Richard Deming - Gallows in My Garden

The reason so many people catch me in bed is not that I spend more time there than anyone else, but only that between jobs, which is most of the time, my slumber hours are odd, being roughly contingent on the closing-hours of taverns. In addition it was a Saturday in the middle of July, and the brick courtyard next to my bedroom gathered all the heat it could absorb from a bright sun and shoved it through my window.

I was therefore sleeping naked without covers when the most beautiful woman I ever met dropped in at high noon.

It takes me longer to get from bed to the door than most people, because I first have to strap on an intricate contrivance of cork, aluminum, and leather which substitutes for the lower part of a right leg I contributed to the war effort. As a result I was still nude when a soprano voice from the front room called, Anybody home?

Stay where you are! I yelled, then added in a lower tone, Unless youve had children and are over seventy.

A girlish giggle indicated my caller was somewhat less than seventy, so I advised her to wait ten minutes while I made myself presentable. It was closer to fifteen before I accomplished this chore, including a rapid shave. I always shave before investigating female callers who get me out of bed, because a bent nose and one drooping eyelid is enough handicap for a face, without adding whiskers.

When I finally emerged from the bedroom, I found her standing before the mantel in my front room. It is hard to describe the first impact of her beauty, and useless to try to catalogue its details, for no one of her attributes would have been outstanding in a crowd of any hundred college-age girls. She was about nineteen or twenty, of average height, average slimness, average blondness of hair and blueness of eye.

Yet some wondrous alchemy combined her various average features into an effect which was shattering. Perhaps it was partly her appearance of crisp coolness in an oppressive heat which had already begun to wilt my fresh collar, or perhaps it was simply personality bubbling within her, for the difference between prettiness and beauty is mainly a thing of poise and manner. Whatever it was, it caught me between the horns like a club, although from the advanced senility of my thirty-two years I rarely glance twice at women under voting age.

When I finally got my mouth closed, I realized she had said something.

I didnt catch that, I said.

My name is Grace Lawson, she repeated. Youre Mr. Moon?

I think so, I said, still off center. Sit down so you wont break.

I led her to my favorite chair and released her hand only after she sat down.

Have a drink? I asked, fumbling with the rye decanter, then changing my mind. No, youre too young. Smoke? I lifted the lid from my cigar humidor and dropped it on the floor.

No, thanks, she said, smiling. Apparently she was used to men stumbling over their own feet when they first met her.

I said, Pardon me, poured breakfast into a shot glass, tossed it off, lit a cigar, and regained my equilibrium. When I took a seat on the sofa across from her, I found I could regard her without shooting any embolisms.

Youve come on business, I said. Thats a deduction.

She smiled again. She had a smile that made you want to do something about her. Nothing drastic, for she was not the bedroom-eyed type. You didnt want to take her in your arms; you wanted to pat her on the head.

She asked, How did you deduce that?

Elementary. Pretty girls never call on me socially.

Youre probably being modest, she said, but I did come on business. Do you charge much?

More than Im worth. Tell me what you want before we discuss rates.

I couldnt pay very much, she said. I dont get my money until Im twenty-one, and all I have is five hundred a month allowance.

I blinked. Youre virtually a pauper. How old did you say you are?

Going on twenty.

In school somewhere?

The state university summer session. I had to make up two courses I dropped. Im a junior.

Whered you hear of me?

The woman who owns El Patio recommended you. The night club, you know.

Fausta Moreni? I asked.

Yes, Fausta. Arnold and I have dinner at El Patio now and then. We were telling Fausta about the attempts on my life, and she recommended I see you. Her lip corners lifted in a light grin. She said if I made eyes at you, shed cut my heart out, but she was only fooling.

You dont know Fausta, I told her. Lets start at the beginning. Somebodys trying to kill you?

I think so. Once the saddle girth on my riding-horse was cut, presumably so Id fall, and once my milk was poisoned, and once a flowerpot fell from an upper window when I was coming in late at night, and it broke right next to me.

I sat up straight. You think so! Youre lucky youre alive. Howd you escape all that?

Just luck, really, she said. The saddle girth was cut so far it snapped soon as my weight hit the stirrup. And the milk was poisoned with something that smelled strong, so I didnt even taste it. Uncle Doug had it analyzed hes a doctor, you know but Ive forgotten what the poison was. Of course maybe the flowerpot was just an accident. It missed me several feet.

You report all this to the police?

Oh, no. You see it almost has to be someone in the house, so we wouldnt want the papers to get it. Uncle Doug has been sort of investigating, but since Don ran away last week, Arnold and I have been wondering if thats enough. We think maybe someone tried to kill Don, too, and he ran away because he was scared.

Who is Don? I asked, somewhat numbed by the barrage of names she had just thrown at me, and deciding to sort them out one at a time.

My brother.

Wait a minute, I said. Your name is Grace Lawson? The kid who disappeared last week is your brother?

My older brother, though not much older. Don was born just eleven months before I was. Last Sunday he left a note and ran off without even taking a suitcase.

I asked, Arent you and your brother scheduled to inherit Fort Knox or something at twenty-one? I didnt read the news item on it very carefully.

We each get some money at twenty-one, she admitted. Unless whoever is after us succeeds in killing us. Then it goes to Ann.

I held up one palm. For some reason you only confuse me, the more you talk. Maybe its because you run in names and act like I ought to know them, or maybe its only your dazzling smile. But lets go back and start over. Begin by telling me all about yourself and your family.

Well, theres not very much about me, she said. I go to State U., but I live at home and drive back and forth. Its only fifteen miles, you know. We live in Willow Dale. My mother died when I was born, and Daddy was killed in an auto accident a year ago. Ann is my stepmother, but I call her Ann because shes only twelve years older than me, and more like a pal than a mother. Uncle Doug is Doctor Douglas Lawson, Daddys younger brother. Hes a bachelor and a regular dream, and if he werent my uncle and I werent in love with Arnold, Id marry him even though he is an elderly man of forty.

Momentarily I contemplated the eight years remaining between me and the wheelchair, then asked, Uncle Doug live in the house?

No. Well, in a way. He has an apartment in town, but he visits so much we gave him his own room. Hes always there week-ends. But just Ann, Don, and I really live there.

I said slowly, A minute ago you said whoever is trying to kill you must live in the house. You mean Ann?

Oh, no! she said quickly. It couldnt possibly be Ann. Though she, Don, and I are the only real residents, we have lots of regular visitors. Theres Mr. Mannering, the family lawyer. He has his own room, too. And Arnold. And Abigail Stoltz, the painter. Shes an aunt of Anns and visits week-ends a lot. And Gerald Cushing, who runs the drugstore chain for the estate. Daddy started the Lawson Drug chain, you know. Then there are five servants. All those people were around when the attempts were made on me.