The Drowning Pool by Jacqueline Seewald

right. Bradshaw knew I had a fear of swimming underwater. One evening we were over at the pool with the Wallings and April Nevins. Bradshaw started needling me about my phobia, betting me I couldn’t swim half the length of the pool underwater. He claimed he could swim the whole distance at one shot, that he had the breathing technique down pat. For a heavy smoker, he did have surprisingly good wind. I told him if he wanted to show-off, that was his own business, not mine, but he wouldn’t let up. He even got Martin on his side—of course, that was no surprise. Walling was his stooge. When I flatly refused, he started making snide remarks about men who pretend they’ve got guts but are really cowards.”
    “No one took him seriously,” his wife said gently.
    “Didn’t they?” Scofield turned back to Gardner. “He made me look like a jerk in my wife’s eyes. Had a good laugh at my expense. Then he sat down with the women and basked in their admiration.”
    “Not mine,” came his wife’s quiet response.
    “That’s so much bull and you know it!” he fumed. “You ate up his attention like bonbons.”
    Louise Scofield’s great green eyes took on an apprehensive look. Gardner wondered what lay behind her fear. A more natural reaction to her husband’s apparent jealousy would have been anger rather than fright.
    “Lose your temper often?” Bert asked Scofield with a directness that was almost as unnerving as it was hostile.
    “I think of it as righteous indignation. You got some criticism of that?”
    “It all depends on what you got to feel righteous about.”
    Scofield’s eyes took on a metallic luster. His wife, by comparison, looked paler and more frightened than ever. Gardner decided to try and ease the tension in the room.
    “Mrs. Scofield, you don’t appear to be much of a sun worshipper.”
    “No, I go to the pool late in the day, use sun block and sit in a shaded area. I’m one of those very fair people who always seem to burn rather than tan.”
    “She gets sick if she’s out in the sun,” Scofield said.
    “You’re not in ill health I hope,” Gardner commented.
    “Oh, no,” she interjected hastily. “I just haven’t been feeling very well lately. Sort of a general malaise. Run-down I guess.”
    “She’s taken the last few days off from work. Bradshaw’s death really seems to be hitting her hard.”
    Louise was livid. “Stop it, Bill!”
    Out of the corner of his eyes, Gardner saw Bert clenching her fist.
    “Mr. Scofield, you obviously didn’t work with Bradshaw, did you?”
    “No, I’m happy to say that I did not. I’m in advertising.”
    “And Mrs. Scofield?”
    “Lou’s a commercial artist. In fact, that was how we met. She started working for the same agency I did.”
    “And you still work together?”
    “No, she’s stayed with the Baincroft Richardson ad agency in Manhattan. I’ve changed agencies since then. I got a better paying job elsewhere.”
    Mrs. Scofield stood up slowly and took a few steps toward the kitchenette.
    “Where are you going? Can’t you see they still have questions?”
    “I—I thought I’d see if the steaks were thawed for dinner.”
    “Well, sit down! If Bradshaw were here instead of being talked about, you’d probably be riveted to your chair.”
    Mrs. Scofield resumed her former place, head down, obviously intimidated. Bert moved toward Scofield; her face wore the same hard expression Gardner had observed in the diner when the snickering teenager had insulted her.
    “I don’t like the way you talk to your woman. Don’t dis her. Show some courtesy. That’s what a real man would do.”
    Gardner did not miss the grateful look Mrs. Scofield shot in Bert’s direction. Then she quickly cast her eyes downward again. Scofield looked surprised and taken back by Bert’s remark, and the hostility implied by her tone of voice.
    “Just a few more questions,” Gardner interceded smoothly. “Did Bradshaw give you cause to be jealous, or did