“He was my roommate, for heaven’s sake. At one time he was my best friend. I just wanted to find him, talk to him, see what he’s up to.”
“Yeah, but you were asking Cory questions about stuff that happened a long time ago.”
“Because it turns out that was the last time she saw him.”
In court I have learned that it is best not to stick to a script. You ask a question, get an answer, pick that answer apart. It was different when you were the one being questioned. I didn’t want be picked apart, to say things that were going to spawn whole new areas of inquiry.
“She says she had the feeling you weren’t just asking about Paulie. See, what you gotta understand, Georgie—and I know you do, which is what kinda surprised me about what you were asking—is there’s a lot of people out there who want to cause harm to the Gregorys. Sometimes it’s for political reasons, sometimes it’s just nutcases. People who want to make themselves famous at the Gregorys’ expense. So, yeah, somebody all of a sudden starts asking about where family members were and what they were doing at certain times, the kids know that’s when they have to pull the curtains, lock the doors, call for help. She had help there, Georgie. Did you know that?”
“The black guy.”
“Yeah. Recognize him? Pierre Mumford. Used to be my teammate on the ’Skins.”
“He wasn’t exactly discreet in making his appearance.”
“Nope. Wasn’t supposed to be. Since the Gregorys have all kinds of issues, all kinds of things to be concerned about, if you will, they use different assistants for different reasons. Sometimes they want to make a show of being protected, they use someone like Pierre. Sometimes they’re more subtle and you don’t even know someone’s watching out for them. Could be a little old lady walking her dog or something. You understand what I’m saying, Georgie?”
“I do, Chuck.”
“So you can also understand that somebody like Cory doesn’t necessarily know where everybody fits in. So when she finds she’s being questioned by an assistant district attorney, it kind of freaks her out. And when she goes home and learns that a few years ago some detective was asking her brother and cousins questions about this same weekend you were asking about, well, that’s when she calls me. You got something you wanna know about that weekend, Georgie, something that involves the family, you’re better off asking me.”
“I just want to know where Paul McFetridge is.”
“Yeah, but why now? Why after all these years, you suddenly want to find him?”
It crossed my mind to tell him that it had recently occurred to me that I had no friends, that McFetridge was the last close friend I had had, that I just wanted to reach out and talk to someone about the way things used to be. I got rid of those thoughts in a hurry.
“McFetridge,” I said, “came up in a discussion I had with a guy named Bill Telford, whose daughter was killed that weekend.”
“We know about Anything New, Georgie. His name speaks for itself.”
“Yeah, but he keeps contacting me.” And here I diverged from the straight and narrow. “I think he’s got somebody talking to him.”
“The girl in the store.”
“Somebody else.”
“So that makes you want to talk to Paulie?”
“Let me put it this way, Chuck. It reminded me that I knew him. Made me think that if I made enough calls to enough people, I’d find him.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“Because I want to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“About what he remembers happening that weekend.”
“And you think that’s important?”
“I think somebody does.”
Chuck heaved a sigh. A big sigh. A two-hundred-ninety-pound sigh. “Okay, Georgie, I’ll see if I can help you out there. Only thing is, you gotta stop bothering the family, all right? It’s best for everyone that way.”
11.
“MY FATHER IS HAVING A COOKOUT THIS SUNDAY,” BARBARA Belbonnet said. “Want to come?” She had never invited me to anything before. I looked across the room and wondered why she was doing so now. Once again, I was struck by the fact that this woman could be quite good looking when she was not stressed.
It was just that most of the time we had shared an office her face was turned away, bent between her shoulders while she talked into her phone, or focused on her computer screen while she tried to do in four hours work that she was being paid to do in eight. If someone had asked what she looked like, I might have said tall and athletic, light brown hair worn bunched on her head. If pressed for details, I would have said brown eyes, oval face, high cheekbones. Good shape, I guess. Hard to tell by the clothes she wore.
But now, as I studied her, I realized her hair was more blond than brown, her eyes were actually hazel, and her skin was virtually flawless. How, I asked myself, had I missed all that? Two people sitting in a room for weeks, each immersed in his or her own problems, barely looking at each other. Except now we were.
“Where?” I asked. Was that a good response to a personal invitation? I was still wondering why she was asking me, her office-mate, with whom she never so much as went to lunch.
“Oyster Harbors.”
Yes. Of course. An island community, where you have to go over a drawbridge and be cleared for entry by a man in a booth. Eight years on the Cape and I’d never been there.
“It’s the family home,” she said, as though embarrassed.
“Sure,” I said.
I BROUGHT WINE. Nickel & Nickel cabernet. The guy in the wine store on Route 28 acted as though he was selling the Romanov jewels. I told him I wanted a good wine and he pulled it out from behind the counter, cradled it like a baby, looked both ways, and said it would cost me $80 but be well worth it. I figured Barbara’s parents were likely to know their wine and made the purchase. Who’s this young man, Barbs? Oh, and such exquisite taste. He must be one of us!
I made it across the drawbridge well enough, but then had to wait several minutes while the guard searched for my name on a list.
“Ah, here it is,” he said at last. “Straight ahead. Bear left, then second left on Indian Trail. Go to the end of the road. You’ll see the cars.”
Indeed, I did. Mercedes Benzes, BMWs, Jaguars, Cadillacs, convertibles of all makes, including a Bentley. Luxury vehicles filled the crushed-shell driveway and lined the road in front of a twenty-first-century version of a sea captain’s home. The real thing, only better. With a widow’s walk on the roof.
I heard the sound of a steel band and multiple voices from the backyard as I walked onto the property, and so I steered directly there without going through the house. Men and women were clustered in little groups, maybe clustered closer than usual because it was not that warm, even though the sun was shining. Men wore polo shirts under sport coats or golf sweaters; women wore slacks and light jackets. All looked as though they were gritting their way through the brisk weather because it was worth it to have drinks and be in such august company.
A few people looked up as I entered the backyard, but no one acknowledged me. No one even stopped talking. I glanced around, thinking there had to be someone I knew, someplace where I could at least point myself to deliver my wine. An outdoor bar was located at the far end of the patio, manned by a bartender in a waistcoat and bow tie. I did not think he would fully appreciate my gift, so I stood there holding it by the neck, figuring sooner or later at least Barbara was bound to see me.
A tall man with a full head of perfectly brushed gray hair was leading the discussion in one of the groups. He watched me as he spoke, kept his eyes on me to the point I had to nod at him. Nod and smile and raise my shoulders in admission that I did not know what to do, where to go. I saw him say, “Excuse me,” to those he was with and make his way over to rescue me. Or confront me.
It could have been either.
His manner was a little brusque.
“Hello,” he said in a way that was impossible to interpret as
welcoming, “I’m Hugh Etheridge.”
“George Becket,” I told him. “I work with Barbara.”
Only then did he extend his hand. I think he was glad to see that I was bringing wine and not pilfering it. I offered the bottle and he held it out from his chest and read the label closely. “California, is it? Oh, yes, Napa. Fine, fine. I’ll have it opened.” His admiration was at an end and he lowered the bottle and scanned the crowd, looking for someone to carry out the assignment or, perhaps, for someone to whom I could talk.
“Are you alone?” he asked, and I told him I was.
I could see a slight change as it occurred to him that his married daughter had invited a man of about her age to a party where he knew no one else.
I quickly explained that Barbara and I shared an office. “We kid that we’re cellmates. Down in the dungeon.”
Mr. Etheridge stopped scanning and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “The what?”
“That’s what we call it.” I was beginning to sweat. Sixty-five degrees and I was overheated. “Because we’re on the bottom floor.”
I wished what I had said had been funnier. My host did not smile. He just went back to scanning. I had an impulse to tell him that I had been married. That I was a lawyer. That I had gone to prep school. That I knew the difference between that and which.
“Ah, there she is, playing croquet. Come.”
He strode off in the direction of the water, which I could see in the distance. There was a patio, where we were standing; then a border of outdoor grills, where men in aprons were busy flipping sizzling hunks of meat; and then a broad green lawn rimmed by great bushes of light blue hydrangeas. On the lawn holding mallets were several people of various sizes, but my attention was distracted.
As we walked across the patio I could see that the largest cluster of people was around a tall, thin woman with white-blond hair and a fixed smile painted in red lipstick on her face. I knew that woman. I had seen her face before. I slowed my step, not enough to let Mr. Etheridge get away from me but so I could get a closer look and see that she was hanging on to the arm of a shorter man with a distinctively floppy hairstyle, a white shirt, a blue blazer, a pair of khaki pants. The woman, I realized, was an actress. The kind of actress whom everyone knew but whose movies were not likely to come readily to anyone’s mind. And the man she was with was none other than Jamie Gregory.
He looked up, looked through the crowd of admirers right at me. Or right through me.
Didn’t he?
Wasn’t he grinning at me? Not the same God-awful grin I had seen in Palm Beach, but it was a grin just the same, and it chilled me.
“George.”
Somebody was annoyed. Mr. Etheridge, still with my bottle of wine, his hands inverted on his hips. I apparently had stopped, since I was not moving. And I most definitely was staring.
“Yes, yes, that’s Darra Lane. She’s with Jamie Gregory and I’m sure you’ll get to meet them later. Come along now because I want to get you to Barbara.”
Five minutes into the party and I had already incurred the ire of the host. Perhaps he was not going to like it so much when I confronted Jamie, when I knocked him down, tore off his runt punk bastard lips and fed them to the seagulls while I danced around his prostrate body, delivering kicks to his ribs and an occasional stomp to his head. Yeah, I would do that. But in the meantime I had to hurry after Mr. Etheridge.
BARBARA WAS WEARING a white jacket over a black-and-white striped jersey top that appeared to cover only one shoulder. Her slacks, too, were white, and they hugged her long legs, something I had never seen any of her other clothes do. I had thought that white was not supposed to be worn until after Memorial Day, but this was her house, her family’s party, and she could clearly wear whatever she wanted.
With her mallet gripped mid-shaft, she held out her arms to greet me, calling my name.
In all likelihood, I had never done more than shake her hand, and now here I was, hugging her in front of her father. Hugging Barbara Belbonnet, who had let her hair down and whose skin was as smooth and cool as silk. I did my best to hug deferentially, positioning myself slightly to one side so as not to make too much contact. She kissed me loudly, exuberantly, on the cheek. When, I wondered, had she become so radiant?
“Pop-pop, this is my very best friend in the office, George Becket!”
Pop-pop? Intimidating old, steel-haired Hugh Etheridge?
“Yes, we’ve met,” he told her, with just the slightest flutter of irritation. “You might have noticed I brought him over. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to return to the other guests.” And with that, he turned his back on us.
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Barbara said as we watched him walk away. “Do you play croquet? You can take my place. Here.”
She thrust the mallet into my hand. Three other people stared at us. A Gatsbyish man and woman, obviously a couple, were introduced as Grace and Parker. Maybe they weren’t Gatsbyish. Maybe I was just thinking that way. Except the man was wearing a white hat with a brim and a thick black band around it and the woman was wearing a sailor-type dress that went to her ankles. The third person was a boy of about eleven, introduced as Malcolm. Grace and Parker said hello. Malcolm did not. He squealed something about “Gwa!” and ran awkwardly to swipe at a ball.
“Malcolm’s different,” Barbara whispered unnecessarily.
FIVE MINUTES INTO THE PARTY, I had annoyed the host. Ten minutes after that, I had ruined the croquet game. Without Barbara, Grace’s play became desultory. Parker made a cutting comment and then suddenly announced he was going to get a drink. That made Grace stop playing altogether and start whispering to Barbara. Only Malcolm wanted to keep going and it fell to me to keep going with him. Then the patrician tones of Hugh Etheridge wafted over the lawn, calling to Barbara, telling her one of the guests was leaving and she had to say goodbye and all of a sudden both she and Grace were gone and I was left alone on the back forty to play croquet with a boy with Down syndrome.
Over the next twenty minutes I made several efforts to extricate myself, but Malcolm would have none of it. I had no idea to whom he belonged, but he wanted to play and nobody, not Barbara or anyone else, came to rescue me. It was only by convincing Malcolm that he won and enticing him into the ritual of exchanging high fives that I was able to lay down my mallet and scurry away.
I arrived back at the patio looking more or less like an escaped prisoner with the sheriff after me. I tried to blend in, but I knew no one. I could not see Barbara, Hugh turned his back on me, and as best I could tell the guest who had departed was Jamie, taking with him, of course, the movie star. People were forming a buffet line to pick up their meats and salads and spring vegetables and hot rolls. I contemplated getting in line with them, but then I would be a sitting duck for Malcolm, who was pushing his way through the crowd, mallet still in hand.
I would get my food and then what? Sit with Malcolm? Sit by myself?
Georgie Becket, all alone. Georgie Becket hit the road.
12.
THE FIRST PHONE CALL WAS FROM BARBARA. SHE WAS SO SORRY.
Her fourteen-year-old daughter had had a meltdown. “You know what it’s like with fourteen-year-old girls,” she assured me. “Everything is a life-ending crisis.”
I pretended I did.
“Anyhow, by the time I got back outside you were gone and nobody knew what had happened to you.”
Nobody, meaning Pop-pop, Malcolm, and Mr. and Mrs. Gatsby.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”
Oh, sure. Yes. No problem. Don’t give it a second thought.
THE SECOND CALL came from Chuck Larson. He wanted to know if I had had a good time at the party.
How, exactly, did you know I was there, Chuck?
Did Jamie tell him? Did Jamie recognize me? Chuck wasn’t saying. His job was only to tell me things he wanted to tell me. He did, however, tell me what Jamie was doing there. He was thinking of producing
a movie for Darra.
“I thought he was a Wall Street banker.”
“Banker? Sort of. Right now, Jamie’s making a lot of money for a lot of people in nontraditional investments.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Something to do with mortgages. Sub-prime mortgages. Don’t ask me, but folks at that party all want to invest with him. So now he’s thinking of branching out.”
“Into the movies.”
“People say he has the magic touch.”
I recoiled at the image.
“In any event,” he said, “Jamie was more or less showing off the product.”
That got him several seconds of dead air while I tried to figure out why he was telling me this.
Chuck Larson sighed. “You still looking for Paul McFetridge?”
“I am.”
“Try Stanley, Idaho, Georgie,” he said. “Two Rivers Whitewater Rafting Company.”
I wondered if I had passed some sort of test. You saw Jamie and you behaved yourself. Here’s your reward, good boy.
1.
SALMON RIVER, IDAHO, June 2008
IT WAS A SMALL PLANE, A TAIL-DRAGGER WITH NO WHEEL IN THE front. It held the pilot and would have held five passengers if one of the seats was not filled with gear. We landed on a dirt runway that required a very sharp left bank in which the pilot seemed to exult. I had the feeling the whole flight up from Boise to this pinprick on the map known as Indian Creek had been worth it to the pilot just so he could make that bank.
The first three passengers who disembarked were greeted with a smile and a welcoming handshake. I got an “Oh, shit.”
It did not come right away. Initially I got a smile, then the smile faded, replaced by a look of confusion, then recognition. Then, “Oh, shit.”
We shook hands nonetheless. I wondered if he would hug me, as I think we had done when we last saw each other. But Paul McFetridge was raised an Episcopalian. In my experience they don’t like to touch, preferring to sing boldly instead.
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