Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith Page B

it was growing very dark before he heard the sound of two cars coming up the driveway.
           Trixie heard it, too, and cocked her head. "Two people coming," she said.
           "Your mother's bringing a guest." "Who?"
           "I don't know. She just said somebody. Your play, Trix."
           He heard Melinda's slurring, low-pitched voice, her step on the stone walk, then she opened the door.
           "Hi!" Melinda called. "Come on in, Charley. Vic, I'd like you to meet Charley De Lisle. Charley, my husband." She gestured perfunctorily.
           Vic had risen to his feet. "How do you do?"
           Charley mumbled something and nodded. He looked embarrassed. He was about thirty-five, slight and not very tall, with close-set and rather furtive eyes over which his dark eyebrows grew together.
           "Charley's the pianist at the Lord Chesterfield," Melinda said.
           "Yes, I know Well, how do you like our town?" Vic asked pleasantly.
           "I like it fine," Charley said.
           "Sit down, Charley. Aren't you going to make us a drink, Vic? What'll you have?"
           Charley mumbled that he supposed he'd have rye and water. Vic went off to the kitchen to make the drinks. He made Charley's drink and then two Scotch and waters for himself and Melinda. He poured an orange juice for Trixie. When he went back into the living room Trixie was still standing in the middle of the floor, staring with a neutral, fixed curiosity at Charley De Lisle. Vic passed the drinks around on a tray.
           "I had a call about you today, a telephone call," Vic said to Charley.
           Charley looked up at him, blank and surprised.
           "A real estate agent wanted to know if I knew you. I'm afraid I couldn't give him much of a reference." Vic's smile was friendly.
           "Oh, lord, did they call 'you'?" Melinda laughed." Sorry, Vic, 'I'll' call them tomorrow," she said boredly. "But Charley's already got his home. He's moving in tomorrow. It's a wonderful cottage in the woods. Do you know that little house off fifteen about two miles south of East Lyme? I thought I once drove you up the road to show it to you. I've noticed it was vacant since spring, and I thought Charley would like it better than a hotel, because he's going to be here another six weeks, so I found the real estate agency that handles it—finally—and I got it for him. Charley adores it." Melinda was picking out records to play.
           "That sounds very nice," Vic said. Melinda must have driven up the road to show it to somebody else, he thought. Two miles south of East Lyme made it just two miles closer to Little Wesley than he had thought it would be. Then he tried to neutralize his thoughts, tried very hard. He had no reason to feel hostile towards Mr. De Lisle. Mr. De Lisle looked as if he were afraid of his own shadow.
           Melinda had chosen piano records, and she was playing them a bit loud. When a second record dropped down, she asked Charley if he knew who the pianist was. Charley knew.
           Vic fixed another drink for himself and Melinda. Charley was only sipping at his. When he came back into the room, Melinda was saying to Trixie, "Why don't you go and play in your room, darling? You're making an awful mess there."
           Trixie was absently building something with the Scrabble counters on the floor in front of the fireplace. Now she gave a sigh and slowly began to replace the counters in the box, at a rate that would keep her there twenty minutes.
           "That drink isn't poisoned, you know," Melinda said to Charley.
           "I know" He smiled. "I have to watch out for the ulcer. Also I've got to work tonight."
           "I hope you'll stay for dinner, though. You don't have to work till eleven. You can get to Ballinger in six minutes from here."
           "Maybe by rocket," Vic said, smiling. "He'd better give himself