11
T H E O D O R O F cooked hamburger wafted through the screen door. All that morning Fletch had only had coffee.
“Hi, good lookin’,” the woman said to him through the Blaine’s screen door. Through the door she looked down at Fletch’s bare feet and smiled and ran her eyes up his body again. “What can I do for you?”
She was a bosomy woman in her mid-sixties, wearing a yellow turtleneck sweater, tight slacks and sneakers.
“How’s Mister Blaine today?” Fletch asked.
“How would I know?” The woman’s brown eyes were lively.
“Isn’t this Charles Blaine’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t he have the flu?”
“Hope not. It would ruin his vacation.”
“He’s on vacation?”
“San Orlando. ‘Way down on the Mexican coast. They’ve been in Mexico before,’ bout two years ago.”
“Sorry,” Fletch said. “I’m not explaining myself. I’m just surprised. I was told he had the flu. My name is Fletcher. News-Tribune. Mister Blaine helped me with a story last week on Wagnall-Phipps. There were some things wrong with the story. Thought I’d better come back and talk with Mister Blaine again.”
“Fletcher, Fletcher, Fletcher,” the woman said. “You the one wrote that story on what rip-off artists some funeral directors are?”
“No.”
“Thought I knew your name. You hungry?”
“Of course.”
“That’s the right answer. All good men are hungry all the time.” She held the screen door open for him. “I’ll make you a hamburger.”
“Wow.”
“You’re going to say that’s right nice of me.”
“Yeah.”
“No need. It gives this woman a great deal of pleasure to feed a hungry man.” The screen door swung closed behind Fletch. “My name’s Happy Franscatti,” she said.
“You are happy. I mean, you are a happy person.”
“Yes, I am.” She led the way through the livingroom and diningroom into the kitchen. “I’ve lost a husband and two children in three separate accidents.”
“That’s God-awful.”
“Yes, it is. But I’m still a happy person. I was just born cheerful, I guess.” She slapped three hamburger patties onto the grille. “I suspect it has something to do with the body chemistry. It’s in the glands, or something. I know people who have no particular problems, but they act terrible sad all the time.” She spoke loudly over the sizzle of the hamburgers. “They just have no capacity for happiness. I wake up every morning five-thirty, and the day’s song is already goin’ in my heart. I run to the window and peak out at the world to see what the day will bring. Why aren’t you sitting down?”
Fletch sat at the small kitchen table.
“I’m Mary Blaine’s aunt,” Happy said. “You met Mary? Mrs. Blaine?”
“No. I’ve only met with him. In his office.”
“I’m just house sitting.” She turned over the hamburger, saying: “This is how you keep the juice in. Turn ’em over quick. They called me Thursday noon and said they had a chance to get away to Mexico and could I come right away? I was happy to. You should see my apartment. No, you shouldn’t see my apartment. It’s so small if I gain ten pounds I won’t even be able to visit myself.”
“They didn’t know they were going ahead of time?”
“I guess not. Had supper with them Saturday night, and they didn’t mention it. Not at all like Charley. He doesn’t even go to the grocery store without preparing an hour and a half ahead of time, making a list, checking it twice, counting his money, changing his clothes twice. Until you’re ready to yell at him. I came over Thursday noon, drove them to the airport. They were on the three-thirty flight.”
“Okay,” Fletch said. “His secretary told me Thursday he had the flu.”
“Maybe he did. He looked pale and didn’t have that much to say, although Charley never does.”
“How long are they gone for?”
“Two weeks. Maybe three. Said they’d let me know. Something was wrong with the story you wrote for the newspaper?”
“My fault. I didn’t check something I thought was obvious.”
“You in trouble for it?”
“No,” said Fletch. “I was fired.”
Happy put the three hamburger patties on three buns, pressed their tops down on them, and piled them all on one plate. “If someone gave you a bum steer,” she said, “it wasn’t Charley. He’s not capable of it. I’ve known him twenty years. He’s too literal-minded to lie.” She put the plate in front of Fletch. “He’s a pest, the way he has to know the literal truth about everything: how much did this cost, how much did that cost, what store did this come from, whom exactly did you see and what exactly did they say. Drives Mary and me nuts. Truth is, we can’t remember all those little things. What store did we buy something in? Who cares except Charley?”
Looking at the hamburgers, Fletch said, “Are all these for me?”
“Can’t you eat them?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve eaten. Want milk?”
“Yes. Please.”
Happy brought a glass to the refrigerator and filled it with milk. “Mary’s more like me. More happy-go-lucky. Of course next to Charley the Statue of Liberty looks like a stand-up comedian.”
“These are good,” Fletch said munching. “Has Charley worked twenty years with Wagnall-Phipps?”
“No. Just the last four. Before that he was with I.B.M.” Happy brought the glass of milk to the table and sat down across from Fletch. “You don’t know Charley very well.”
“I don’t know him at all,” Fletch said.
“He’s one of those people, you know, you make a joke and instead of laughing he analyses it. And then he explains it back to you—the person who made the joke in the first place. I like Charley. He makes me wonder. I think he has the body chemistry of a mica schist.”
“What’s a mike-a-shits?”
“A kind of rock. I should have said basalt. Enough ketchup?”
“Thanks. Do you know the Bradleys, Happy?”
“Charley’s boss? Yeah. Met them two or three times when Charley first went to work at Wagnall-Phipps. Haven’t seen them in two or three years. I don’t think they socialize much. I suspect that after Mary and Charley and Tom and Enid had dinners back and forth when Charley first went to work for Wagnall-Phipps—you know, did the necessary boss-new employee drinks and dinner things—and then everybody retreated into their own little holes. They’re all a bunch of deadheads. Except Mary.”
“Did you go to Tom Bradley’s funeral?”
“How can you tell when a guy like that is dead?” Happy laughed. “I don’t mean to be unkind. No, I buried my younger daughter only a year and a half ago. I knew Tom Bradley had been sick—in and out of hospital—had gone east to the specialists. He was so sick his wife, Enid Bradley, was running the company. Wouldn’t think her capable of it, even with the help of Charley and Alex. That’s Alex Corcoran, president of Wagnall-Phipps. Alex has got some life. You know—what’s your name—Fletch?—when you go through three deaths of your own, as I did, people aren’t apt to rush at you with news of every other death. Invite you to every funeral, you know?”
Fletch bit into his third hamburger. “Good.”
Her eyes were smiling at him. “It’s very nice watching a man eat.”
“Wish you’d popularize that notion.”
“Not married yet, Fletch?”
“Divorced.”
“At your age? What happened? Couldn’t your wife figure out how to work your diaper pin?”
“Something like that.”
“She didn’t feed you. Girls today. It’s against their pride to feed a man. It’s also against their pride a man should pick up a restaurant check. So everybody’s starving.”
“Tell me about Enid and Tom Bradley, Happy.”
“What do you mean?”
&
nbsp; “You said he was sick. Sick with what?”
“I forget. One of those long-range things. What would that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not a very big man. No bigger than his wife. He used to tell dirty jokes I liked. There was something especially dirty about them when he told them. I don’t know. I suppose it was because he was the boss. And I always felt the dirty jokes sort of embarrassed Enid. She’d laugh, but only as if she had to.”
“Maybe she’d heard them before.”
“I suppose so. I really didn’t know them very well.” Happy looked at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Oh. Okay.” Fletch drained his glass of milk. “Anything I can do for you, Happy? Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“No, thanks.” She took Fletch’s empty plate and glass to the sink. “I’ll just get my guitar and be on my way.”
“Guitar?”
“Yeah, I always bring it when I go to the Senior Citizens’ Home. I play for them, and we sing. Some of them sing quite well. An old person’s singing voice can be very fine. Too bad the world doesn’t notice.”
She went into a bedroom. Fletch waited in the front hall.
“Here we are,” Happy said. She came through the bedroom carrying a guitar case and five or six copies of The National Review. Fletch opened the screen door for her. “Just slam the door behind you.”
“Happy, thank you very much for lunch.”
“My pleasure.”
“Have a nice time at the Senior Citizens’ Home this afternoon.”
“Sure,” Happy said. “I’ve got to go burden the old folks with my cheer. I’ve got too much of it to keep all to myself.”
12
F L E T C H D R O V E B Y the Bradley house in Southworth, saw the Cadillac in the driveway, saw a man in the driveway two houses down painting a thirty foot sailboat on a trailer hitch, continued through the executive-homes neighborhood until he came back to the main road, turned left, stopped at a gas station, took slacks, a jacket, shirt, loafers and socks from the trunk of his M.G., went into the rest room and changed.
Then he drove back to the street the Bradley house was on and parked three houses beyond it.
He walked back to the driveway where the man was painting the boat. He went up the driveway and stood next to the man, who was dressed in shorts and a paint-spotted sweat shirt. “Hi,” Fletch said. “That’s a wood boat.”
The man smiled at him. “She sure is.” The man was in his late thirties and still had freckles across his nose. “She’s my wood boat and she’ll never be your wood boat. Not for sale.”
He had put green garbage bags on the driveway to catch the paint. Not much had spilled.
“I’m in real estate,” Fletch said. “The question I have to ask you is one I really hate to ask.”
“My house isn’t for sale, either.”
“Not yours,” Fletch said. “The Bradleys’.”
“Oh, them.” The man glanced in the direction of the Bradleys’ house.
“When we hear of a death of the head of a household, we have to ask if anybody thinks that house might go on the market. At least my boss says I have to.”
“What firm you work with?”
“South Southworth Reality.” Fletch said it in such a way the man might think he was stuttering.
“You work for Paul Krantz?”
“Yeah.”
“I know Paul. He helped put together a real estate deal for my father a few years ago.”
“Nice man, Paul is,” Fletch said.
“So you’d rather ask a neighbor about a widow’s intentions than ask the widow herself.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. Except the neighbor might not know.”
“Your guess would be better than mine.”
The man was applying the creamy white paint thickly to the wood. “Is Tom Bradley dead?” the man asked.
“So we hear.”
“I thought so, too. In fact I could say I knew so. Then I read an article in the newspaper the other day, the News-Tribune, that made him seem very much alive. Couldn’t believe my eyes. I read the piece twice and then showed it to my wife. I had to ask her if I’d gone crazy.”
“Yeah.” Fletch stood on one foot and then the other.
“Did you read it?”
“I never read the financial pages,” Fletch said. “Perhaps I should.”
“Not that the financial pages of the News-Tribune are that good. Their sports pages are better.”
Fletch looked up at the clean, curtained windows of the house. “Is Tom Bradley dead or not?”
“Enid Bradley said so.”
“When?”
“At a Christmas party we gave. Every year we give one, just for people in the neighborhood. Every year we invite the Bradleys—just because they live here. They never came. This year, Enid came. At some point during the party, my wife came to me and said, ‘Did you know Tom Bradley is dead? Enid just mentioned it.’ I went and spoke to Enid. First we’d heard of it. This neighborhood isn’t that close, but, gee, when a guy dies two houses away from you, you expect to hear about it.”
“Enid Bradley told you Thomas Bradley is dead?”
The man squinted through the sunlight at Fletch. “Enid Bradley told me Thomas Bradley is dead,” he said exactly. “She told me last Christmas. Then I see his name in the newspaper the other day. Do you understand it?”
“Ah,” Fletch said. “I guess newspapers have been known to be wrong.”
“Come on. Quoting a dead man?”
“I suppose it can happen,” Fletch said.
“Will you tell me how?”
“I wish I could. If Mrs. Bradley says her husband is dead …”
“… then he must be dead. Right?”
“They have a couple of kids, haven’t they?”
“Yeah.”
Fletch waited for more, but none came. He gathered the neighborhood did not have much positive enthusiasm for the Bradley young. The man spent longer than usual putting paint on his brush.
“Nice boat,” Fletch finally said. “You take good care of it.”
“I guess I can say to you,” the man said, “seeing you work for Paul Krantz—and I consider him a friend—that the Bradleys are not the most popular neighbors.”
“I see.”
“I’d be polite to say they’re loud.”
“Loud?”
“They’ve had their problems, I guess. Loud—you know what I mean—screams in the night, shouting, doors slamming, the kids burning rubber as they drive away from the house two, three o’clock in the morning. The occasional smashed window.”
Fletch looked around. All the houses were set well back from the road, and from each other. “You hear things like that here?”
“You wouldn’t think so. And talking to Enid Bradley, looking at her, you’d think she was the quietest, most demure little lady you ever met. But sometimes at night we’d hear her screaming like a stuck pig. Hysterical shouting and screaming. We never heard his voice at all.” Again the man stirred the paint thoughtfully with his brush before lifting it. “Tom Bradley tried suicide two or three years ago.”
“You know that?”
“The rescue squad came early Sunday morning. We saw them bring the stomach pump into the house, and then carry him off strapped to a stretcher. The whole neighborhood saw it. And he didn’t take too many pills by accident. It was after one of those all-night shouts, you know?”
“Maybe he was sick,” Fletch said. “Maybe he had been told he was fatally ill, or something, you know? I mean, he did die.”
“I don’t know, either. But I do know the screaming and shouting went on in that house for as long as we’ve lived here. Five or six years. Deep emotional problems. That family had deep emotional problems. I suspect there’s a family like that in every neighborhood, from the slums to a neighborhood like this, for the lower-rich. Feel sorry for them, but what the hell can we do?”
“Has all that stopped? I mean, the noise and the smashed windows, since Tom Bradley died?”
“Yeah. It’s become a very quiet house. The kids come and go, but there are no more slamming doors and burning rubber. Of course, she—I mean Enid—goes off to work nearly every day now. Or so my wife tells me. I think someone told me she’s trying to run her husband’s company—I forget the name of it, oh, yeah, Wagnall-Phipps is what the News-Tribune said—until she can get someone else to take over. Of course if the News-Tribune said Wagnall-Phipps, the company might be called anything including Smith, Smith and Smith.”
“Yeah,” Fletch said. “News-Tribune. Yuck. Punk paper.”
“They have a good sports section.”
“Mrs. Bradley didn’t say anything to you about selling the house?”
“Haven’t seen her since Christmas. Months ago. Live two houses away and I don’t think anyone in the neighborhood actually converses with anyone in that house, year after year. We’ve heard enough of their noise. We’re all embarrassed, I guess. You understand.”
“Sure.”
“I wish you would go ask Mrs. Bradley if she’s moving. It might give her the idea that she should.”
“Yeah.”
“This is a nice neighborhood. It would be great to have a nice family in that house. You know, a family that didn’t embarrass us all when we look at them?” The man moved his paint bucket nearer the stern of the boat. “Tell her her house is worth a lot of money, and you can find her a nice condominium down nearer the center of town—one with padded walls.”
13
“W O U L D Y O U L I K E a drink, Mister Fletcher?” Enid Bradley asked.
“No. Thank you.”
“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.”
Fletch and the Widow Bradley Page 5