Fletch Reflected f-11

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Do these events have anything to do with each other?”

  “The barbecue fork was on the floor of the balcony from which Mrs. Radliegh was hung.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And you’re sitting here alone in the nursery …”

  “To protect Mrs. Houston, Amy Radliegh MacDowell, and seven little Radliegh heirs.”

  “From.” Jack said the word as if, by itself, it made a statement. He sucked in a big breath and let it go. Doing so did not cool his face. Fletch waited. Jack said, “Shana Staufel.”

  “I thought you’d think so, too.” Fletch smiled. “I noticed the blood on your sheets. Chester Radliegh mentioned to me Alixis had shared your bed the night before. One of you had bled. I was willing to believe Alixis not a virgin. And, somehow, because a girl scratched your back in lovemaking, I couldn’t see you attacking her with a barbecue fork; such smacks more of frustration, jealousy, than revenge.” Very softly, slowly, Fletch said, “One might even speculate insanity. Nor could I see you threatening a drugged older woman with a barbecue fork, for any reason. Of course …” Fletch smiled again. He was giving his son time to think. “One can never be sure. Waiting for lab reports confirming Alixis’ blood and Shana’s fingerprints on the barbecue fork necessarily would have made me just a tad nervous. So I thought I’d ask.”

  Having thought, Jack said, “Shana’s gone crazy.”

  Fletch shrugged. “Shana loved. She was so convinced people here were trying to kill the man she loved, she asked you to insinuate yourself into this household, and investigate. She convinced you that people here were trying to kill Chester Radliegh. You asked me to come here.”

  “They were trying to kill him.”

  “Be that as it may, they didn’t. At least they didn’t succeed. They may have driven him to his death, contributed to it. Shana may have been literally correct. Driving him to his death, his self-destruction, somehow, may have been their true intention.”

  Jack’s eyes were big. “Shana killed Mrs. Radliegh.”

  “Mrs. Radliegh’s suggestion of burying her accomplished husband in the laundry yard—such an expression of ignorance of and contempt for the man Shana loved deeply and passionately—rather tipped Shana over the edge, wouldn’t you say?”

  “So she hung Mrs. Radliegh with a bedsheet.”

  “After inscribing Alixis’ back with a barbecue fork. She may have meant to do more harm to Alixis. Shana hit Alixis on the head hard enough to knock her momentarily senseless. Being inexpert in such matters, she may have thought she had killed Alixis.”

  “And you think Shana means harm to Amy?”

  “Who knows what charges, real or imagined, Shana has against Amy, Mrs. Houston? Perhaps her mental state is such that she intends to deprive all natural heirs of Chester Radliegh from benefiting from his life, his work, his death. I decided I’d rather sit here than be sorry.”

  “She had nothing to do with Duncan’s death, did she?”

  “I think it will be found Duncan self-destructed. You see,” Fletch said, “where Shana is wrong is in failing to understand the usual self-destructive nature of those eager to destroy others.”

  Again, Jack got the impression Fletch was talking to the side of his head, to the ceiling, walls behind him.

  Jack’s own eyes were attracted by the light in the nursery; his attention distracted by the noises and movements of the children.

  “So,” Fletch said, “that leaves the murder of Doctor Jim Wilson to be solved. You’re not looking well this afternoon, Peppy. A little peaky.”

  Peppy had remained standing quietly beside Jack during this conversation.

  Spoken to, he focused slowly.

  “Peppy has something to say,” Jack said. “He wants your help, Dad.”

  Fletch looked at Peppy and waited.

  Peppy swallowed but said nothing.

  Jack said, “One morning, Chet went to the stables at dawn, saddled two horses and went for a ride with his father. Only one morning.”

  Fletch said, “I know.”

  “Sitting, talking with me in the woods, Doctor Radliegh said his children never rode horses with him; one morning, Chet did ride with him. I didn’t have the sense to realize he was offering me a clue. I didn’t have the sense to ask, ‘Why?’”

  Fletch asked, “Do I need to?”

  “So Peppy could drive to Birmingham, Alabama, to pick up a canister of gas for Chet.”

  Peppy said, “I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t know what it was for. I didn’t know it was gas that could kill someone. It had a long name. Chet wrote it down for me on a piece of paper. He had ordered the canister in my name, I only found that out after I got there.”

  “Do you still have that piece of paper?” Fletch asked. “The one on which Chet wrote down the name of the gas?”

  “Yes. I found it when Jack told me Doctor Wilson had been gassed to death. I have it at the cottage.”

  “That’s good,” Fletch said. “Will you give evidence in court against Chet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well,” Fletch said. “You see? Chet has self-destructed, too. Just as Chet was able enough not to flunk his bar exam, he was smart enough not to write down the name of a lethal gas he had already ordered in his own handwriting and give it to Peppy. Yet he did so.” He stood up. “And, sir, I guess that’s all the help I can be.”

  “I thought you were waiting for Shana,” Jack said. “Protecting—”

  “Shana is standing behind you,” Fletch said. “With a knife in her hand. She has been for some moments.”

  Jack turned around.

  In the black shorts, white shirt, and sneakers she had been wearing all day, Shana stood silently. In her hand was any kitchen’s largest carving knife.

  Her coal-black hair was a little tousled.

  Her very wide-set, coal-black eyes were staring, but seemingly at nothing present, something in the middle distance, perhaps within herself.

  “I think she would like you to take the knife from her, Jack,” Fletch said. “Ms. Shana came here to do something. Listening to us talk, first from outside the door, she has come into the room slowly and quietly. And I don’t think she any longer intends to do whatever she came here to do.”

  Jack took the knife from Shana’s hand easily.

  “I’m sorry to have involved you, Jack,” Shana said. “This is your father? Why is it… ?”

  Jack asked, “Why is what?”

  Never, ever did Shana Staufel speak again, not to police, defense attorneys, therapists, the courts, not to those who fed her and cared for her where she was institutionalized.

  Not ever.

  27

  “Where do I put my suitcase?” With perplexity, Fletch studied Jack’s blue Miata convertible.

  Fletch had asked Jack to meet him at the front door of Vindemia’s main house at four o’clock, to give him a lift.

  “What are you doing with that big suitcase?” Jack asked from the driver’s seat.

  “Had to bring formal clothes, didn’t I?”

  Jack’s duffel bag was stuffed in the little space behind the seats. He had thought there would be room for another.

  When Jack had driven the two-seater under the oriole, many people were milling around in front of the house, going in and out. There were police in uniforms; police not in uniforms. There were newspaper reporters; television reporters and camera crews. Behind them all, Peppy stood alone, leaning his back against a wall, drinking lazily from a quart bottle of beer.

  “You might just as well have brought your damned bicycle to pick me up,” Fletch said standing over the passenger side of the car.

  “You had your meeting with Lieutenant Corso?” Jack asked. “Everything is understood?”

  “Yes.” Still holding his suitcase, Fletch stepped down into the car. “I think I safely can say Corso understands the simple facts. Even that took hours.”

  Jack waved at Peppy.

 
Peppy gave a low wave back.

  “Jack! Jack Faoni!” A television reporter Jack recognized only somewhat came to Jack’s side of the car. “What are you doing here? If you’re here, why am I here?”

  “Beats me,” Jack said.

  “Are you on assignment?” the reporter asked. “For whom?”

  “Global Cable News.”

  “Oh, no,” said Jack.

  “You work for Global Cable News. I had lunch at the same table with you last week in GCN’s cafeteria in Virginia.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Jack.

  “You were working on the Tribal Nation story.”

  “I remember,” said Jack.

  “So are you covering the Radliegh story, or not?”

  “Not,” said Jack. “I don’t work for GCN.”

  “You were last week.”

  “Oh, no.” Jack put the car in gear. “I work for the truth.” Slowly he drove the little car around the groups of people in the semicircular driveway.

  “Humph,” Fletch said. “Good line.”

  Jack looked at his father.

  Fletch sat in the passenger seat of the little car. The back of the suitcase was on his head. The front rested on the windshield frame.

  Jack said, “I really don’t think it’s going to rain.”

  “Never can tell,” Fletch said easily. Then, with more vigor, he said, “You can tell me where else I’m supposed to put it!”

  “Don’t ask!” Jack snapped.

  At the end of the semicircular driveway, Fletch said, “Left. To the airstrip.”

  “The airstrip?”

  “You expect me to ride all the way to Tennessee with a suitcase on my head?”

  “Do you have an airplane waiting for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Jack turned left.

  Fletch said, “You have more background, understanding of this story than anyone else.”

  “Right,” Jack said.

  “You’re a reporter. You ought to report it.”

  “Right,” Jack said.

  “I mean, you could have called Andy Cyst. Even Alex Blair.”

  “Oh, no,” Jack said.

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t let GCN in on the story early enough. What I learned from Mister Blair is that I should have called the television crew in as soon as I knew I was investigating this matter. You know, have them around to film Doctor Radliegh discovering the rigged coffeepot, the cabin exploding, the horse falling over dead on him at dawn, me and Alixis in bed, maybe even me and Shana in bed a few years ago in Stowe, Vermont…. Mrs. Radliegh hanging by the neck from a bedsheet tied to the balcony railing … all that good stuff… you know, getting as much of the story on film as possible. Do you think all that might have affected the story in any way? Anyway, Mister Blair explained to me that’s the professional way to do a story, the way I’d have to do things to work for GCN.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “People who ride in cars wearing suitcases on their heads might just be more polite to whoever is driving. One pothole, and you’ll want an aspirin.”

  “So what are you going to do with this story? Just throw it away? The public have a right to—”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I was going to say.”

  “I just faxed a complete report to Jack Saunders.” Both his father, I. M. Fletcher, and his mother, Crystal Faoni, had worked with Jack Saunders on the Boston Star. Jack Saunders, now retired but far from inactive, also had be friended Jack while a student in Boston. Jack Faoni said, “Ol’ Jack already has sold the story to an international newspaper syndicate. For a good price, too. He’s editing it even as you ride through the Georgia countryside with a suitcase on your head.”

  “Print journalism?” Fletch smiled.

  “Mister Blair can read all about it with the rest of the world in the morning newspapers,” Jack said. “I shall refuse all interviews.”

  “I’ll be …” Fletch said.

  “I hope so.” Jack stopped the car at the edge of the airstrip. “Now what? Do you wait for a plane to pick you up?”

  “That yellow two-seater,” Fletch said. “What about it?”

  “Will you drive me to it, please?”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where I’m going.”

  “Oh, no. That airplane hasn’t anything to do with you, has it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What?”

  “I own it,” Fletch said. “Bought and paid for.”

  “You don’t fly it, do you?”

  “That’s the way it works,” Fletch said. “I go up one place, down in another.”

  “Not possible.”

  “It got me here, didn’t it? I wanted to see that Bierstadt. By the way, it’s a wonderful painting. Flying in, I even watched you pedaling your bicycle along the road. Earthling.”

  “Where did you get an airplane like that?” Slowly, Jack drove Fletch toward the airplane. “The Smithsonian? Don’t they miss it?”

  “I bought it from a friend. He needed the money.”

  “And you learned to fly it?”

  “Not really. I use a road map and stay out of traffic.”

  “I didn’t see it on the farm.”

  “I keep it in a shed.”

  “Who takes care of it for you?”

  “Emory.”

  “Your farmhand? What does he know about airplanes? He can’t even plug the muffler on his truck!”

  “True, he’s never been up in an airplane. Doesn’t trust them. But he’s very good with old engines. And regarding his truck muffler, I don’t encourage him to fix it. I like to know when he leaves for lunch.”

  “Dad!” Jack stopped the car a few meters from the airplane. “That’s a piece of junk!”

  “It’s a classic.”

  “It’s very old. Very, very old.”

  “Yes,” Fletch said. “It’s a very old classic.”

  Fletch opened the car door and struggled to stand up with his suitcase. “Hasn’t crashed yet. Well, yes it has. Not fatally, though. I mean, not fatally for the airplane.”

  He stepped up onto the wing, slid back the cockpit cover, and slipped his suitcase behind the two seats. “And my suitcase fits in it!”

  Jack stood on the runway. “I’m just getting to know you. I can’t let you go up in that… classic.”

  “Sure you can.” Fletch stepped into the cockpit and fastened his safety belt. “Old dog leash.” Fletch showed Jack one end of it, the end that usually attaches to a dog’s collar. “Works perfectly well.”

  He cranked the engine twice.

  “Damned thing doesn’t even start,” Jack said.

  “Sure it does. Just needs a bit of encouragement.” He cranked the engine again. “Sometimes it’s a bit slow.” Twice again. “Give it a push, will you?”

  “Push the airplane?” Jack asked. “How?”

  “Get behind and push.” Fletch made a pushing motion with his hands.

  Jack leaned his shoulders against the rudders and almost fell over. “This thing doesn’t weigh twenty pounds!” he shouted. “Even with you in it!”

  “Ah, yes,” Fletch said. “She defies gravity, all right. Just watch her take off.”

  “If you can get the damned thing started,” Jack muttered. With arms extended he pushed the airplane another ten meters.

  With a great exhalation of exhaust smoke, the engine roared.

  Fletch braked.

  He yelled at Jack, “Will I see you back at the farm?”

  Standing near the airplane he had pushed to get started, listening to it, studying it, seeing it shuddering and flapping, Jack yelled, “I sincerely doubt it!”

  Fletch chopped the air with his left hand. “Bye.”

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 8dcdd980-7641-44ac-a3bd-0a294b8233e2

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 31.5.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Edito
r Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Gregory McDonald

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/