She cleared her throat again, swallowed, and said, “I want you to know first off I’m not some kind of weirdo calling for kicks because your wife was murdered.” Oh, God, should she have said that?
For a long time he didn’t say anything. Silence hummed and crackled on the connection that stretched more than a thousand miles. Was he ever going to speak, or would he simply hang up?
Then: “All right, but what and who are you?”
Relief rushed through Mary. “I’m a serious ballroom dancer, like your wife was. My name’s Mary Arlington.”
Again a pause. “So why’re you calling, Mary?” His voice was calm but tight with wariness.
“To let you know I understand why you think dancing has some connection to the murder. And because I dance. I guess you could say I’m offering my sympathy and moral support. I don’t want anything in return.”
She could hear the thermostat click and the air-conditioner take on a throatier tone. Her fingers squeezing the receiver were starting to stiffen and ache; she loosened them one by one, flexing them.
“Okay, Mary, I appreciate that.” He still sounded dubious, not quite sure he should be talking to her. “However’d you find me?”
“I saw on the news you went to Seattle, so I phoned some of the hotels. Got lucky the second call. I agree with you about how maybe the same person killed your wife and Martha Roundner. I knew it the moment I saw-” She stopped herself; she didn’t want to go too far and have him think she was one of those crank callers, the kind played by wild-eyed actresses in movies and on TV slasher films.
“Saw what?”
“Well, I can’t deny that your wife, Martha Roundner, and I, we’re all more or less the same type. I mean, same shape face, same color hair, probably the same complexion, though that’s hard to tell on TV or in photographs. There’s a real similarity in our features, too, the sorta general look we have. Everybody who’s seen the photos remarks on it.”
“I see.” She could hear him breathing. “You think you’re in some kind of danger, Mary?” He still sounded puzzled.
“Oh, no! What I mean is, because of the similarity, and the dancing, I suppose I feel personally involved in some way with what happened.” Hearing herself say it, she wondered again if it made sense. “Listen, if you think that’s crazy, I don’t blame you.”
“No, no, not crazy. Crazy’s what’s been happening to me lately.”
Mary pressed the receiver harder to her ear. “Have you found out anything yet? In Seattle, I mean?”
It was a very long time before he answered, then there was a change in his voice, a weary disillusionment. “You’re not from the press, are you?”
“Me? God, no! I absolutely despise what the press is doing to you!”
“What are they doing to me?”
“Not taking you seriously when you say your wife’s murder had something to do with dancing. And they keep badgering you; at least that’s the impression I get from the news.” And they see you as a suspect.
“They really haven’t been all that bad,” Verlane said. “It’s the police I can’t stomach.” His southern accent made them poh-lice. “They play their little mind games, keep their secrets. You can’t imagine what they can be like till you actually get involved with them the way I have. Sweet Lord, they’ve even suggested… Well, never mind.”
“When Martha Roundner was murdered, was there a ballroom dance competition about that time in Seattle?”
“That’s one of the things I’m going to find out. I only got here last night and haven’t had a chance to do much. The Roundner murder was three months ago; do you recall any kind of competition then anywhere at all in this part of the country?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t any. Ballroom dancing’s really getting popular, and there’s almost always a competition going on somewhere. If there was a competition in or around Seattle at that time, it oughta be easy enough to find out about it.”
“Should be,” he agreed. “Do you enter dance competitions?”
“Sometimes,” Mary lied. “My next one’s the Ohio Star Ball in November.”
“That’s an important one, isn’t it? I remember Danielle talking about it, but she never danced there.” A catch in his throat. “Never had the chance.”
Pity swelled like a balloon in Mary. “You danced sometimes, too, didn’t you?”
“Never in competition,” Verlane said. “I only got good enough so I could keep up with Danielle at social dancing.”
“She was beautiful. I mean, I don’t say that because we look something alike-It’s just such a shame, what happened.”
“Did you and Danielle ever dance in the same competitions? Do you remember her?” Something sad and eager in his tone now, as if he yearned for more memory to hold onto.
“No, but some of the dancers at my studio recognized her photograph and remembered her dancing. They said she was terrific, especially in the smooth dances.”
“What studio do you dance at?”
“Romance Studio. Part of the chain.”
“It just occurred to me I don’t even know what city you’re calling from.”
“St. Louis.”
“Ah, I was there about three years ago. A bond fund convention. I’m a stockbroker.”
“I know you are. It was mentioned more than once on the news.”
“You must watch the news a lot.”
“I do. And I read a lot.” She decided to take a chance. Her heart double-clutched and began to race. “Listen, if you ever need to know anything about ballroom dancing, I mean how things work with competition or anything, you can give me a call anytime and I’ll try to help.” She realized her words to Verlane were almost exactly those of Victor offering to help her with Angie.
“All right, I might well do that. Thanks, Mary.”
She suddenly didn’t know what to say. Several slow seconds passed. Thick silence built in the line, clogging it like cholesterol in a vital artery.
“I guess I’ll hang up now,” she finally managed to stammer. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“About your wife and all.”
“I see. Thanks for that, too.”
She told him her phone number. He didn’t ask her to repeat it, or excuse himself to find a pen or pencil. She hoped he was really writing it down. Well, hotels usually had stationery and pens handy by the phone, didn’t they?
He thanked her again for calling, then told her good-bye.
“Good luck,” she said, and hung up.
She sat with her fingers lingering on the phone, her blood racing. Her mind was whirling somewhere above her and seemed to circle back to where and who she was with infinite slowness. What a thing to have done-to call the husband of a murdered woman!
Now that she’d spoken with Rene Verlane and he was real and not simply another image on TV, it bore down on her with new and unexpected weight that he was not only the widower of a homicide victim, he was suspected of committing the crime. She’d actually talked to a murder suspect. How many people ever did that?
How many people were crazy or desperate enough to try?
She considered phoning Helen and telling her what had happened. She even started to lift the receiver. Then Mary decided she didn’t want to share any part of her and Rene Verlane’s phone conversation.
Why should she? It was private. It was intimate.