty,” I said as gently as I could. “I’m sure Mr. Van Buren didn’t mean that someone actually murdered Miss Drury. He meant she couldn’t be blamed for killing herself, that it was really her illness that made her do it. People hate to say someone committed suicide. They say instead that illness drove them to it or that they were mentally disturbed, something like that.”

“He didn’t mean that at all! You should have seen his face!”

“Oh, Betty Lou, come on now. You’re making this all up and you know it.” Sometimes you have to be tough with these kids. She was mad at me when she left. I couldn’t help it. There was just no sense in letting her go on living in the world of her imagination. I had a great imagination when I was her age myself and I knew the trouble it could get you into. I remember when my father died of acute alcoholism, I went around telling everybody he’d been poisoned. My mother nearly ended up in jail. It didn’t take her long to set me straight, believe me.

For the next few weeks I was too busy to give much thought to Betty Lou or anyone else, including Roger Van Buren. There were records to be filed, reports to be made out, purchase orders to be checked, a thousand things. I really am a good secretary, even if I don’t look it. Sometimes at night I’d be so tired, all I could do was drag myself across the street to Nettie’s and fall into bed. On those nights Nettie would bring my supper to me on a tray, though she ate mostly frozen dinners herself. She may have looked like a side-show freak, but she was a doll, really. Oh, sure, she was snoopy, but what old lady with nothing to do isn’t? To tell the truth, Nettie was the only friend I had.

After that first day Christine didn’t have any more to do with me. I knew she wouldn’t. She’d sized me up and got my number, and that was that. As for Betty Lou, I asked her to go to the show with me a couple of times, but she always refused. I think she was still mad at me. She was an odd little kid. The only family she had was her older brother, a bachelor, who owned one of the local pubs. What she needed was a mother, preferably one like mine, someone who would fix her up, set her straight, and then leave her alone.

I talked to Nettie about Betty Lou one day after school. Nettie was sitting in her little straight rocker near the window, knitting. She always sat there so she could see what was going on at school across the street. “Betty Lou seems so lonely,” I said. “I wish she’d let me do something for her.”

“You seem a little lonely yourself,” Nettie said. “There’s so little to do here. I should think you’d go home on the weekends.”

I didn’t say anything. I’d made up my mind to keep away from home until I was sure I wouldn’t go to pieces if I happened to run into Brad and his blonde. And that time hadn’t come yet.

“Don’t you get along with your parents?” Nettie asked, her raspberry mouth pursed like an old movie star’s.

“All I have is a mother and we get along fine. It isn’t that,” I told her.

She examined her knitting and without looking up, asked, “Don’t you have a boyfriend, a pretty girl like you?”

I had to smile. She wasn’t very subtle at fishing. “I had one. He’s going to marry somebody else. A blonde,” I added, for no good reason, except I figured well, why not, she might as well know the whole sad story.

“Oh, Marta, I am sorry. You’ll have to find a new one. It shouldn’t be hard.”

“It won’t be. I’ve got one all picked out, if I ever find time to work on him.”

Nettie didn’t appear to be listening. She was busy counting her stitches. “Who is it?” she asked in between a knit and a purl.

“Roger Van Buren. My boss,” I said. “He’s attractive, don’t you think?” When she didn’t answer I went on, “In some ways he reminds me of Brad, my ex-fiance, the one that got away. Only this time things are going to be different.”

“For a while every man you see will remind you of the one you lost,” Nettie said finally, but without looking up. “It’s a normal reaction in all of us to look for something we’ve lost. But he’s a little old for you. Aren’t there any teachers or anyone your own age with whom you could be friends?”

“Betty Lou is the only person anywhere near my age who’ll have anything to do with me. And she’s so full of crazy ideas, I doubt she has any friends of her own, let alone finding any for me.”

“Crazy ideas, what do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, you know Miss Drury, the woman who was the school secretary before I came, well, Betty is spreading the story around that the old lady was murdered. Murdered! Can you imagine?” I laughed, forgetting completely that Christine had told me that Nettie had been a good friend of Agnes Drury’s. But the minute the words were out, I remembered, and could have hacked off my tongue.

Nettie closed her eyes for a second. “Agnes Drury committed suicide,” she whispered. “But she was the bravest woman I’ve ever known.” She opened her eyes then and seemed to be looking at something way beyond me. I said I was sorry for saying such a stupid thing, but Nettie didn’t hear and she didn’t say goodnight when I left her. I hated myself. And usually I’m so careful about what I say, too.

The next day was Friday and Friday nights the stores in Long Lake are open. I had a notion that I might run into Roger downtown someplace and if not, I’d looked up his address and intended to hunt him down if necessary. I wasn’t getting anyplace at work. But then, neither was Christine. He was barely polite to her when she came in to ask him something, which she did about eighteen times a day.

I did a little window-shopping, bought a new lipstick at the drugstore, but all I saw were a lot of women and their kids. The taverns were crowded with men, but I was fairly sure Roger wouldn’t be in a tavern. He wasn’t the type. So not finding him downtown, I started walking. By the time I passed the business section and crossed the bridge which led to the older part of town, I must admit I had a few doubts about the sense of what I was doing. The edges of town were mostly weed-filled, empty fields pocked here and there by clumps of gloomy elms and oaks. And it was quiet. Lord, it was quiet.

Stumbling along in my usual hit-or-miss fashion, I didn’t notice that the sidewalk came to an end suddenly. A narrow path led through weeds and bramble to a gray house almost hidden by tall trees and shrubs. The house was too far back for me to see the number, but the name on the mailbox near the road said R. Van Buren. This spooky place was where Roger lived. Uneasy, and kind of ashamed of myself for running after him this way, I turned around and headed back for the bright lights. This was no place to hunt anything except a rabbit.

“Miss Hale?” Roger’s voice. I jumped. “What are you doing here in the dark?” He appeared out of the darkness like a ghost.

“Just out for a walk,” I said, swallowing, but not so he could notice.

“You should keep to the lighted streets.”

“Yes, I know.” I hesitated, groping for something to say. Finally, “Is that your house up there?” An inane thing.

“It is.” No more. He just kept looking at me.

“It... it looks very lonely.” This was spontaneous, just popping out of me.

“Yes.” Roger lifted his head. The shadows did something odd to his face, made it look old and forlorn somehow. I put out my hand and touched his arm. Old or not, he was all there was at the moment. He took a quick breath and backed away. “It’s very dark,” he muttered. “Come, I’ll walk you back to the bridge.”

“I’ll be all right, please don’t bother,” I told him, smiling bravely in a chin-up fashion.

“It won’t be a bother, I assure you. You’re a very nice-looking young woman, Miss Hale. And a good secretary, too, by the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Thank you.” I send him a limpid look from beneath my lashes. We didn’t talk much after that. It wasn’t necessary. Most women talk too much. I don’t. Something else, my mother taught me.

When we reached the bridge, Roger stopped. “I think you’ll be all right now. And after this, young lady, don’t walk around in the dark by yourself.”

I turned to face him. It was now or never. Our hands touched, not by accident, and I swayed toward him, just enough. He pulled me close and pressed his cheek against the top of my head. I clung to him then. But something went wrong.

Suddenly his body trembled against mine and he pushed me away. Pushed me away, can you imagine that? As if there was something the matter with me. Startled, I looked up. Deep furrows lined his face and, good Lord, there were tears in his eyes. Tears! “What’s the matter?” I gasped. I’d never seen a man cry in my life, except my father when he was drunk.

Roger turned his face away and closed his eyes, as if trying to shut out something too horrible to believe.

“What’s wrong, Roger?” His first name just slid out of my mouth, not on purpose.

He opened his eyes, the tears were gone, but they’d left an extra brightness. He studied my hair, my eyes, my mouth, especially my mouth. “It’s nothing, Marta. I — felt faint for a moment, that’s all. Forgive me.” And before I could think of a word to say he whirled around and disappeared in the dark.

What was the matter? Had he just had a weak spell or was there something more? I puzzled over it all the way back to Nettie’s. My foot was just about to touch the first step of the porch when someone grabbed my shoulder, nearly sparing me to death. Christine, her eyes blazing. “Out for a walk?” she said, baring her teeth. But before I could answer, she leaned close. “Keep away from Roger or I’ll kill you,” she hissed and stalked off, leaving me there with my mouth hanging open, literally. Kill me?

I let myself into the silent house and like a cowed pup crept upstairs to my room. This was wild! Christine was hysterical, of course, but even so, I certainly never would have suspected her of being so theatrical. And Roger, what was his problem? It was a long time before I calmed down enough to go to sleep that night, I’ll tell you, either everybody was crazy or I was.

I woke up a little before dawn the next morning with a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, as though something horrible had happened or was about to happen. Nettie was stirring around. I could hear her. She must have heard me, too, because she tapped at my door. “Are you sick, Marta?” I told her no and to come on in.

“Now dear, what is it? Something’s wrong. I can tell by your face.”

I had to confide in somebody and Nettie was the only person I had any confidence in so I told her all about the night before, though I didn’t say that Christine had actually threatened me. It sounded too ridiculous. And I didn’t say much about Roger’s faint.

Nettie came to life with a rattle of bracelets. She had them on from morning till night. “Leave Mr. Van Buren to Christine, Marta. He’s too old for you. There are many other men younger and more suitable for you. And if Christine loves him, be kind and let things be.”

“No one was kind to me. The girl who took Brad didn’t think about how I felt. And Brad didn’t either. Why should I play the big martyr?” I continued. “Besides, Roger doesn’t care anything for Christine.”

Nettie frowned. “Don’t be foolish, Marta. You’re confusing too very different situations.”

“I... I need someone, Nettie,” I said. And I did. Really.

“Not Roger Van Buren. Forget him, Marta.” The lavender head lifted, the old voice quavered. “Please, Marta, believe me. I know what is best for you.”

She’s old, I thought to myself, I shouldn’t be bothering her with my problems. I wanted to say something, to reassure her, to comfort her, but I didn’t. And I didn’t back down because of her either. In fact I dressed with extra care that morning. I put on a cherry-colored, lightweight wool that did things for my figure and hair. I have dark hair, really quite nice, if you don’t happen to prefer blondes.

Betty Lou was in the office when I got there with some special reports that she was going to help me with. “Do you have a new dress?” she asked me. No, I told her, I just hadn’t worn it to the office before.

She looked at me. “I suppose you think it will make Mr. Van Buren notice you,” she said, shaking her head. “How come you want a creep like that to notice you is beyond me.”

“Do you have any other suggestions?” I asked her. “If so, I’m listening.” What she said about Roger didn’t bother me. I knew Betty Lou didn’t like him. He was forever after her about not eating apples and candy bars in the office and all that. What pleased me is that at least she was talking like a human being instead of like something out of a third rate horror movie and I told her so. It was the wrong thing to say. She gave me one of those looks of hers and ran out of the office, almost knocking Roger down in the process. He was just coming in.

“What’s the matter with Betty Lou?” he asked me, naturally. I shrugged. “Adolescence plus no fun,” I told him.

“I guess nature doesn’t intend for some of us to be happy,” Roger said, his voice catching a little.

I snorted. “There’s an old Chinese proverb that says you can’t prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair. And though I’m not an old Chinese, that’s what I believe.”

Roger threw back his head and laughed. It was an odd sound, uncontrolled, as though it was something he seldom did. “What a delightful young woman you are, Marta,” he gasped. “I think you’re right. We’ve all become too solemn around here.” He took a breath. “Will you go for a drive with me tonight, no, not tonight, tomorrow night? Friday?”

I kind of gulped and nodded. I wasn’t surprised exactly. But it had come pretty fast. I’d expected to work a little harder.

Nettie surprised me, too. I knew she wouldn’t approve of my going out with Roger, but she was a lot more determined than I’d anticipated. “Don’t be foolish, Marta,” she snapped, then hesitating only a second, added, “I forbid you to go out with Roger Van Buren!”

I thought I must be hearing things. “You forbid me, Nettie.” It struck me funny and I laughed. “I haven’t been forbidden to do anything since I was five years old.”

Nettie looked at me, then smiled a sort of bitter-sweet smile. “I’m an old fool. I wish — that is, I have no right to interfere. Forgive me, my dear.”

The next morning I overslept and was ten minutes late getting to work. Roger was in the outer office waiting for me, looking a little upset.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Go ahead and bawl me out, I deserve it,” I told him. I didn’t want him to think that because he’d asked me out, I had any special privileges. I had some pride.

“I’m not angry.” He smiled, then said softly, “Your face is very expressive, Marta. Every thought shows through. When you’re worried, happy, angry, excited. It’s—” His voice trailed off. But at that exact moment I knew Roger Van Buren was in love with me. Hooked, but good. For a fullish minute I wallowed in self-satisfaction, like a pig in the mud. Then, for no reason at all, my conscience began giving me a hard time.

“I... I’m sorry I’m late. Nettie usually calls me, but she didn’t this morning and... and—” I actually stammered, but Roger seemed not to be listening. “Nettie?” he repeated vaguely.

“Yes, Nettie Barnard, my landlady. She’s very nice. She kind of watches out for me.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want this old fellow to look at me that way.

“Have you ever thought of living anywhere else? There’s a small apartment not far from my place that I think you might like. I’d like your living in my neighborhood.” There was no mistaking the emotion in his voice, or the intention either.

“I... I couldn’t leave Nettie. She... she’s been like a mother to me,” I managed, nearly gagging. If Mom could have heard me, she would have howled.

Roger’s black brows drew together. “Yes, of course,” he said, then he turned and walked slowly back to his office.

I started breathing again, and just then Christine came in. I had no idea how much she’d heard. Her eyes were narrowed and her lips tight, but when she spoke she was calm enough. “I had breakfast downtown and ran into Betty Lou’s brother,” she said. “He said Betty won’t be in this morning. She doesn’t feel well.”

Right after she left, I called to see if there was anything I could do for Betty Lou. Her brother said no, but he sounded worried. Just why I decided to skip lunch and go see the poor kid I don’t know. Maybe because she’d been in the back of my mind as somebody who needed a friend from the first day I met her. She lay in bed in her little bare room above the tavern all by herself. Big eyes, red cheeks, hair all matted. I wanted more than anything to wrap her up and take her home with me. She looked so pathetic, I told her I’d stop by in the afternoon after work to see her.

“That’s nice. It’s lonesome up here all by myself,” she said, trying to smile.

I gave her a little squeeze and went home. Nettie, sitting in her rocker by the window, looked startled when I walked in. “What are you doing home at noon? Is anything the matter?”

I told her about Betty Lou stuck up there in that hole all by herself. Nettie hesitated only a second. “We have an extra bedroom here, why don’t we bundle her up and bring her over?”

“Why Nettie, how sweet you are,” I said and I meant it. And she was. I couldn’t get over it. But after work when I went back to see Betty Lou and told her about Nettie’s offer, she refused to come. I was sure it was because she thought it would be an imposition and I wouldn’t take no for an answer, just bundled her up, called Oscar and away we went. I was certain she’d be grateful once Nettie and I settled her down. She wasn’t.

“Why did you make me come here?” she whispered after Nettie went downstairs.

“So you’d have somebody to take care of you. Why else?”

“Well, I don’t like it here with that crazy old Nettie. She’ll probably try to kill me just the way she did Miss Drury,” Betty Lou said, so loud I was afraid Nettie would hear her.

I was mad. “Betty Lou! What’s the matter with you anyway. You’re being ridiculous and you know it!”

“I’m afraid of her,” Betty Lou said and started to cry.

That was Thursday night. All the next day Betty Lou was on my mind, but Fridays were busy at school and besides that, Roger was breathing over me. Around noon he came up and stood behind me. I kept on typing, pretending I didn’t know he was there.

“Marta,” he said quietly, too quietly. I knew the expression that was going to be on his face even before I turned around. And sure enough. His whole face had gone soft. It made me feel weak inside, helpless, cornered, “Marta,” he said again. “What time shall I pick you up tonight? We are going out, aren’t we?” He sounded more like sixteen than forty-six. It was pathetic. There was no sense in my prolonging this silly game. “I can’t go out tonight, Mr. Van Buren,” I said. “You see, Betty Lou is staying at our house. She’s sick and I hate to leave her. Nettie’s too old to be running up and down stairs, so... so I don’t think I’ll be able to go. Maybe some other time,” I said, letting him down easy, but hoping he’d get the message.

Roger scowled. “What’s the matter with Betty Lou? What’s she doing at Nettie’s?”

“Just the flu, but she’s quite sick and needs attention that’s why Nettie and I are taking care of her.”

“Just the flu, are you sure?”

“I guess so. We haven’t had the doctor yet, unless Nettie called Doctor Carberry today.”

Roger came nearer, hovering over me like a wet nurse. “How long has she been sick?”

“A day or two, I’m not sure.”

“Don’t you go near her!” Roger cried suddenly, gripping my shoulder. I stared at him. “Flu is very infectious,” he said fiercely. “Perhaps you’d better go visit your relatives for the weekend. I don’t want you to get sick.”

I actually blushed. Luckily, it was close to noon and I could leave. I gathered up my things and started down the hall, passing Christine’s room on the way. Her door was open. And a really brilliant thought hit me. If I could get her and Roger together, I’d be doing everybody an immense favor. I’ll admit I was mostly thinking of myself, but I felt sorry for Roger, and Christine, too, for that matter. My heart wasn’t made of iron.

“Christine,” I called. She raised her head, wary as a rattler. There was no use mincing words. “I’m throwing in the towel. Roger is yours.”

She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, then she laughed, a harsh sound. “Not any more. Ten years ago, he was. He loved me. He truly did. I know it.” She examined the green blotter on her desk as if it offered a glimpse into the past. “Just when I thought he might propose, he said he didn’t want to see me any more. I... I made a fool of myself, I guess. At least that’s what Nettie said.”

“Nettie?”

“I was living with her then, in your room as a matter of fact.” Christine looked vague, as if the present was unfamiliar to her. “Nettie was right. I was a fool. I still am.”

“Do you suppose there was a perfectly good reason why Roger couldn’t marry you? Maybe he had a mad wife hidden in the attic. Or a couple of dead bodies buried in the basement,” I said, trying to lighten the conversation, but Christine didn’t respond at all. “That was a long time ago, Christine. Ten years! My Lord,” I went on, really quite shaken.

“I still love him,” Christine said simply.

“Well, for Pete’s sake, if you still feel that way after all this time, go after him. Only don’t act so desperately. He likes people to be gay. Laugh it up,” I said, making like Dear Abby or somebody. “Come on,” I added briskly. “Powder your nose and let’s have lunch. I’ll call Nettie and see how Betty Lou is while you’re fixing your face.”

Christine smiled. Ten years seemed to have dropped from her face. “Betty Lou?” she repeated conversationally.

“She’s still sick. Nettie has her at our house now.”

“That Nettie!” Christine shook her head, laughing at nothing, as a person does who is suddenly relieved of an enormous pressure. It was a little unsettling to see her change so fast, but I put it out of my mind and called Nettie. She said she’d telephoned Doctor Carberry and he had prescribed something to lower Betty’s temperature and I wasn’t to worry.

Relieved, I went out to lunch with Christine. But, honestly, she talked so much and so fast and about such disconnected subjects that by the time we got back to school my head was splitting. I even felt a little sick to my stomach, but whether from nerves or what I don’t know. Anyway, I left work early, about four o’clock, but I didn’t tell Roger, figuring he’d throw a fit if he thought I was sick.

Nettie was in the hall putting on her coat when I camp in. “What are you doing home so early, Marta?” she asked and I thought for a minute she was going to feel my forehead the way my dad used to when I was little.

“Just a headache, that’s all. Now don’t you start worrying about me. Roger is enough!”

Nettie frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You’d better lie down,” she said. “I’m going to the drugstore to pick up Betty Lou’s prescription.” Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on her purple coat.

Something in her voice made my stomach muscles constrict. “Is Betty Lou worse?”

“I don’t know.” Nettie’s answer was distracted.

“I’ll go to the drugstore for you.”

“No, I need the air. I’ll go.”

“Is there anything I can do while you’re gone?”

“No! Just stay away from Betty Lou. One person is enough to take care of.” The unexpected sharpness in Nettie’s voice surprised me, but I didn’t let it bother me. She was tired, nervous, and too old to be nursing the sick.

The house was quiet after Nettie left. And it was chilly. Indian summer with its humid heat was suddenly over. I sat down in Nettie’s rocker, arms outstretched and head back. It had been a hectic day. All I could hear was the clock ticking away on top of the piano. Gradually the sound grew fainter and my muscles relaxed.

“Help me!”

I jumped to my feet, not sure whether I’d been dreaming or what.

“Help me!” The cry again. Not a dream. It was dark and for a second I had no idea where I was. I snapped on the table lamp beside the rocker and looked at the clock. Six-thirty. Six-thirty? Where was Nettie? She’d left over two hours ago.

“Please, somebody, help me!” Upstairs. Betty Lou. I dashed up the stairs two at a time and there she lay half out of bed, tossing her head from side to side. “I want to go home,” she moaned. “Please, somebody, get me out of here.”

I pulled the blankets around her. “You’re all right, Betty, but you mustn’t get out of bed.”

“Marta? Is it you?” Betty Lou’s eyes were feverishly bright. She raised herself to a sitting position and her nose began to bleed. With blood streaming from her nose, she cried out, “Get me out of here! I’m being poisoned!”

“You’re all right, honey,” I told her, trying to keep my voice calm. There’s something about a lot of blood that curls my toes. “Lie back and rest. I’m going to call the doctor.”

With shaking legs, I hurried to the telephone. Doctor Carberry, a kind, tired, youngish-old man with black horn-rimmed glasses, was the only doctor in town. I dialed his number, my fingers thick and clumsy. “Doctor Carberry?” I told him who I was and that I thought that even though he’d already sent in a prescription for Betty Lou, I still thought he should come and see her. I went on to explain her latest symptoms, including the obvious delirium, being as specific as I could.

“Betty Lou?” Doctor Carberry said when I finally stopped talking.

“Yes, Betty Lou Sheldon. Nettie Barnard talked to you about her this morning.”

“Why, I haven’t seen or talked with Nettie in more than three weeks and that was about her legs,” Doctor Carberry said. “There’s some mistake here somewhere, but if the girl is as sick as you say, I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes.”

I managed a thank-you and hung up. Nettie hadn’t called Doctor Carberry? But she said she did. She was on her way now to pick up a prescription. What was going on? I dialed the drugstore.

“Nettie Barnard?” the druggist said. “No, Nettie hasn’t been in here tonight, haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks, as a matter of fact.”

“You have a prescription there for Betty Lou Sheldon, don’t you? Nettie was supposed to pick it up.”

“Betty Lou Sheldon. Let me see.” There was a silence. A long one. “No, there’s no prescription here for Betty Lou. Sure you haven’t made a mistake?”

I mumbled something and hung up. No, I hadn’t made a mistake. Nettie had lied to me. But this was crazy. While I waited for Doctor Carberry a million thoughts ran through my mind, all senseless.

The doctor nodded briefly when he came in and I rushed him up the stairs. He looked as if he was going to say something, but I didn’t wait to hear what it was. I had to find Nettie. She’d lied to me. That’s all I could think about. Where could she be? She couldn’t walk far. Bad legs, as Oscar put it. Oscar. Might he have taken her some place? “Yep,” he said, after I got him on the phone. “But seems like where I take my customers is pretty much my own business, ain’t it?” I can still hear him, the funny old guy.

“Oh, Oscar, please,” I begged. I don’t beg often.

“No need to sweat it, Miss Hale. About an hour or so ago I ran her out to Van Buren’s old place, you know, out on the edge of town, the old gray house used to belong to that lumber man.”

I couldn’t believe it and still didn’t when Oscar repeated what he’d said. “Oscar, listen, can you come and pick me up? Right away? I want you to take me out there, too.”

“Sure thing,” he said and was there in just a few minutes.

Before I left I hollered upstairs to Doctor Carberry that I was going out for a few minutes, but he didn’t answer. I don’t think he heard me, but I couldn’t help it. I was in a hurry. Something was the matter, I could feel it in my bones.

Oscar lifted his cap a little when he saw me, but only to scratch his bald head. “Van Buren havin’ a party? I took that silver-haired teacher out there a few minutes before I took Nettie. Some kind of a shindig, is it?”

I clung to the back of the seat to keep from falling flat on my face. Christine was at Roger’s too? What in the world was going on?

“Van Buren never had no party before that I know of. Kind of a peculiar bird, ain’t he?” Oscar glanced at me over his shoulder. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. So we didn’t talk until Oscar braked his cab to a stop at the foot of the hill that led to Roger’s house. “No road up there any more.”

“This is fine,” I breathed.

“Want me to wait? You look kinda nervous. I won’t charge for it.”

“No, I... I guess not, Oscar. And thanks.” The red tail-lights flickered and disappeared and after that I could hardly see my hand in front of me.

A faint yellow light far up the path was the only thing visible. I don’t know why I was scared. True, the house was spooky-looking, but it was Roger’s house. And he wouldn’t hurt me. Quite the opposite! Nettie? She’d lied to me, but there had to be an ordinary explanation. She was so kind, she’d never do anything really wrong. Christine? Well, once she’d been ready to slit my throat, but we were more or less friends now. Who else? Nobody. Then what? Nothing, that’s what. Still I shivered as I groped my way toward the old house, my eyes fixed on the dim light.

Suddenly, from inside the house I heard a sharp explosive sound. I jumped, my heart in my throat. Then a woman screamed, the most horrible scream I’ve ever heard and I’ve heard some wild ones on my time. I stood paralyzed. Then, gradually, like a zombie, I moved forward. Someone was dead. I knew it. Though how you know things like that with such absolute certainty, I’m not sure.

I stumbled up the steps, waited, listened. Nothing. Then with my heart in my mouth, I took hold of the icy cold doorknob and with my hand still hanging to the knob for support I looked in the room. All the horrors of a lifetime were right there.

On the flowered carpet lay Roger, quiet, deathly quiet, blood streaming from his chest. Christine was kneeling beside him, her arms out, palms up, as if begging him to come back to life. Nettie, an ugly black revolver in her lap, was sitting as stiff as a painted doll on a high-backed straight chair near the fireplace. A floor lamp with a pale silk shade threw a yellow glow over the three of them. The picture will be printed on my memory as long as I live.

“Come in, Marta,” Nettie said, hardly moving her lips.

At the sound of Nettie’s voice, Christine began to scream.

I inched across the floor. “Nettie,” I tried to say, but my throat was so dry only a croak came out. I swallowed and tried again. “Nettie! What happened?”

“Has Doctor Carberry been to see Betty Lou yet” she asked, completely ignoring my question. What is she talking about? What did Betty Lou have to do with this. “Nettie!” I said again. “What happened to Roger? Tell me! Have you called the police?”

But Nettie moved her head from side to side, as if she didn’t understand. “Christine!” I cried. “What happened. Please, tell me what happened. We must get help. Where’s the phone?”

Christine looked at me. “Roger’s dead,” she said dully.

“Marta!” I whirled around. “Did Doctor Carberry see Betty Lou?” Nettie’s voice was sharp now and she got up from her chair, long beads jangling, back and forth, back and forth. I watched them, hypnotized, and jumped like a rabbit when the revolver fell from her lap on to the floor. Could Nettie have gone crazy or what? “Answer me, Marta!”

I nodded yes, too terrified to talk.

Nettie sighed. “I’m glad. Did you talk with him?”

I shook my head.

Then she raised her dark eyes to mine. “Betty Lou has typhoid fever. I left a note in Doctor Carberry’s mailbox explaining everything. I couldn’t let the child die. She was too young.”

I was sure dear old Nettie had finally flipped. “No one has typhoid any more, Nettie. Not in this country. Now, sit down. You’re sick. I’m going to help.” I didn’t mention Roger, she seemed not to notice him at all. It was the queerest thing.

“Listen to me, Marta,” Nettie said and took hold of my arm, squeezing hard. “Betty Lou does have typhoid. She must have caught it from Roger. You see, Roger is — was a typhoid carrier.” Her eyes filmed over and for the first time she looked at the body on the floor.

I couldn’t believe what she was saying, and before it really sank in, Christine scrambled to her feet, her eyes like saucers. “Agnes was right!” she cried. “None of us would believe her when she told us that. She was right! And you—” Christine broke off, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Dear Agnes,” Nettie whispered. “She was very brave. Untreated typhoid is a terrible thing. Terrible.”

I looked from one to the other. What was all this about typhoid? What was going on? And why wasn’t anybody doing anything about Roger? It was like a bad dream where no one makes any sense except yourself.

“Poor Agnes,” Nettie said again. “I did everything I could to save her, but I couldn’t call the doctor.” Tears began running down her face, making white streaks on the rouged cheeks. “Agnes understood after I explained. Bless her, she understood. But the pain was very great. She couldn’t stand it.”

Bits and pieces of what Nettie said were beginning to fall into place like a giant jigsaw puzzle. But I couldn’t believe it. “You let Agnes Drury die?” I gasped. “You knew she had typhoid and didn’t call the doctor, but why, Nettie? Dear God, why?”

Nettie stared at me, her pencilled eyebrows high. “I couldn’t let anyone start an investigation,” she said quietly. “And typhoid carriers, you know, have to be shut away from everyone else. They aren’t allowed to live ordinary lives.”

“But so what, Nettie?” I cried. “Roger should have been put somewhere. If he was a typhoid carrier, he was dangerous to everyone!”

Christine spun toward Nettie, her face savage. “What did Roger mean to you, you old witch? Were you in love with him, too?” Christine threw back her head and laughed.

Nettie turned away from both of us, her eyes coming to rest finally on the crumpled heap on the rug. “Roger Van Buren was my son,” she said with absolutely no expression at all.

The three of us seemed to just hang there, then feeling nothing really, except an immense pity, I reached over and took Nettie’s hand.

“Your son!” Christine lunged forward. “No wonder you were always snooping around school. Well, your son is dead now. You can’t have him. No one can. He’s mine. He’s always been mine.”

“Oh, Christine,” Nettie said gently. “Roger didn’t care for you any more and, being a typhoid carrier, he couldn’t have married you if he had. But—” Nettie’s voice trembled. “But he loved Marta, so much that I... I was afraid he might do something foolish, that’s why I came out here — to talk to him. He wouldn’t listen to me, though, he—”

“That’s a lie! Roger loved me!” Christine shrieked.

“Then why did you kill him, Christine?” Nettie asked, with only the smallest of tremors in the question. “Never mind. It’s... it’s better this way, I guess. My poor dear tormented son—”

“Roger loved me! Me!” Hate raged in Christine’s face, ripping away everything decent and human. “Roger loved me. Do you hear?” Her eyes rolled and her voice rose higher and higher. She seemed to be directing everything toward me, then with one swift motion she crouched down and scooped up the gun from the floor.

There was a short, terrible silence, with all of us just standing there like statues. And after that nothing was clear. I felt Nettie push me aside, then go limp as between us a long orange-blue flame flashed, followed by the roar of the revolver. A second flash. Another explosion. Then silence again.

I saw Christine’s face, but everything else was dim, like in a cloudy mirror. The only thing that made any sense to me was the pattern the red blood made on the blue and gold flowered carpet. There was so much of it, it covered nearly the whole center design. I set my lips. Swallowed. Grew sick to my stomach. And then unconsciousness closed my brain and I felt myself slump.

“This is Doctor Carberry, Marta.” A voice came out of the layers of clouds. “You’re all right, do you understand?”

I fought through the haze. “Roger? Nettie? They’re—” I broke off, terrified at the scenes that flashed in front of me. “They’re all dead, aren’t they?” I whispered and began to shake from head to foot.

Doctor Carberry tucked a wool blanket around my shoulders. “Christine killed Roger, then after you came, she shot Nettie, then herself. That’s the way it happened, wasn’t it?” he prodded.

Shapes, flashes, sounds came from the shadows, but not clearly. I drew back. But Doctor Carberry kept at me. “You must face it, Marta.” I shook my head, not remembering, refusing to remember. But one thing stood out. Nettie. “Christine meant to kill me,” I said behind my fist. “Nettie pushed me aside, she—” The hand against my mouth didn’t help. I sobbed, great heaving sobs, like when my father died.

Doctor Carberry swung a chair around to the bed, straddling the back of it. “Maybe I’d better talk for awhile,” he said, but the words didn’t come right away. Finally, “Nettie dropped a letter in my mailbox before she went to see Roger, telling me the whole story. I found it after you called, but I didn’t mention it for fear of frightening you and since Betty Lou needed immediate help, I had to tend to her first.” He shook his head, as though hardly able to believe was he was saying himself. “Then shortly after taking you to Roger’s, Oscar came back. He said he’d taken you to the Van Buren place, but as he put it, the whole thing smelled fishy to him. I called the police immediately, in view of what I already knew and what Oscar had told me. But... they... the police arrived too late.”

I shuddered. Betty Lou had been right after all. Betty Lou! “Is Betty Lou all right?” I cried.

“Betty Lou doesn’t have typhoid,” Doctor Carberry said. “Though Nettie thought she did. That’s why she was afraid to call me.”

“The... then it’s all true?” I still couldn’t believe it.

Doctor Carberry drew a long breath. “Yes, I’m afraid so. When Roger was about ten years old, both he and his father caught typhoid. The father died. The boy lived. And miraculously, Nettie didn’t get the disease at all. They were living abroad at the time. After her husband died, Nettie and Roger moved back to the States. Everything was fine. Then the summer Roger graduated from high school, there was a typhoid flare-up, as happens every now and then. You’ve probably read how the board of health investigates these outbreaks. They’re very thorough. Nettie knew this and became alarmed, figuring that Roger was the most likely culprit since he’d once had the disease, though he’d never been tested.”

“But how could she be so sure? I’ve never even heard about typhoid carriers. Who are they anyway? Just people who have had the disease?” What a crazy thing.

“Three out of every hundred people who have recovered from the disease become carriers. There are about five thousand known carriers, that is people whose bodies harbor a living germ. But—” Doctor Carberry sighed. “But there are other thousands unknown. Oddly, some of the carriers have never been consciously ill or shown symptoms of typhoid.”

“Poor Nettie,” I murmured. “But how could she do it?”

“I don’t know. I guess she couldn’t bear the thought of her only child being confined someplace, so she took him and ran, changed her name, disguised her face, kept to herself so that she and the boy couldn’t be traced.” Doctor Carberry got up from his chair. “They were both very careful, you know, so don’t judge either of them too harshly. Roger allowed no food on the school premises, he stayed away from restaurants, he insisted that all children and all regular school personnel have typhoid shots every three years, all that. You had a shot, didn’t you, Marta?”

I nodded. It had slipped my mind entirely. “What about Agnes Drury? How come she got it?”

“According to Nettie’s letter, Agnes Drury refused to have shots of any sort, said she was too old for that nonsense. It made Roger furious, and Nettie too. I guess that’s why Agnes became suspicious, but by that time it was too late.”

“You mean she finally caught the disease from Roger?”

“Agnes thought she had typhoid and Nettie was sure she did, but — I don’t know.” Doctor Carberry squeezed the bridge of his nose, then, abruptly, crossed the room and stood looking out the window with his back to me. “Agnes’s suicide was handled very routinely,” he said after awhile. “Death by a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Simple. I called the coroner and signed the death warrant myself.” He whirled around and faced me. “I performed no autopsy, nothing. I was negligent! Too busy. Too hasty. Too careless. Negligent. That’s what I was.”

I tried to think of something decent to say. “Well, Doc,” I said finally, “Whatever you did or didn’t do would have had no effect on Christine. And, after all, she was the one who pulled the trigger. Rog couldn’t marry her, was that it?”

Doc blinked a couple of times. “No, marriage was impossible for Roger. Being married would be much too intimate an arrangement for a typhoid carrier, especially one who is unwilling to acknowledge it. That’s the thing that disturbed Nettie the most. She panicked when Roger began showing an interest in anyone. She was certain that if ever the time came when he couldn’t control his emotions, the secret would be out and that would be the end of him.”

“Oh, no. I deliberately—” I stared at Doc. If I hadn’t gone after Roger he might still be alive. And Nettie, too. And Christine. I had killed them all. Me. “Oh, God,” I whispered, “I’m to blame.” It’s awful to come face to face with yourself.

Doctor Carberry cleared his throat. If he’d spoken before I hadn’t heard him. “I guess we’re both too anxious to blame ourselves, Marta. Oddly enough, the real culprit never even knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“Post-mortems, which I got back this morning, show that Roger was not a typhoid carrier at all,” Doctor Carberry said.

I jerked straight up. “What are you talking about? All this was a big farce then?”

“No,” Doc shook his head. “Nettie was the typhoid carrier.”

“Nettie?”

“Yes, Nettie. And she never even knew it.”

“Nettie!” I gasped, feeling suddenly as if the whole world had gone over a big bump.

“Poor Nettie.” Doctor Carberry sighed. “Think of the years of suffering she could have spared herself and her son if she’d only faced her problem squarely and been willing to accept its limitations.”

“Yes,” I said. “I guess there are some things you can’t run away from or scream about or get even with or anything.”

“You’re so right, Marta,” Doc said, smiling a little, at my bad grammar, I suppose.

The next day I went home and the day after that Brad called, saying he’d seen my name in the papers and was I all right. I was cool, but very polite. Really. Funny thing, I didn’t feel like kicking him in the stomach any more. And, as my mother says, for me that’s something.