The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremiah Healy

rest of
us went to sit down.
    Martha was halfway into her chair when she popped
back up. "Oh, I'm so sorry, John. After the trip, you and . . .
You must want some coffee?"
    "No, no, thank you," I said. "Martha—"
    "Oh, tea then? Beer?" She stepped to the
refrigerator and pulled open the door. The little light didn't come
on, but even without it the shelves didn't look too full. "Soda?
We have plenty, really."
    "Not just now, thanks."
    "None for me, either," said Dale.
    I was aware of Carol twisting and untwisting her
fingers. I glanced around the room. The tile around the sink was
loose in its mortar, the wallpaper was twenty years old and curling,
and only one bulb shone through the three-bulb plastic fixture over
the table. Martha's list was at right angles to me, with entries,
crossouts, and connecting arrows all over it.
    Martha closed the door and came back to us. She
suddenly looked up and to the right, closing her eyes for a second,
then she sat down, said, "Excuse me," and wrote something
more on the list, drawing another arrow from it to an earlier line.
    "John," said Carol in a barely civil voice,
"could I see you in the living room for a minute?"
    "Sure," I said, Martha giving no indication
of noticing Carol's change of heart toward that part of the house.
Dale cocked his head at us as we left, her in the lead.
    From the rear, she was perhaps five-five, with a slim
torso but wide hips. The hips would move in a sexual sway no matter
how stiffly she carried herself.
    I As soon as we were in the living room, she turned
on me, her crossed arms hugging herself against the cold.
    "Where the hell have you been?"
    "Could we sit—"
    She pigeoned her head forward. "She's been
waiting up for you. She said she couldn't go to bed without meeting
you. The man who told her her husband was dead. On the phone. Like
calling in a mail order . . ."
    I considered slapping her, but she wasn't hysterical,
just mad, and I was a convenient target.
    "So where have you been?" she hissed.
    "In airports and on a plane. With the cold body
of an old friend."
    She lost a little height and weight, sinking into
herself. She walked over to the couch and sat, leaning forward to
conserve her heat. I got my coat, put it around her shoulders. She
tugged on the lapels to tighten it around her.
    "What a stupid . . . lousy . . ."
    "Look, I didn't—"
    "No, no," she said, sighing. "Not you.
Al's death. No reason for it. The papers here, and some cop from
Boston on the phone—"

"Murphy?" I said.
    "Huh?" She looked up.
    "Murphy. Was the cop's name Murphy?"
    “ Oh, I don't know." She released a lapel long
enough to wipe her eyes. She had on heavy lid-liner and lipstick. The
eye makeup smeared a little.
    "I didn't take the call," she said. "Dale
did. Larry was too upset to help much. I was still at work. She
reached me—" Carol broke off what she realized was irrelevant.
"It was the way they . . . the way it was done .... "
    "About Martha," I said.
    Carol blew out through her lips, making them flutter
without any accompanying noise. "I don't know. We've been
friends, all of us for a long time. Like pioneers, you know. We sort
of settled this block when, well, it was after my divorce, and things
weren't too fashionable here, despite all the renovations since."
She looked around the room.
    "How hard up is Martha for money?" I said.
"Bottom line."
    She shrugged. "You've got eyes. Most of us on
the street had to do a little bit at a time. You seen Dale and
Larry's place yet? "
    "Just a walk through."
    "Well, Dale got a chunk of money from an aunt
who died, so they did their place a little faster than most, but all
of us were trying, including Martha and Al. But somewhere, I dunno,
the steel glut, the recession, something must have happened. I didn't
know about the oil, when Kenny—he's my son, he's upstairs asleep
with Al Junior—when Kenny and I walked in here, it was freezing
cold. I hadn't even worn a coat, just rushed over and . . . I don't
know how they