The Drowner by John D. MacDonald

make more sense to say somebody drowned her. But not too much more sense. Middle of the day. That isn’t as big a lake as this one. How could you know somebody didn’t have a pair of binoculars on you? From where she drowned, you can see the houses across the way. And how in the world would anybody do it without leaving a mark on her? Lu didn’t look husky, but she was a strong woman. Maybe she had too much heat and passed out in the water. Or had food poisoning and fainted. Everybody who wanted to give me the needle would tell me how damn sassy she looked lately. Maybe she was taking pills for something and took too many. How the hell are you ever going to find out?”
    “If we can establish a reasonable assumption of suicide, we’ll fight paying off on the double indemnity provision.”
    Hanson grimaced. “That makes it a lot clearer, pal. Why should I help you save your cruddy money?”
    “The company’s money, not mine.”
    “If she left a note, it would save you a lot of trouble.”
    “Maybe she did.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Kimber has a lot of local influence, and he wouldn’t want to be mentioned in anything like that, would he?”
    “What are you smoking lately?”
    “If she mailed you a note, it might make you look bad, Hanson.”
    Hanson looked genuinely startled and then he laughed, but it was not a mirthful sound. “Could I look much worse no matter how the cards fall? And Kimber isn’t that big, and never will be.” And then, abruptly, Hanson changed personalities. It had been a long time since Stanial had been caught off guard. Yet he began to see why the kind of woman who had written those letters could have seen something of value and substance in Kelsey Hanson. “I’ve lost things here and there, Stanial. Chances, mostly. And when they’re gone, it’s the easiest thing in the world to tell yourself you didn’t want them anyway. But I wasn’t thinking of Lu as a chance. Old John was, I guess. I didn’t know she was a chance until she was gone and I knew I’d blown it. So I tried to tell myself I didn’t want her anyway. Sometimes, I guess, the old rationalizations stop working. But I wanted another crack at the chance Lu represented. I wanted it so bad I ached. Not on account of the old man’s threat. For me, this time. I don’t like myself very much, Stanial. I thought I might see if I could find out why, and maybe it would be a starting point… to something or other. I started out with great dedication, taking courses, trying to find some meaning to me and some meaning to life. And when I had some half-answers, I was going to go to Lu and tell her. But those cerebral types didn’t have the answers, and the answers weren’t in their books. I tried a psychiatrist, and after four sessions he told me my problem was emotional immaturity based on there always being somebody around to clean up the mess for me. And he said a couple of years of deep analysis might help, but no guarantee. So I sold myself another dream. I’d worked it out my own way. But I wasn’t working anything out. I was using the tragic figure image on some earnest juicy little college girls, telling myself I was relegating sex to its proper perspective, and telling myself one of them would come up with a bull session idea worth checking out. But Lu died. And it killed that little part I was playing. And I don’t know what the hell to do with myself now. Poor little rich boy. I got the years to use up now. Somehow.” He gave Paul an odd smile. “And I’m not looking forward to one damn minute of any one of them, pal. I muffed the last chance there was.”
    “Unless you find yourself another.”
    “Where, pal?”
    Stanial looked at the comfortable room and the wide windows and the blue lake. “Any place but here. Thirty are you? Five years from now you’ll look fifty.”
    “Sorry I brought it up. I don’t need you patting me on the head.”
    There was the nearby sound of a powerful marine engine