Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 39, No. 5, November 1976

Running Water by Marion S. Moore

Alex knew Sheila was out to enslave him, so what could a blind man do about it?

He rubbed his kneecap, muttering in exasperation. Reaching out cautiously, his fingers found the sharp edge of the table.

“Damnation!” he exploded.

Sheila emerged from the kitchen. “Did you call, Alex?” She came over to him, placing a hand on his arm. He shrugged it away.

“No, I didn’t call,” he replied. “I suppose it would be foolish of me to ask why that table was moved?”

Snorting defensively, Sheila flared, “I’m not perfect, you know. I guess I just forgot that every single object in this house must remain in its familiar place.” The last six words were uttered in startling mimicry of the therapist’s commanding voice.

Complacently patting her already perfect hairdo, she decided to be understanding. “I’m sorry, Alex. It isn’t easy for me, either.” After all she was in excellent health. Frequent glances in the mirror confirmed her appreciation of lovely, unmarked features.

Alex, a tall rugged man still, sat up a fraction higher in the wheelchair.

“I realize these past weeks have been hard on you.” He sighed

The familiar routine of martyr versus invalid sometimes galled. Not that Sheila hadn’t been the perfect wife while he was in the hospital. Every day she had made determinedly cheerful visits. The entire floor staff had taken turns complimenting him on his beautiful, devoted spouse. What the staff had not known, what Sheila preferred to forget, was that he wanted a divorce. Definitely. Finally. Alex had procrastinated several times in the past year. Sheila could, and probably would, be as vindictive as she was glamorous.

He was right. When Alex had broached the subject a month before the car accident, Sheila’s first reaction was surprised shock. The shock Alex considered, was genuine, the surprise, pretense.

“We haven’t been happy together for a long time,” he had remonstrated. “Why pretend any more?”

“I like my life,” she bristled angrily. “If you think I’m going to have all of our friends talking about us, you are mistaken. I do not plan to be pitied as the ex-Mrs. Alexander Stacey. Not without a dirty fight, I assure you.” With which threat she flounced out of the room, slamming the door hard behind her.

He had tried again the following week.

“Sheila, please,” he began diplomatically. “You’re a pretty woman with lots of friends. Why stay with a guy you don’t love? Lately we haven’t agreed on anything.” This was as far as he got.

She was outraged. “Just because you’re a stick-in-the mud and I like to entertain and go places, so what?” Gathering momentum, she continued, “And don’t tell me that all those hours on the tennis court were to keep in shape. I’ve seen you and Nedda Bailey giving each other the eye.”

“Hold it!” He protested. “Nedda is a good friend and a fine athlete. You could—”

“Oh, yeah?” she interrupted with seeting sarcasm. “I’ll drag her through the mud with you if necessary.” And off she went.

After settling down to a brooding calm, Alex picked up the phone and called his lawyer. “On vacation until the first of the month,” the secretary informed him. “I can give you an appointment then, Mr. Stacey.”

The appointment was never kept. A dark, rainy night, a slick highway... he shuddered as he clearly recalled the moment of impact. Here he was at home seven weeks later — partially crippled and totally blind. The table had been moved deliberately — so had his radio. When Alex fumbled to turn the knob to his favorite news station two days before, the set crashed to the floor. He knew that he had stationed it carefully on the stand. So this was to be her strategy — wear him down with day to day frustrations, hoping to keep him confused and totally dependent upon her ministrations. God knew, he already lacked confidence in himself without her sadistic aid.

His only glimmer of hope came from the therapist sent by the Institute for the Blind. She would tutor him in Braille at home until his crushed hip and leg healed sufficiently for him to attend classes. No maudlin sympathy offered — instead, a well-programmed effort to help him return to some degree of normality as a person and a writer. With luck, he might eventually graduate from wheelchair, to walker, to a cane. It didn’t make sense for Sheila to hang onto a crippled blind man.

Even as he thought about the burden he must be to anyone, Alex knew why she would persist. What had she said? “I like my life.” She enjoyed her role as the lovely, respected lady of the manor, wife of the budding novelist. Sheila would fight any independence on his part every step of the way. Her recent martyrdom suited her mood very well.

The telephone rang. “I’m sorry,” Sheila’s quiet response floated out of the kitchen as he listened with the utmost concentration, “but he’s not up to another session yet. I’ll call you next week if there’s any improvement.” The receiver was replaced with almost inaudible caution.

“Sheila!” he yelled. “Who was that? Sheila!”

“Don’t yell at me, please,” she warned as she entered the family room. “Mrs. Cameron just called about our meeting on Friday.”

“That’s a damn lie! I might be blind, but my hearing’s unusually good.” He fingered the slowly fading scars around his eyes and plunged on. “I’m leaving here as soon as I can lease an apartment.”

“You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Alex.” Her assurance was appalling. “How do you think a crippled man, much less a blind one, can possibly make it?”

“With the right help, I’ll make it,” he replied quietly. “There’s enough money from the accident insurance for each of us to live in reasonable comfort.” As if I’ll ever be comfortable again! he thought. “At least for awhile until I begin writing again.”

Her laughter grated unbearably. “Forget it. I’m going upstairs to shampoo my hair,” Sheila walked away from him into the hall.

She spent hours taking care of her gorgeous auburn hair. It had captivated him nine years ago. He used to love to watch her wielding a brush vigorously, a night-time ritual in a happier time. The sound of running water reminded him that she would be busy for the better part of an hour.

He wheeled his chair toward the telephone, remembering the Institute’s number the therapist had given him. With increasing agitation, he failed to find it either in its expected place or in several unexpected spots. Chalk up another victory to Sheila’s campaign. Alex headed for the kitchen. He would show her. Two-four-one-six-eight-hundred. The wheels scraped the edge of the door. He reversed carefully for another attempt.

Lifting the receiver, he hesitated, changed his mind, replaced it on the hook. There would always be another message undelivered. Another piece of furniture or equipment misplaced. As long as Sheila lived, she would thwart his efforts until all hope was gone.

As long as Sheila lived... The phrase burned into his brain. Would it be physically possible for him to carry out a murder? More running water I must try, he argued wildly. He manouvered the chair to the bottom of the steps. With superhuman strength, he lowered his left knee to his first step. His right knee throbbed painfully, his hip seconded the agony. Using his powerful upper arm muscles, he managed to crawl to the top.

The water stopped running. Heart pounding, Alex waited on hands and knees. Finally the water flowed again.

“Sheila!” he called softly. He had to know if she had heard him. No answer. She would have been out in the hall by now, of course. He crawled the four feet to the door. Smothering a moan, he clung to the door jamb as he heaved himself upright.

In one lightning move, Alex found the washbasin with his right hand and her wet head with his stronger left one. He pushed down hard. The water ran steadily. He felt, rather than heard, the sickening crunch as her forehead hit the faucet. The struggling ceased immediately. Breathing stopped. There was no pulse. He released the lifeless weight, thankful that drowning was unnecessary. Grasping a nearby towel, he dried his hands first, then wiped his damp forehead.

Retracing the painful journey, he backed down the stairs. Sobbing and gasping, he pulled himself up into the chair. How much time should he allow before calling the police? They would begin to wonder if he waited too long after hearing the running water go on and on.

At least another ten minutes, Alex reasoned. Surely his nervous sweat would be attributed to his natural concern for Sheila. He would have to return to the kitchen telephone.

“Sergeant McNulty,” The voice was reassuringly familiar.

“Thank God, it’s you, Sergeant. This is Alex Stacey.” No need to feign anxiety. He couldn’t stop trembling if he wanted to. “I’m worried about my wife Sheila. She’s in the upstairs bathroom shampooing her hair. But the water has been running steadily for more than an hour and I can’t make her hear me. Maybe she—”

The Sergeant calmly interrupted his near-hysterical explanation. “Just take it easy, Mr. Stacey. I understand. We’re on our way. Be careful not to hurt yourself. Take it easy,” he repeated.

What a stroke of luck! Jim McNulty had been one of the officers at the accident scene, later visiting him in the hospital. It was he who informed Sheila of the accident. A compassionate man who would realize the impossibility of a blind and crippled Alex climbing those stairs to kill his wife.

Alex groped for a glass. After filling it with water, he took a deep swallow, then allowed the remainder to spill on his robe. Just in the event there were any water spots on his clothing. A recently blinded man tended to be clumsy. First hand experience, Alex reflected bitterly.

He rolled out of the kitchen, through the family room and collided with the table again. This reminder of Sheila’s purposeful cruelties served to steady him. By the time the door chimes rang, Alex had relaxed considerably.

“Coming!” he called, wheeling carefully to the front door. He found the knob easily, and opened it wide. Sergeant McNulty introduced his partner.

“Officer Crandall, Mr. Stacey. Which way?”

“Up the stairs, to the left,” directed Alex, suddenly nervous.

They returned in three minutes.

“Mr. Stacey,” the Sergeant gripped Alex’s shoulder to prepare him, “I’m so sorry, but your wife is dead. It looks as if she slipped and struck her head on the fixtures. There’ll be an investigation, of course. Officer Crandall turned the water off.”

Alex passed a shaking left hand over his face.

“I just can’t believe it. She was only washing her hair... her beautiful hair.”

He could sense the Sergeant’s piercing glance.

“By the way, Mr. Stacey, did your wife use a color rinse?”

“Oh, no,” Alex protested. “She had lovely, natural auburn hair.” He floundered on. “At least I never knew her to use any coloring.” A cold wave of fear engulfed him.

Sergeant McNulty sighed heavily. “Your left hand, Mr. Stacey.” His voice shook this time. “Your left hand is stained with some kind of dye, sir.”