Death Likes It Hot by Gore Vidal

shut up, Fletcher. You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know anything about it.”
    “I know what she told me. She said …”
    “Fletcher, she was damned near out of her mind these last few months and you know it as well as I do … better, because you’re partly to blame.”
    “What do you mean by that crack?”
    “Just what I say. Especially after Bermuda.” There was a long pause. I wondered if perhaps they had left the room.
    Then Claypoole spoke, slowly: “Think whatever you want to think. She wasn’t happy with you, ever. You and your damned ego nearly ruined her … did ruin her.”
    “Well, I don’t think you’ll be able to blame her death on my ego …”
    “No, because I’m going to blame it on you.”
    A cold shiver went down my spine. Brexton’s voice was hard. “There’s such a thing as criminal libel. Watch out.”
    “I expect to. I’m going to tell the whole story in court. I expect you thought I’d be too afraid of repercussions … well, I’m not. When I get through there won’t be anybody who doesn’t know.”
    Brexton laughed shortly. “In court? What makes you think there’ll be a court?”
    “Because I’m going to tell them you murdered her.”
    “You’re out of your mind, Fletcher. You were there. How could I murder her? Even if I wanted to?”
    “I think I know. Anyway it’ll be your word against mine as to what happened out there, when she was drowning.”
    “You forget that young fellow was there too. You’ve got his testimony to think about. He knows nothing funny happened.”
    “I was closer. I saw …”
    “Nothing at all. Now get out of here.”
    “I warned you.”
    “Let me warn you then, Fletcher: if you circulate any of your wild stories, if you try to pin this … this accident on me, I’ll drag Allie into the case.”
    Before I could hear anything more, the butler appeared with the news that a reporter from the local paper was waiting to see me. Cursing my bad luck, puzzled and appalled by what I had heard, I went into the drawing room and delivered my spiel on the accidental death of Mildred Brexton. Only I wasn’t too sure of the accident part by this time.
III
    For some reason, the newspapers scented a scandal even before the police or the rest of us did. I suppose it was the combination of Mrs. Veering “Hostess” and Paul Brexton “Painter” that made the story smell like news way off.
    I spent the rest of that afternoon handling telephone calls and interviewers. Mrs. Veering kept out of sight. Mary Western Lung proved to be a source of continual trouble, however, giving a series of eyewitness accounts of what had happened calculated to confuse an electric eye much less a bewildered newspaperman.
    “And so you see,” she ended breathlessly to the local newspaperman who sat watching her with round frightened eyes, “in the midst of life we are we know not where, ever. I comprehend full well now the meaning of that poor child’s last words to me, I hope the water isn’t cold.
Think
what a world of meaning there was in that remark now that we know what she intended to do.”
    “Are you suggesting Mrs. Brexton killed herself?” The member of the fourth estate was drooling with excitement.
    I intervened quickly, pushing him to the door. “Of course not,” I said rapidly. “There’s no evidence at all that she wanted to do such a thing; as a matter of fact, she couldn’t’ve been more cheerful this morning …”
    “And I’ll send you a copy of ‘Book-Chat,’ the last one.” MissLung shouted at the retiring interviewer’s back. I told the butler to let no one else in for the day.
    I turned to Miss Lung. “You know that Mrs. Veering asked me to look after the press, to keep them from doing anything sensational. Now you’ve gone and put it in their heads that she intended to commit suicide.”
    “
Did
commit suicide.” Miss Lung smiled wisely at me over her necklace of chins.
    “How do you