Hidden Agenda

by Anna Porter

  “OK. You can have your ears, and every other part of your body, pierced right after your eighteenth birthday.”

  They glared at each other in silence. Then Jimmy tossed the macaroni into a pot and began to stir it furiously.

  When she returned to the living room, David was still examining the piece of paper, holding it up to the light near the fireplace. He looked at her expectantly.

  “Alice found it among George’s papers. We think it’s his calculations of what a book might earn him. He used to make these before drawing up a contract. This manuscript is the one Francis is searching for. George figured it was worth $1,000,000—slightly less than the current asking price of $1.2 million.”

  “How do you know?” David cut in.

  “From a woman Marsha and I met at F.A.O. Schwarz in New York.” Judith told him how the meeting had been arranged and about the bizarre conversation over the toys. “I was already informed George had sent a copy of the manuscript to Axel Books. This note confirms it. And Max Grafstein was murdered. All right, they claim an ordinary mugging, but he had the manuscript and the woman said George had hedged his bets. She could have meant that he was going to share the asking price with Max. And it could mean—My god, I have to call Marsha…”

  “Hold on now—what…?”

  Judith was already dialing.

  “Don’t you see, there, right after Axel…”

  Marsha answered on the first ring.

  “Hello, kid, I want you to know you’re playing havoc with my social life. Been waiting for your damned call all afternoon. You’ll never guess what Gordon Fields told me about George’s manuscript: they offered a whole million dollars for it. There’s a contract…”

  “Have they found it?”

  “Hell no. Francis has been here making an awful fuss over their having lost it.”

  “I have an idea where it might be.” Judith told her about the note and read it out. “Does H.Th. sound like a British publisher to you?”

  It did.

  “Hamilton Thornbush. That’s where Peter Burnett is. And Eric Sandwell. I’m going to be there on Thursday…”

  “Will you call them now, see if they have a manuscript from Fitzgibbon & Harris? Or are expecting one.”

  “OK. Tomorrow morning. I’ll call Eric—and I wanted to talk to Peter anyway.”

  While Judith was on the phone David had poured himself some soda water, this time with ice. He swirled the cubes around in his glass, making a small jangling sound as he paced around the room.

  Jimmy came by, sneered at him and ran upstairs three steps at a time. Judith hadn’t noticed. When she replaced the receiver, David was rounding the sofa, a grin on his face.

  “You wanted to reopen the case?” he asked cheerfully. “Well, I believe we’ve got ourselves a full-scale investigation.”

  “Why in the world are you beaming?”

  “I love an interesting case,” he said, rocking back on his heels as he came to an abrupt stop in front of Judith.

  “And you haven’t even heard about Ethan MacMurty yet.”

  The front door banged open. Anne marched in with two hairy friends of indeterminate sex, said “Hello,” with a sideways glance at David, and stopped for a closer scrutiny.

  “Aren’t you the cop who came here last week?”

  “Yup.”

  “You still trying to figure out what happened to poor old George Harris?”

  “I’m working on it. As they say on Hill Street Blues, it’s heating up.”

  “You going out?” Anne asked her mother.

  “We were…” Judith hesitated.

  “We are going to dinner,” David said enthusiastically. “The first survival technique you learn in this business, my dear Ms. Hayes, is how to walk away from your work. If your mother ever tires of scribbling for a living,” he said to Anne, “we’ll offer her an honest job on the police force.”

  “She’s not the type.” Anne led her troops into the kitchen.

  “Should I be flattered or insulted?” David asked.

  ***

  Jane MacIntyre answered Eric Sandwell’s direct line, as she had always done: “Mr. Sandwell’s office.”

  “It’s Marsha Hillier, Mrs. MacIntyre. May I speak to him, please?”

  There was a long pause followed by a scraping sound.

  “Mrs. MacIntyre, are you still there?” Sometimes the trans-Atlantic line played havoc with human voices.

  “You haven’t heard…” Jane MacIntyre said when she finally spoke.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Sandwell passed away last Thursday night. I thought Mr. Burnett might have called you—I suppose he hasn’t had time what with the funeral and all the arrangements to be made.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Heart attack. Late in the evening. They say he died very quickly—a blessing, I always say. The dreadful suffering of a slow death, at least he was spared that. Fifty-five he would have been this summer. Not an old man, Miss Hillier, and he took such good care of himself…”

  “That’s a terrible shock. I’m so sorry…” Marsha mumbled, her mind racing back to Harris’s calculations for a contract. Harris. Grafstein. Sandwell.

  “He had been so looking forward to your visit. Always such fun for him. Your dinner at The Lion’s Head… I’m sure you’ll want to speak to Mr. Burnett…”

  “Oh yes…” Marsha was astonished to notice she was smiling. Somewhere deep down it was like a bubble bursting. Relief? Thank God it’s Eric and not Peter.

  “Hullo, Marsha,” Peter boomed.

  She fought for control of her voice.

  “I’m very sorry, Peter.”

  “We’ll all miss him dreadfully.” Peter had such a deep, pleasant voice, without the plum-in-the-mouth “eh what” that runs rampant through British publishing. “Look, will you give us another couple of days to think about the Martin manuscript? It’s been rather hectic and I just realized our option expires today. You know I wouldn’t normally ask, but…”

  “Of course. We’ll extend…”

  “Who’s the agent?”

  “Jelinek.”

  “Do you think you can handle it?”

  “I’m sure he’ll understand.” She wasn’t sure he would understand. Jelinek could use the delay to drive up the British price, but she would support Peter. Faced with a threat in the US, the agent might back off.

  “Are you still coming?”

  “I’ll be in London in the morning.”

  “I hope you’ll still keep your promise for dinner Thursday night.”

  “Yes—are you all right?”

  “Not wonderful, but keeping my head above water. There’s going to be a nasty battle over the succession, I think. Anthony Billingsworth-Powell is supporting me for a position on the board. Eric had insisted I join him there this year, anyhow…”

  She had to ask. The manuscript could still be there.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you with this now, but it’s fairly important. A manuscript George Harris sent you. Perhaps the week before last. I think nonfiction and worth quite a lot. Axel was going to publish here. Seems George had estimated the British rights around half a million.”

  There was a long buzzing echo over the line. Marsha thought Peter would interrupt with an “of course” but he didn’t. She plowed ahead.

  “I was hoping you would let me see it when I’m in London.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know who the author is. But I gather the book is worth a bundle, and I’d like a shot at the paperback rights. Would you take a look around?”

  “You’re not giving me a whole lot to go on. I assume there is an excellent reason why you’re not asking Axel or Fitz & Harris to send you a copy?”

  “Max Grafstein died. It was going to be his acquisition.” Perhaps he didn’t know about George?

  “I know. Horrible way to go…”

  “Peter, you can’t have received so many manuscripts
from Fitz & Harris in the last couple of weeks. Please, would you have a look?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  ***

  Marsha sat for a while in silence, gazing out the window at the sunshine. She hadn’t noticed Margaret Stanley placing the mug of coffee in front of her.

  “And how is Mr. Burnett?” Margaret asked with a slight curl of her lip. She had never forgotten Peter’s long letter of a couple of years ago. It had been addressed to Marsha and marked “personal.” Margaret had opened it by mistake. It wasn’t the first love letter she had read, but it was the first to quote extensively from By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept.

  “OK,” Marsha said absently.

  Margaret put a bulky package next to the coffee.

  “Your schedule and airline tickets. One or two reminders. You’d promised Mr. Burnett you’d read Hiroshima Revisited. I’ve asked Mr. Mancuso to make sure he returns it to you before noon. He says he doesn’t like to think about universal annihilation on an empty stomach. Don’t you think Mr. Burnett’s developing a morbid list of books? It’s the third one from him about a nuclear holocaust since January.”

  “We’re already publishing one of them,” Marsha said, still gazing out the window.

  “Is something wrong?” Margaret asked, suddenly solicitous.

  “No. I mean yes. Eric Sandwell died.”

  “Not another one…” Margaret stood for a while not saying anything. Then she decided to leave Marsha to her thoughts.

  Throughout the morning Marsha kept dialing Judith’s number. It was busy.

  Seventeen

  JUDITH WOKE WITH a start. She had been drifting in and out of sleep, not wanting to wake up. The sheets, hot and clammy, clung to her body, damp hair wound around her face.

  She checked her wrist for the time, then remembered she had taken her watch off during the night. It had scratched David across the shoulder as he rolled over. “Ouch,” he had said, sotto voce, and pushed her arm over her head to feel around for what had hurt him. He had removed the watch then, while she nibbled his ear.

  He hadn’t said much once they had tiptoed past the children’s rooms without turning on the hall light. He had left his shoes at the bottom of the stairs. She carried hers for some reason she no longer recalled. Maybe a throwback to her late teens, when she had sometimes come home after her mother was asleep.

  Now, as then, she felt guilt. It ran through her body like the first stages of summer flu when you know something is irretrievably wrong, but you’re not quite sure what. Why? She took stock of the possibilities.

  First, there was David. Had she been too eager to go to bed with him? Could he have thought that then? And now? The evening had almost ended when he drove her home and kissed her at the door. It was she who had suggested he come inside… lightly. When he demurred, she had asked if he was frightened of her. She had said something about not being an easy woman to lay. Ugh… That had all somehow fitted the moment, then. She was even laughing. Had he laughed? She had been too anxious to make an impression on him to register what his reactions were. She was, as usual, watching herself. Her own most discerning critic. What had he thought when she asked him to have a nightcap? Some idiotic thing about having discovered a great new drink. Bailey’s Irish Cream, of all things. He must have figured it was the lamest invitation he had ever had. The dumbest anyway.

  But she hadn’t intended to go to bed with him then. Or had she? No. She was pretty sure she hadn’t.

  Maybe it was the Irish Cream: three wine glasses full.

  “This was meant to be sipped from brandy snifters, but I haven’t had one of those in seven years. James took the snifters, I took the kids. Anyway, Bailey’s too good to snift.”

  Asinine. Could that possibly have fitted into the mood of the evening? She’d had too much to drink. Yes, that would explain why she had let him peel off her sweater while they were still on the couch downstairs listening to Frank Sinatra, whom he hated, and Kris Kristofferson, whom he loved and collected himself.

  It was easy to see why they’d had to go upstairs. “What if one of the little darlings comes down for a drink? Why don’t we just…?” Yeah. Except she wasn’t drunk. Perhaps he wouldn’t know that.

  She went to the bathroom. She had been certain she would wake up with the worst case of cystitis she’d ever had, and sure enough, here it was. How the hell could a man his age—how old was he anyway? forty-five? more?—make love three times in one night?

  There was that then. She could hardly claim to have forgotten all three times. No one could be that drunk and still respond. And she had responded. Like a tornado. He’d probably think she was starved. Or that she’d been brushing up on her technique with a series of lovers…different one every week. It had all happened so easily—tiptoeing past the kids’ bedrooms. Giggling.

  Idiotic.

  The kids. Jimmy’s bedroom was right next to hers. Would he have heard? Sure, when they had last talked about sex, Jimmy had encouraged her to have an affair. But it’s one thing to discuss it and quite another to listen to your mother groaning in the next room.

  Judith brushed her teeth in the dark. No point in confronting herself in the mirror.

  She went back to the bedroom and sat on the bed, bounced vigorously a few times and listened. Only the tiniest squeak. Probably not loud enough to hear through the wall. Unless of course he had been woken up first by the giggles, or the groaning.

  She searched for her watch on the night table. David had drawn the curtains when he left. He’d said something about having to report in before 7:00. She had watched him get dressed through a haze—and scratch around under the bed trying to find his socks. She knew they must be at the foot of the bed tangled in the sheets but she couldn’t tell him since she was pretending to be asleep, her arm over her face to close out the light and to prevent him seeing her with her eye make-up down both cheeks.

  Judith ran her fingers over her chin. She knew she’d have a nasty beard-rash, red and sore for days. Both that and cystitis. Another long-term reminder.

  There it was: 11:00. Now she knew the kids must have heard something, or they’d have called her when they left for school.

  Quickly she threw back the covers, stripped the sheets, shook the pillows out of their cases, bundled the lot into a tight ball and threw it into the linen hamper. Getting rid of the evidence, it’s called. She pulled out some fresh floral sheets. Leftovers from her marriage, wedding presents from his parents. Judith had kept the wedding presents. James didn’t like them. Most had remained in the trunk in the basement, especially the large porcelain things, much too expensive and space-consuming to display.

  How they had both hated the wedding. James had felt ridiculous in his rented tuxedo, too tight in the shoulders, too loose across the ass. The crotch hung halfway down to his knees, no time for minor alterations. He had just graduated from vet school and when he was ready to set up his practice the idea was that she would be able to help him with the decorating.

  The last weeks before the wedding he had been too busy to push their eager sexual fumblings to their natural conclusion. It would have been difficult anyway in the back of his beat-up Plymouth where they had declared undying love. Judith’s mother had been too concerned about “morality” to leave them alone in the house and James’s house was even less inviting than Judith’s. He had three brothers, all younger, all equally eager to catch him in a clutch with Judith. Better than the movies. Better even than the skin magazines they hid under their mattresses, where Mrs. Hayes was careful not to find them. James thought his mother was secretly pleased the boys were teaching themselves about sex. She most certainly wasn’t going to teach them herself, and James’s father never had time.

  Although James had claimed otherwise, Judith was certain they were both virgins on their wedding night. What they lacked in experience, they were ready to make up for in eagerness to get on with it. For Judith, it was painful, messy and bloody—for James, little better than his
furtive ejaculations in the bathroom when he was fourteen. But then his imaginary partners had disappeared right afterward. That minor miracle failed to befall Judith.

  It was three days before James gave it another try. This time he expired on Judith’s stomach.

  Their honeymoon had been a foretaste of the marriage. They had remained rigidly unwilling to discuss their problems, or even to admit they were disappointed in each other and themselves.

  In all her years of marriage Judith couldn’t remember one happy night together. She had become convinced she was frigid, and so, secretly, had he. Children, she thought, might pull them together, but they didn’t. What they did was fill her life with a sense of being loved and needed—a feeling, she now knew, she had been seeking for a long time. James was more comfortable handling small animals than children. So he continued fondling his pets at the clinic, while Judith hugged the babies, each in turn, until she felt quite certain they were her children, exclusively, and resented James picking them up. She saw it as an intrusion, and him as an intruder onto her private turf.

  Judith checked the living room. Sure enough, the phone had been taken off the hook. A good sign, she thought. One of the kids must have decided to let her sleep in. They couldn’t be too angry with her.

  She took a hot shower, washed her hair, tidied the house more earnestly than usual, and looked over the introductory section of her Globe Magazine piece, but her heart wasn’t in it. Mainly, she was sorting out her feelings for David and sifting the few stray bits of information she had gleaned about him.

  While pondering why his wife had left him, she prepared a six-pound rump roast for supper, browning it on all sides but one, which she burned.

  A man who has his daughter’s framed photograph on his desk has to be able to love. Doesn’t he?

  She was not at all surprised that Detective Parr was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. She left a message and was, once more, unsurprised that he didn’t call her within the next half hour. She spent it staring at her typewriter and the latest rewrite of the George Harris story. Too many unanswered questions.