Chapter 3

The sky in the east was streaked with the first tentative light of a new day, and Fred Hartman's estate was outlined in cold gray early morning light. People, their faces haggard and puffy, straggled to their parked cars. Their feet crunched over the gravel as they yawned mightily and rubbed their bloodshot eyes.

Two men about to get in a car stopped and nudged one another. They watched, their stares impudent, their smiles brazen as they saw Nancy Dodge hurry to her car. She walked quickly, her head down, nervously fingering her car keys. The men watched her flaring hips undulate and they could plainly see her lovely buttocks seductively swaying under her dress.

One of the men started to say something but the other one touched his arm and shook his head. "Another time. You had enough."

"Yeah, but I want her name."

"Another time. I'm beat. Another time. There'll be another time."

The first man grinned and slumped down into the car, still watching Nancy as she hurried to her car. "Yeah," he agreed, grinning. "Man, she sure was something. I don't think I've ever had a better blow job."

"Nothing wrong with her asshole, either."

Nancy, hearing them, got in her car. Her lovely young face was crimson as she stared straight ahead and drove off the tree lined estate to turn onto one of the many highways leading into Chicago.

Only when she was several miles from Fred Hartman's place could she heave a weary sigh of relaxation. She settled back in her seat, driving easily with one hand while she lighted herself a cigarette with the other. She inhaled deeply on the cigarette, feeling it relax her. Her body was sore all over, and she was so tired she worried about keeping awake and driving until she got home. Driving along the highway, she looked like a lovely young woman, completely composed, on her way to some early morning errand.

But she was far from composed.

In the past three months, her life had changed so much that even she couldn't believe it. It seemed unreal to her... as if it were happening to someone else. Three months ago she didn't know Fred Hartman... or Tom Nelson. Three months ago Rita Nelson was her old friend who was newly married to Tom and drinking too much. Three months ago she, herself, seldom drank. Now... the first thing she would do upon getting home was to have a few stiff ones.

It would be a few drinks just to loosen up. And later... it would be quite a few drinks in order to get to sleep.

Nancy drove fast, smoking quickly and lighting another cigarette after stubbing the first one out. Vaguely, uneasily, she thought of committing suicide. She didn't like to think too much about it or openly admit it to herself, for she was afraid she might do it. She was afraid that she was going to take her own life. She even had a secret supply of sleeping pills stocked up. She had them in a little plastic bottle and, after she had drunk enough, she would find them, take them out, look at them and rattle them in the bottle.

Suicide seemed like the only way out.

Sometimes, especially after starring in one of Fred Hartman's shows, she thought of suicide and felt it was the only way she was going to get away from him and this double life she was leading.

Sometimes it was the double life, the modern, female, Jekyll and Hyde existence that got to her. She felt she was a split personality, a schizophrenic. At home, with Allan, her husband, she was one kind of person. And... when Fred Hartman or Tom Nelson called... she was someone else. With Allan, she was genteel and her elegant cool looks were just right when they were having people over. At home with Allan she was witty and the proper hostess. Then... when Allan was at work, at the bank... and the phone would ring...

Tears welled in her eyes and she had to slow down on the highway. She couldn't see where she was going and, for an instant, she didn't care. For one wild moment, she felt like flooring the accelerator and driving at top speed until she went careening off the road or hit something and ended it all. She choked back her sobs and swiped at her eyes, knowing she couldn't do it; she was too much of a coward and too much in love with life.

And Nancy did love life with a gay and appealing zest. It was the thing that had originally attracted Allan to her. It was part of her charm. Allan was quiet and thoughtful and conservative. Everyone felt, when he spoke, that his words were weighty and carefully considered. He looked like a banker with careful good looks and grooming and somber business suits. He talked like a banker. He even thought like one. All of this was to the good, for Allan was a banker. He was assistant manager of a branch office. He did his job with quiet devotion and the smooth determination that showed he was going to get ahead.

Allan and Nancy were a good combination, for what he lacked in wise-cracks and just plain impudent silliness, she more than made up. Friends felt that Allan kept her in line, while Nancy kept him from being a stuffed shirt. Their marriage was looked on as a good one.

And it was... as far as Allan knew.

Nancy whipped her car into their little driveway and heaved a sigh. Allan wasn't home. Bank business had taken him to Cleveland, and he wouldn't be home for at least another day. She was, for the moment, safe.

She got out of the car as quietly as possible. The hour was early and the sun barely up. She didn't want the neighbors seeing her get in at such an hour, especially old Mrs. Hunter who lived next door and had her nose in everyone's business.

"My, my, such a lovely morning."

Nancy stopped dead in her tracks and wearily closed her eyes. She was trapped by the cackling voice. "Good morning Mrs. Hunter. How are you?"

"Fine," came the voice in a spiteful tone, "considering what date it is."

Tired, but near home, near bed, Nancy summoned up a smile and turned to see the old woman standing in her yard in her nightgown with a faded old housecoat buttoned up to her neck. She was wearing worn old house slippers and a floppy sun hat. "The date?"

"Yes, the date." She kneaded her wrinkled lips for a self- satisfied moment before continuing. "It's the twenty-fifth of the month."

Dumbly, Nancy nodded, not knowing what the old woman was so maliciously getting at.

Mrs. Hunter's face turned suddenly pious as she intoned. "Roger. Poor Roger."

Nancy caught on. "Oh, your husband."

Mournfully, she nodded. "Dead twelve years and three months today. Dropped dead of a heart attack in an Optimo cigar store in the loop. Man who owned the store said he bought a cigar and keeled over. Never said a word."

"My, what a shame."

The old woman nodded and looked off, seeming to remember her husband. "He was always coming home at late hours, too."

The words stung but Nancy decided to ignore them. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

Mrs. Hunter was too grandly glum to be deterred. "That's what he always used to say." She gimped close to the hedge that separated the two driveways, her eyes gleaming dull agates. "That's when I knew he was covering up." A dry laugh wheezed out of the old woman. "Oh, didn't he think he was clever, but I always knew. I always knew."

"Really?"

"He couldn't fool me. I knew. When the policeman came and knocked on the door and told me, I knew. I knew what he was doing in that Optimo cigar store when he died. I knew."

"What?" Nancy was completely mystified by the old woman's smug speech.

"Buying a cigar." Mrs. Hunter said it slowly as if she were talking to a child.

"So?" Nancy cocked her lovely head, her long raven hair sliding silently and hiding half her face.

"Well. You don't suppose I let him smoke, do you?" She looked like a wrinkled bandy rooster as she strutted behind the hedge. "I didn't let him smoke! No sir!"

"Oh." Nancy turned away to hide her smile. "That was certainly thoughtful of you."

"He smoked when he stayed out. I knew. I could smell it on him. He smoked and..." she leaned forward, whispering loudly, "and other things."

"Oh."

"Like staying out all night and then coming home with some kind of story." The old woman eyed Nancy in an accusing way.

Nancy hated her neighbor at the moment, but felt compelled to offer up an excuse for coming home so early. After all, she was guilty. "I... I had to go over to my parents. My... my father isn't feeling at all well." She stood in the driveway, biting her delicate lip, hating Mrs. Hunter and hating herself for using her father as an excuse.