Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (best books to read now .TXT) 📕

or any other man might have killed him, too, under similar circumstances. They simply wouldn't have done it in a swimming pool, probably. They might have chosen De Lisle's house, one afternoon when their wife was there. And perhaps they, too, might have felt better afterward—perhaps. The whole house reflected Vic's happier state of mind. He had repainted the garage in a cheerful yellow, set out a little maple tree in one of the hydrangea holes and filled in the other hole and seeded it. The living room looked as if happy people lived in it now, even if happy people didn't. He thought he had lost at least fifteen pounds—he had an aversion to weighing himself—and he hardly ever took a drink any more. He whistled more often. Or did he whistle just to annoy Melinda, just because she generally asked him to stop?

       Melinda drove up in her car while Vic and Trixie were playing a rather unorthodox game of croquet on the lawn. There was a man with her, a man Vic had never seen before. Vic calmly bent over and finished his shot—a fifteen-foot shot over convex ground that bumped Trixie's ball lightly and left his sitting where hers had been, directly in front of the wicket. Trixie let out a wail and jumped up and down and stamped, letting off steam as if she had a big stake in the game, though Trixie's sole objective in croquet seemed to be to knock the ball as far as possible. Vic turned toward the driveway as Melinda and the man approached. He was a tall, broad-shouldered blond man of about thirty-two, in tweed jacket and slacks. His serious face smiled a little as he neared Vic.

       "Vic, this is Mr. Carpenter," Melinda said. "Mr. Carpenter, my husband."

       "How do you do?" Vic said, extending his hand.

       "How do you do?" Mr. Carpenter said, with a firm grip. "Your wife's just been showing me around the town. I'm looking for a place to live."

       "Oh. To rent or to buy?" Vic asked.

       "To rent," he replied.

       "Mr. Carpenter's a psychotherapist," Melinda said."He's going to be working at Kennington for a few months. I found him asking questions in the drugstore, so I thought I'd give him a tour of the town. None of the real estate places are open on Sunday around here."

       That gave Vic his first suspicion. Melinda was explaining a little too carefully. Mr. Carpenter's eyes were lingering on him with just a little too much interest, even for a psychotherapist. "Did you tell him about the Derby place?" Vic asked.

       "Showed it to him," Melinda said. "That's a little too barnlike. He wants more of something like Charley had, maybe in the woods, but comfortable."

       "Well, it's a good time of the year to be looking. Summer people giving up their houses. What about Charley's place?" Vic asked, going her one better. "Wouldn't that be free now?"

       Mr. Carpenter was looking at Melinda, and there was nothing about his expression that would have betrayed that he had ever heard of Charley.

       "Y-yes," Melinda said thoughtfully. "We might ask about that.

       The owners should be in today, too." She glanced toward the house, as if the telephone had crossed her mind.

       But she wasn't going to telephone the owners just now, Vic knew, and probably not tomorrow either. "Wouldn't you care to come in, Mr. Carpenter?" Vic asked. "Or are you in a hurry?" Mr. Carpenter indicated with a smile and a little bow that he would be happy to come in. They all walked toward the house,

       Trixie trailing them and staring at the newcomer.

       "What do you think of Kennington?" Vic asked as they went into the house. Kennington was a psychiatric institute outside of Wesley, with about a hundred in- and out-patients. It was famous for its small, distinguished staff and for its homelike atmosphere. The long, low white building sat on a green hill and looked like a well-kept country home.

       "Well, I only got there yesterday," Mr. Carpenter said pleasantly. "The people are very nice. I expected that. I'm sure I'll enjoy my work."

       Vic did not think he should ask him exactly what he would be doing. That would show too much curiosity.

       "Would you care for a drink?" Melinda asked. "Or some coffee?"

       "Oh, no, thank you. I'll just have a cigarette. Then I ought to be getting back to my car."

       "Oh, yes. He left his car in front of the drugstore, unlocked," Melinda said, smiling. "He's afraid somebody's going to steal it." "Not much of that around here," Vic said genially.

       "Certainly isn't like New York," Mr. Carpenter agreed, looking around the room as he spoke.

       Vic was looking at his loose tweed jacket, wondering if the bulge under his arm could be a gun in a shoulder holster, or if it was a bulge at all. It might have been just a fold in the cloth. His heavy features wore a half-bored expression now that was deliberate, Vic felt. There was a certain veneer of the scholar about him, but only a veneer. He had the face of a man of action. Vic filled his pipe. He had a great taste for his pipe lately.

       "Where're you staying now?" Vic asked.

       "At the Ardmore in Wesley," Mr. Carpenter replied.

       "Oh, you'll love it here once you get settled," Melinda put in with animation. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, smoking a cigarette. "The mornings are so cool and fresh around here. It's really a pleasure to get a car and drive along some of these roads at seven or eight in the morning."

       Vic couldn't think of a single morning when Melinda had been up and out at seven or eight.

       "I expect I'll like it," Mr. Carpenter said. "I'm sure getting myself settled won't be much of a problem."

       "My wife has a real genius for getting people settled," Vic said,