Fletch and the Widow Bradley f-4

by Gregory Mcdonald

“I think I will.”

  Fletch was sitting in the broad, deep divan of Enid Bradley’s livingroom. Through sliding glass doors sparkled a good-sized swimming pool.

  Enid Bradley moved across the livingroom to a bar disguised as a book case and poured herself a large glass of white wine. “Seeing I must go to the office every day during this period, relaxing with a drink Saturday afternoon is quite all right, isn’t it? Isn’t that the excuse you men always use for drinking on the weekend?”

  “No.”

  “You are younger than I was expecting, Mister Fletcher.”

  Enid Bradley did not seem relaxed to Fletch. She seemed someone eager to show she was relaxed. Her eyes had been too searching in his face when she opened the door to him; her sigh had been too deep when he identified himself. She was an over-weight woman in her mid-forties in a slightly out-of-date dress and high-heeled shoes. Fletch could not guess what she might have been doing before the doorbell rang. The only image that came to his mind was that of her standing somewhere in the house, fearfully anticipating him, or some other threatening visitor.

  She sat in a chair placed at a slight angle to the coffee table, and to him. The surface of the coffee table was bright inlaid tile.

  Fletch put his fingertips on the mosaic. “Did your husband make this?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s very nice.”

  “There are several around the house. In the den. In our bedroom. In a table by the pool.” Her eyelids hooded as she turned her face toward the light from the glass doors. Then her free hand gestured over her shoulder. “And, of course, there’s that one, on the wall.”

  There was a large mosaic of precisely shaded concentric circles, brightest at the center, on the wall next to the fireplace.

  “I don’t blame you for coming to see me, Mister Fletcher. If I’m offended, I’m also curious.” She put her glass on the coffee table. “I read your article about our company in Wednesday’s News-Tribune. I was obliged to call your managing editor. It was just too upsetting to my children and, of course, the employees.”

  “I regret that.”

  “Where did you ever get the idea of quoting my husband?”

  Saying nothing, Fletch just looked at her.

  “We’re not suing the newspaper. What’s the use? I didn’t even ask your managing editor, that Mister Jaffe, to reprint a retraction. I can’t imagine what it would say. ‘The recent article on Wagnall-Phipps Incorporated by I.M. Fletcher erroneously had quotes by the late Thomas Bradley’? No, that would just stir up more confusion. More hurt.”

  “You might let the News-Tribune print an obituary on your husband. They never have.”

  “Rather late now, isn’t it?”

  “When exactly did your husband die, Mrs. Bradley?”

  “A year ago this month.”

  Fletch sighed. “A year ago this month. I saw memos from him dated as recently as three weeks ago.”

  “You couldn’t have. I mean, how could you have? Why do you say you did? The idea is absurd. You see, Mister Fletcher. I have the choice of thinking you’re a very sick young man. You’ve done a very cruel thing to me and my family.”

  “Or—?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Or—?’ ”

  “You said you had a choice. Either I’m very sick, or, what?”

  “Or someone else is. The reason I’m talking to you, didn’t close the door in your face, is because I have a suspicion. At first I thought your article was just another effort on the part of your newspaper to smear Wagnall-Phipps—as you did a few years ago. But, no, what you did was too, too absurd. It doesn’t leave your newspaper a leg to stand on. I was even going to ask your Mister Jaffe if I could see you, talk to you, but—well, he discouraged me.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “He said you’re very young, which you are, and that young people make mistakes, which they do.”

  “You settled on the conclusion that I’m very sick.”

  “Yes and no. I did and I didn’t.” She brought her glass of wine to her lips and replaced it on the coffee table. No wine seemed missing from the glass. “I’ve taken another step …” She hesitated. “… which is more to my purpose, if you know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Enid Bradley shrugged. “It really can’t be important to me, Mister Fletcher, if you are a sick, cruel man—as long as you don’t hurt me or my family again.” In her lap, her fingernails worried each other. “It’s very hard for me. You must understand. Wagnall-Phipps was Thomas’ company. He built it and he ran it. For the last twenty years I’ve been a housewife and mother. But at least for now I’m trying to run the company.”

  Sympathetic phrases plodded through Fletch’s mind but he gave voice to none of them.

  “But your editor, Mister Carraway, came out Thursday night.”

  “Carradine.”

  “Is his name Carradine? I was so upset. He sat with me and my children, Tom and Ta-ta. He was very kind. He was more explicit.”

  “About what?”

  Her eyes flashed into his. “He said you’re a fool, Mister Fletcher. That you’re always doing wild and stupid things. He said you’re an office joke. He said you’re a compulsive liar.” Her eyes fell. “He also said you were to be fired the next day, and that you’d never work in the newspaper business again.”

  “Say, he was kind.”

  Her eyes looked into his again, with less anger. “Were you fired?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, from your own point of view, why are you pursuing this matter further?”

  “Because I’m a good journalist and I’ve got two statements, or impressions, which don’t match.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just being cruel?”

  “Mrs. Bradley, I wrote a newspaper article quoting your husband. I never heard of your husband before, or you, or your family, and if I’d ever heard of Wagnall-Phipps it meant nothing to me. Then I’m told your husband is dead. I’m shocked. I’m hurt by this, too.”

  Her voice squeaked drily. “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

  “The News-Tribune did not print an obituary on your husband. I haven’t been able to check the Bureau of Vital Statistics yet, because it’s Saturday and I just got back to town last night. But I will on Monday.”

  “It will do you no good,” said Enid Bradley. “At least, I don’t think so. My husband died in Switzerland.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought everyone knew that. He was cremated there.”

  “I see.”

  Expressing exasperation, she rose from her chair, crossed the room, took a hand-sized, decorated box from the mantel and placed it on the coffee table in front of Fletch. “These are his ashes, Mister Fletcher.”

  Fletch stared at the filigreed box lid.

  “Open it,” she said. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  She opened it. Inside were ashes, looking as if they had settled toward the center while still wet.

  “Do you have any more questions, Mister Fletcher?”

  “Yes,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  She sat in the chair again. “I will tell you everything,” she said, “if you will just go away and stop this insane harrassing of us.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  “My husband had a form of blood cancer. Which means that, in order to stay alive, his blood had to be changed regularly. That is, his own blood had to be drawn out while fresh blood was being pumped into him. You can imagine what a horror that is.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry,” he said. He closed the lid of the box.

  “You’re going to hear me out.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “You can imagine how debilitating all that is—having your own blood drained out while new blood is being pumped in. No, of course you can’t.”

  “Yes,” Fletch said. “No.”

  “Over time, of course, it weakened h
im more and more. Poor Thomas. Running the company he wanted no one to know how sick he was. Alex Corcoran, the president, is really only chief of sales—a big, hale-and-hearty fellow whose mind is permanently stuck on golf. In fact, he’s playing in some tournament over at the Southworth Country Club this afternoon. Charley Blaine, the Vice-president and treasurer, is a superb backroom man, but one of the most dependent characters you ever saw in your life. If everything isn’t just perfect, he overreacts and does crazy things. And Thomas was the kind of man who didn’t want his children worrying about him. They’re beautiful, happy, successful children. Ta-ta—our daughter, Roberta—is teaching at her old prep school, Southworth Preparatory, and half-way through her first teaching year they’ve made her Head of House. And Tom is finishing up his pre-medical studies at the College. They are both doing extremely well. My husband wanted to live. But these treatments, these blood exchanges, had to happen more and more frequently. It was a cumulative disease, Mister Fletcher. He was getting weaker and weaker.

  “Then we heard about this new technique the doctors in Switzerland had developed. I can’t pretend to understand it, or explain it. It has something to do with not letting the new blood mingle with the old blood, during the exchange. I take it you don’t know anything about medicine, either?”

  “No.”

  “Vacuums or something were to be created in the body. I’m not sure only Swiss doctors are doing it, but Thomas heard about this doctor in Switzerland who was the first, or the best, or something. The most respected. So, while I stayed to run the company as well as I could, he went to Switzerland for these extensive treatments. All the news was good. He was doing fine. And then he died.”

  She was looking directly at Fletch as she spoke, rather in the manner of someone insulted. Then she put a hand to her brow and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Mister Fletcher, will you please leave us alone, and stop this insanity of yours?”

  Fletch tried to make himself comfortable in the soft divan. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Mrs. Bradley,” he said, “why did your Vice-president and treasurer, Charles Blaine, refer last week to your husband as alive? Why did he show me recently dated memos purportedly from your husband?”

  Enid Bradley raised her head and blinked her eyes around the upper corners of the room. She spoke gently. “That’s why I’m seeing you, Mister Fletcher. I’m now convinced of your innocence—that you meant to do nothing cruel. I’m afraid we’re both victims of someone else’s sickness.”

  “Why would he do such a thing, Mrs. Bradley?”

  “Charley is a worrisomely tight man, if you know what I mean. Anything out of the ordinary rattles him. He was terribly fond—worshipful—of my husband. Thomas would make the silliest little joke, and Charley would repeat it and laugh all night. I tried to break the news of Thomas’ death gently. No, I did not offer the local newspapers obituaries. No, I did not run a memorial service for him locally. Maybe I should have. Maybe if I had done so all this painful confusion would have been avoided. You see, I took over the company only in Thomas’ absence. Everybody believed he was coming back. Then Thomas died. I didn’t know what to do. Thank God for Francine. She’s been such a help.” Enid Bradley looked into her lap. “She suggested I break the news slowly, gently, to each person individually—which I did. I even waited months—until last fall—to tell people, so the hurt of his death would be somewhat removed from them. I don’t think Charley ever accepted Thomas’ death. I think it drove Charley off the deep end. He didn’t see Thomas die, so he doesn’t believe Thomas died.”

  “Who is Francine?”

  “Thomas’ sister. She lives in New York. She and Thomas were always extremely close.”

  “Mrs. Bradley, how do you explain the memos I saw from your husband?”

  “If you saw such memos, Mister Fletcher, then they were forgeries. Obviously, Charles Blaine forged them. What else am I to think? Once or twice, Charley has referred to Thomas as alive, in speaking to me. You know, referred to Thomas in the present tense. I thought his tongue was just slipping. Then, when I saw your article … Wednesday night … I figured it out. Charley must be having some sort of a nervous breakdown. Thursday morning I told Charley, as forcefully as I could, that Thomas is dead and has been dead for a year. Then I sent him and his wife away for a long vacation.”

  “Mexico.”

  “Is that where they went? Oh, yes, I think they’ve gone to Mexico before for their vacations. We’ll just have to see how he is when he comes back. If he really went so far as forgery … I don’t know. You don’t have any copies of those memos, do you, Mister Fletcher?”

  “No.”

  “Well. You see. I haven’t known what to do. It’s all been very difficult.”

  “Do you intend to continue running the company, Mrs. Bradley?”

  “No! Thank God.” She appeared horrified at the thought.

  “Are you selling out?”

  “No. That wouldn’t be fair to the children. No, Francine is coming West to take over the company, as soon as she can settle up her own business in New York. She’s much cleverer than I. As I said, she and Thomas were very much alike. It’s almost as if they had the same mind. She’s run businesses before.” Enid Bradley looked absently across the room. “She should be able to come West in a couple of months.”

  Fletch said, “I guess I don’t know what to say.”

  Enid said, “There is nothing to say. I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm. It’s just that the man you were talking to was temporarily deranged. How could you have known that? If you like, I’ll call your managing editor again. Tell him that you and I talked. Tell him about Charley, and how insanely fond he was of my husband …”

  “Thank you, but it wouldn’t do any good. I’m famous in the business now for having quoted someone who wasn’t alive at the time. I’ll never live that down.”

  “Mister Fletcher, is there anything I can do to help you? Reporters don’t make much money, I know, and now you’ve lost your job. I guess it’s partly our fault. I should have known Charley Blaine was going off the deep end.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but no, thanks. It was nice of you to see me, under the circumstances.”

  “This is all very distressing.”

  Enid Bradley rose and showed Fletch to the door. Neither said another word.

  14

  “C O L D B E E R,” F L E T C H said. “If you’ve got any left.”

  The barman at the Nineteenth Hole, the bar of the Southworth Country Club, looked Fletch in the face, obviously considered challenging him, then drew a beer and put it in front of Fletch.

  “Thanks,” Fletch smiled. During a tournament weekend there were apt to be many strangers in and out of a golf club.

  At the end of the bar near the windows overlooking the greens was a large and noisy group of men dressed casually. Two couples in the room, at tables, were dressed for dinner.

  “Pebble Beach,” said one of the noisy men. “Nobody believes what I did at Pebble Beach. Even I don’t believe what I did at Pebble Beach!”

  And they said this and they said that and they laughed at almost everything. Fletch sipped his beer.

  His glass was nearly empty when one of the men turned to another, a heavily built man wearing bifocals, and said, “Alex, I thought you’d never really get over your bug-a-boo about approaching the seventh green.”

  “Well,” Alex smiled. “I did. Just in time.”

  Fletch picked up his beer, moved down the bar and, laughing with the men, looking interested at the next thing to be said, insinuated himself into the group. He nodded in appreciation at their slightly drunken inanities. He stood next to the man called Alex.

  After many minutes, at a fairly quiet point in the conversation, Fletch said to the man, “You’re Alex Corcoran, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” the man said.

  “Second place winner of not the biggest but surely the friendliest golf tournament in the U.S. of A.,” slur
red one of the group.

  “Congratulations,” Fletch said.

  “It’s you young guys who beat me now,” Corcoran said. “And you don’t even go to bed at night to sleep.” He pulled on his gin and tonic. “I said, to sleep.”

  “You and I met briefly before,” Fletch said. “What’s the name of that club over there …?” He pointed vaguely to the East.

  “Euston.”

  “Yeah. Euston.”

  “Did I play you?”

  “No, I wiped out in the first round. Watched you. We talked in the bar, later.”

  Alex Corcoran laughed. “Pardon me for not remembering.”

  “We talked about Wagnall-Phipps. You work for Wagnall-Phipps, right?”

  “No!” said a golfer. “He doesn’t work for Wagnall-Phipps. He’s the president!”

  “He doesn’t work at all,” said another.

  Fletch nodded. “Yeah, I thought we talked about Wagnall-Phipps.”

  “Been with W-P seven years,” Corcoran said. “Didn’t become president, though, until the company suddenly decided to get out of the ski house business.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Jerry was really screwed by that.” A golfer shook his head. “Jeez. Business entertaining. Suddenly it becomes illegal, or un-American or something.”

  “Depends on who you entertain.”

  “Depends on who you bribe.”

  Everything was funny to these golfers after the tournament.

  “Alex, what happened to Jerry?”

  “He’s gone skiing,” one of them joked.

  “Yeah. Retired to Aspen.”

  “The ex-president of Wagnall-Phipps,” said the current president, “is living in Mexico on a pension bigger than my salary.”

  “Really?” marveled one of the men. “The wages of sin.”

  “Pretty big pension,” Alex said. “The scandal did him no harm. Wish I could work up a good scandal myself. Then I’d never have to go to the office.”

  “You hardly ever go now, Alex.”

  “You can’t sell our crap from behind a desk,” Alex said. “You gotta get out there and dazzle by foot-work!” The big man shuffled his feet in a boxer’s step. None of his drink spilled.