First Gravedigger by Barbara Paul

Amos Speer? It didn’t make sense. If it had all been nothing but talk, Charlie would never have pulled that trigger—he would have ducked out the minute he was out of my sight. So that meant I was right the first time: he had reached the end of his rope and had fully intended to kill himself.
    But something had happened to change his mind, and that something could only have been the sight of Amos Speer lying there with his brains pouring out. Charlie had gotten scared, it was that simple. It was nothing more than sheer wishywashyness that had made Charlie rewrite the ending. And put me squarely behind the eight ball.
    If I had to name the one person in the world who could never be trusted to hold his tongue, I would say Charlie Bates without a moment’s hesitation. Charlie was a compulsive talker, afraid to let a silence develop, afraid not to use every available second to sell himself. He’d say anything to hold your attention—like threatening suicide when he thought that would do the trick. And this was the man who carried my secret around with him. This was one punch I couldn’t roll with; something was going to have to be done. Charlie wouldn’t want to talk, he’d even try hard not to. But he’d never manage it. Sooner or later he’d shoot off his mouth and that would be the end of Earl Sommers. No, as long as Charlie Bates was alive, I was in danger of losing everything—Speer Galleries, the Duprée chair, Nedda’s money. Nothing was safe. The more I thought about it the clearer it became there was only one solution: I was going to have to kill Charlie.
    No long-distance weapons this time—I’d have to do the job myself. The thought of that made me break out in a cold sweat, prompting curious looks from Nedda. I’d have to locate Charlie, make my plans, and then somehow crank myself up to going through with it. I’d have to. It was the only way. Yes.
    Once I’d made the decision I began to relax. Charlie had kept his mouth shut so far; I was going to have to rely on his keeping quiet a little longer, until I got back. That was the weak part of the plan: the fact that Charlie hadn’t spilled the beans so far didn’t mean he wouldn’t be seized by an urge to confess tomorrow morning. But there was nothing I could do about that. I’d have to bank on his continued silence until I could make sure he was silenced permanently. So be it.
    By the time we were approaching Orly I had experienced a miraculous recovery from my indisposition. We’d leased a villa outside Nice, and I gave myself over to one long period of self-indulgence. France was beautiful, Nedda was beautiful, and at times even I felt beautiful. There were days when I could forget Charlie Bates for hours on end. I tried not to keep thinking I ought to be back in Pittsburgh taking care of the one man who could destroy me. But walking out on the honeymoon would be an invitation to a divorce, so I concentrated on enjoying myself.
    When we’d been there a month, I started dropping little hints that it was time to be thinking of getting back. Conjugal bliss was great stuff, but business was business.
    Nedda didn’t take to the idea too well. “Well, thanks a lot, Earl,” she said in mock-sarcastic tones. “That says a lot for the trip.”
    I sighed dramatically. “Nedda, love, life with you on the Côte d’Azur is nirvana itself. But all good things must come to an end.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhy must all good things come to an end?”
    Because I’ve got to go back to Pittsburgh and murder somebody . “I don’t want to end the honeymoon, Nedda,” I said, overstressing the difference, “it’s just that I think I ought to be getting back.”
    â€œQuibble, quibble.” Nedda didn’t want to leave yet and that was that. We stayed.
    Part of me (the irrational part) was glad she was being