The Suspect - L R Wright by L. R. Wright

and wondered how he'd gotten through these
days. And whatever had possessed him to put the shell casings on his
windowsill, like an obscene trophy?
    He pushed himself back into the bedroom and got
dressed. His fingers were numb as he worked buttons into buttonholes
and pulled up the zipper in his pants and thrust his feet into socks
and slippers; he didn't want to fumble helplessly with the laces in
his shoes.
    He went straight outside to his garden and sat in his
canvas chair.
    It would be nice to have a greenhouse again, he
thought, but there was no room for one, not even a small one. Maybe
he should sell this house and get another one, smaller inside but
with a bigger yard, away from the sea. His proximity to the sea
limited what he could grow in his garden. And it was almost blinding
sometimes, the sunlight on blue rippled water.
    He would miss the sounds the ocean made, though, and
the smell of it, and the things it left on his beach: nice pieces of
wood and interesting shells.
    A four-foot-high stone wall protected his garden from
the strong breezes that sometimes blew in from the water. George got
up to inspect the things that grew behind the wall. The peas were
five feet tall and covered with swelling pods, their stalks twining
around thick white cord strung tepee fashion from the top of a long
pole. The beans were up high, too, and his single zucchini was
thriving. His vegetable garden was much smaller than last year's.
There was no point in growing a lot of stuff he'd never eat. And it
was hard to give vegetables away. Almost everyone had a garden. He
could keep up with the zucchini, though; he'd eat it every day and be
sorry when it was gone. He liked peas, too. The beans he grew only
because they had been Myra's favorite.
    He looked out to sea, bewildered. He seemed to recall
having talked to that Mountie about his garden. He seemed to recall
telling him he had broccoli in his garden. He was astounded at
himself; he hated broccoli. Why on earth had he told such a stupid
lie?
    George brushed his hand over his thick white hair and
realized that he hadn't even combed it, yet, or brushed his teeth,
either, or even gone to the bathroom, though his bladder had been
full from the minute he'd awakened. He went slowly into the house to
take care of these things. Later, he sat in his leather chair sipping
coffee and trying to get his mind working right. It's that damn pill,
he thought; it's made me logy.
    He had to get rid of the shell casings. They were
shriveling up the whole house, sitting there. Which one of them had
he hit Carlyle with? he wondered. He tried to remember bringing them
home and putting them up there but he couldn't quite do it, couldn't
quite remember. He knew he'd done it; put them in a paper bag he'd
found in Carlyle's kitchen and lugged them home and set them up on
the windowsill. He could see himself doing it. But he couldn't
remember what it had felt like, or what he had thought while he did
it.
    He drank his coffee and tried to take stock. He had
struck Carlyle on the head, and Carlyle had died. Then Carlyle was
buried. Then the policeman came and told him that Carlyle had left
him all his belongings—and some money too, he thought, but he
wasn't sure.
    George felt cold sweat under his arms. He must have
been in shock. Doing a thing like that—it would be enough to put
anybody in a state of shock. But for four days?
    What he ought to do was get up right now and find the
telephone and call that Mountie and confess to his crime. That was
the right and proper thing to do.
    He looked out the window and blinked at the sunlight
and didn't move. How would he explain keeping his mouth shut for four
whole days? The man's going to think I'm a nutter, he thought. But
that wasn't what bothered him, not really, not if he was going to be
absolutely honest with himself. What bothered him was the humiliation
he would feel, capitulating to a remorse which he still didn't fully
accept, four days after the fact.
    He