Clandestine

Standing in her doorway as she openly scrutinized me, I hit on it. Mrs. Wilder had an avaricious look about her, so I tried a wild gambit: I attempted to pass myself off as an insurance investigator, interested in the recent past of the late Marcella. Mrs. Wilder took it all in, wide-eyed, with a nervous hand on the doorjamb. When I said ". . . and there's a substantial reward for anyone who can help us," she swung the door open eagerly, and pointed to an imitation leather davenport.

She went into the kitchen, leaving me alone to survey the crammed living room, and returned in a moment with a box of See's candy. I popped a piece of sticky chocolate into my mouth. "That's delicious," I said.

"Thank you, Mr. . . ."

"Carpenter, Mrs. Wilder. Is your husband at home?"

"No, he's at work."

"I see. Mrs. Wilder, let me level with you. Your late tenant, Marcella Harris, had three policies with us. Her son, Michael, was the beneficiary on all of them. However, there has been a rival claim, filed out of nowhere. A woman who claims to be a dear friend of the late Mrs. Harris states, in an affidavit, that Mrs. Harris told her that she was the beneficiary on all three policies. Right now, I'm investigating to determine if this woman even knew Marcella Harris."

Mrs. Wilder's hands did a nervous little dance in her lap. Her eyes did a little dance of greed. "How can I help you, Mr. Carpenter?" she asked eagerly.

I gave that some mock concentration. "Mrs. Wilder, you can help me by telling me anything and everything you know about the friends of Marcella Harris."

Now the woman's whole body seemed to dance. Finally, her tongue caught up with her. "Well, to tell you the truth . . ." she began.

"You are sworn to tell the truth," I interjected sternly.

She went for it. "Well, Mr. Carpenter, Marcella's friends were mostly men. I mean she was a good mother and all, but she had lots of men friends."

"That's no crime."

"No, but—"

I interrupted. "I heard Michael Harris was a wild boy. That he got into fights. That he exposed himself to the other kids in the neighborhood."

Mrs. Wilder went red and shrieked, "That boy was the devil! All he needed was horns! Then everyone would have known. A boy without a father is a sinful thing!"

"Well, Michael is with his father now."

"Marcella told me about that one! What a no-good, handsome, good-for-nothing he was!"

"About her men friends, Mrs. Wilder . . ."

"I thought you said a woman filed this claim you're investigating."

"Yes, but this woman claimed that Marcella didn't have any gentleman friends, that Marcella was a quiet career woman dedicated to her son."

"Ha! Women like Marcella attract men the way sweets attract flies. I know. I had my share of suitors before I got married, but I never carried on the way that hussy did!"

I let Mrs. Wilder catch her breath. "Please be specific," I said.

Mrs. Wilder continued, warily this time. "Well . . . when Marcella moved in I offered to throw a little get-together for her, invite some of the ladies in the neighborhood. Well . . . Marcella told me that she didn't want any women friends, that women were all right to have a cup of coffee with once in a while, but she'd take men any day. I told her, 'You're a divorcée. Haven't you learned your lesson?' I'll never forget what she said: 'Yes, I did. I learned to use men the way they use women, and keep it at that.' I don't mind telling you, Mr. Carpenter, I don't mind telling you I was shocked!"

"Yes, that is shocking. Did Marcella Harris ever talk about her ex-husband at length? Or any of her boyfriends?"

"She just told me that Doc Harris was a charming, good-for-nothing snake. And about her boyfriends? If I'd known they were sleeping over I would have put a stop to it right away! I don't put up with promiscuous goings-on."

I was getting tired of Mrs. Wilder. "How did you finally find out about Mrs. Harris's goings-on?" I asked.

"Michael. He . . . used to leave notes. Anonymous ones. Obscene ones. I don't—"

I came awake. "Do you still have them?" I blurted.

Mrs. Wilder shrieked again: "No, no, no! I don't want to talk about it, I knew she was bad from the moment she moved in. I require references, and Marcella gave me fake ones, fake all the way down the line. If you ask me, she—"

The telephone rang. Mrs. Wilder went into the kitchen to answer it. When she was out of sight, I gave the room a quick toss, checking out the contents of shelves and bookcases. On top of the television set I found a stack of unopened mail. There was a letter addressed to Marcella Harris. Someone, probably Mrs. Wilder, had written in pencil on the envelope: "Deceased. Forward to William Harris, 4968 Beverly Blvd., L.A. 4, Calif."

I heard the landlady jabbering away in the kitchen. I put the envelope into my pocket and quietly left her house.