Greg was back in a few minutes with the typed addresses and phone numbers of his sons.
“Those are their home numbers; I’ll jot down their cell phone numbers as well. They both live locally so you shouldn’t have difficulty getting together. Would you like me to preface your approach in advance?”
It was an example of the rather quaint and formal way Greg sometimes spoke and which I had noticed before.
“Good idea, yes. Is there anything you’d rather I didn’t tell them about my investigation?”
“Not at all. There have been enough secrets already. Not that it was ever my or Gloria’s intention to hurt them in any way, but it’s a case of once bitten twice shy; I want them to be fully in the picture. I don’t know; perhaps as a sympathetic outsider you might be able to help mend some bridges for me.”
“I’ll do what I can; and I am sympathetic to your situation. There is something else I’m hoping you can help with. When I last saw Susan she said that there was email contact between Gloria and her. It occurred to me that there might be something significant in their correspondence. Would you be able to provide me with her email account details? I expect it’s still technically active. I’ll need the password too. I hope you don’t have any objection to this, only I need to explore every angle available.”
“No, I don’t have any qualms about that. Her user-name was gloriarphilips – the r stands for Rose, which was her middle name − I’m not sure about the password though. I’m pretty sure that Sally has it, because before Gloria became…incapacitated she gave details like that to her, because it was necessary to cancel subscriptions and such like. I’ll let you know as soon as possible. You won’t need the actual computer will you, I’m afraid it’s the only one in the house?”
“No, the email address and password will be sufficient.”
“Alright.” Greg looked at his wristwatch. “Would you care to join me in sampling another grape? I don’t want to get on the slippery slope of drinking alone, so I hope you won’t mind.”
I didn’t mind, and we adjourned to the deck. While Greg was preparing the glasses and before he surprised me with the days vintage I thought about the implications of what he’d just told me. If Simon’s wife, Sally, had access to Gloria’s email account while she was alive, she would have had access to the emails between Gloria and Susan. It seemed more than possible in that case that she and Simon might well have known about the relationship well before Gloria passed away; and if he knew, then perhaps Paul knew as well. If they did know, they almost certainly wouldn’t have disclosed the information to their father because they would have to admit to snooping in Gloria’s private correspondence. This set my mind spinning about a new set of possibilities which may have led to Gloria’s premature death.
My thoughts were interrupted as Greg reappeared with a decanted bottle of Merlot and some crystal wine glasses and filled each glass half full. “I opened the bottle before you arrived to let it breathe; in anticipation so to speak.”
We raised our glasses to each other. “Santé,” he said.
“Tell me a bit more about yourself?” Greg said. “What do you do in your spare time? That is if you have any spare time. I imagine your job is fairly time consuming.”
“I read mostly,” I said, slowly swirling the wine in my glass and watching the sun glint on the surface. “I don’t have any other hobbies. I don’t play golf or go fishing. Actually I’m not a particularly gregarious person and I enjoy being alone with a book.”
“Hmm, I used to read a lot too when Gloria was alive – I mean before she became unwell. We’d read together, side by side, often sitting out here on the deck long into the evening. It probably sounds a bit strange to you, reading together like that, but we had a shared love of good literature and it was pleasant sitting together whilst we read.”
“I guess it’s no stranger than watching a movie with someone,” I said, “or television.”
“I don’t even have a television anymore,” said Greg. “You may have noticed. Spot the missing item.” He laughed.
“What kind of books do you enjoy?” I asked him.
“Novels mainly, and short stories; but not the sort of novels that are churned out nowadays, which are only really stories, as opposed to literature. I mean there’s nothing wrong with a story that’s really no more than an entertainment, but they lack depth and insight into what makes people tick. Good books lay bare the foibles of modern man: the good the bad and the ugly.”
“That’s one of Lucy’s favorite movies,” I said, without really thinking. I didn’t mean to interrupt him – it just slipped out.
“Is it? I don’t think I know that one. I’m not really a movie-goer, I’m afraid; never have been.”
It would certainly have been hard to picture Greg and Gloria back in the day making out in the back of a Chrysler at the local drive-in, I thought. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said.
“Well, then there’s the beauty of language, the rhythm of the words. Look at Dickens, say, or Mark Twain. Great literature is like great architecture, or music or art. It’s uplifting, enriching. I think that being taught about literature at school puts many people off, but the majority of great writers were the popular entertainers of their day. They didn’t write for a select few, but for the masses. Most of Dickens’ novels were originally published in serial form in inexpensive and popular magazines. And who could ever tire of Shakespeare? His plays were written for the masses to enjoy. Thirty seven plays by the age of fifty and countless poems. Scribbling away with a quill pen and writing long into the evening by candlelight. Mind you, his plays were written to be watched, not read, and certainly not studied.”
“But he’s not to everybody’s taste, Greg,” I said. “Tolstoy thought his writing was crude, immoral, vulgar and senseless. Voltaire described his work as an enormous dunghill. And George Bernard Shaw fantasized about digging him up and throwing stones at him.”
Greg permitted himself a silent laugh. “Well, you can’t be all things to all people, I guess,” he said. “How about you, Kane; what do you enjoy?”
“I have an eclectic taste, everything from Cervantes to Clancy. Well, not everything. I try to avoid the crap, but I’ll give most books a try a long as they’re absorbing and well-written.”
“Our boys were instilled with a love of reading, from an early age,” Greg said, following his own train of thought. “They used to perform little plays for us at Christmas when they were small. You know, a scene out of a Shakespeare play or maybe they’d dramatize a scene out of a novel. They even did a scene from Waiting for Godot once. It was hilarious.”
Greg was mentally turning back the years, reminiscing and comforting himself with memories of happier times.
“Gloria and I played bridge but we couldn’t interest the boys. They liked the outdoors too much. Do you play?”
I had a fleeting idea that he was going to ask me to be his new bridge partner.
“I know how to play, but I’ve never played seriously,” I said.
We drank our way through the entire decanter, talking about many diverse things, but not about the case in hand. It turned out there was more than one bottle in the decanter. Finally I excused myself.
“I’ll have to be going,” I said. “Time and tide wait for no man.”
Greg saw me to the door. “Once more unto the breach,” he said, as I left the house. It was Greg’s little joke.
Chapter Fifteen
A Technological Midget
“You look cheerful,” Lucy said.
I was, but I sensed that was about to change. The words were innocuous enough by themselves but there was an undertone of pending admonishment lurking beneath the surface. Greg and I had consumed more than one bottle and I had been compelled to drive home very slowly indeed. I had raided the refrigerator and devoured everything I could find that was edible and didn’t need to be cooked, then fallen asleep on the front porch for an hour or two. It had seemed to me that things were on track
and I’d deserved the afternoon off. Lucy eyed me up and down disapprovingly.
“You’re a technological midget.”
“Would you care to elaborate on that slur?” I said, in the tone of an English butler.
“The email address is no good on its own; you need the computer that Gloria used to access her email account.”
“Why’s that? I thought emails existed in cyberspace, or resided in banks of servers in Silicon Valley.”
“That’s because you don’t understand modern technology. The email address is all very well if you have the password, which you don’t as yet. But you’ll need to check for the possibility of deleted or saved emails as well, and for that you’ll need to access the computer’s hard drive.”
I’d already had a hard drive earlier in the afternoon and was finding it difficult to follow her mumbo jumbo.
“There’s only one computer and Greg’s using it. You are speaking in riddles. How can you find something that’s been deleted from the ether by looking at the computer’s hard drive?” The word ether was unfortunately punctuated by a hiccup, which I hoped Lucy hadn’t noticed.
“You’re being deliberately obtuse Kane; even you can’t know as little as that. You’re supposed to be an investigator.”
Lucy stood there with her arms crossed, which is never a good sign.
“Okay you win; I’ll ask Greg for the computer. But you can make a start, can’t you? Once I get the password.”
“If you take me out to dinner I’ll consider it; not a diner, a proper restaurant.”
She lifted her shoulders and raised her eyebrows at me, cocking her head on one side like a puppy waiting for its owner to take it for a walk. She had me over a barrel.
“You’ll need a while to smarten yourself up,” I said, playing for time.
“I’m smart enough already. You’re the one that needs to get yourself together.” She headed for my front door. “I’ll be back at seven, okay?”
“Perfect.” The hiccup preceded the word this time, rather than punctuating it.
Lucy was back at seven as she had threatened. We strolled to a Mexican restaurant which was within easy walking distance of the house. I’d had enough driving for one day.
“Sidney may be leaving the office,” said Lucy between mouthfuls of enchilada, “he says the address is putting people off.”
Sidney was an accountant.
“The address is supposed to be having the opposite effect. That’s why we pay so much rent.”
“He says his potential clients may think he’s too expensive.”
“Well we’ll have to find somebody else to take his place. Perhaps you could put out some feelers.”
I was only half listening because I was simultaneously devising a plan whereby I could salvage my dignity and get my own back on her.
“I was only pretending not to know about the emails,” I said. “I was testing you as a matter of fact. If I’m going to let you get involved with the investigative side of my business I have to be sure you are capable.”
Lucy almost choked on a piece of enchilada she was in the process of swallowing.
“I’ve been involved in what you call the investigative side of your business since day one; I don’t remember it troubling you before.” She emphasized the word ‘investigative’, but least she didn’t use air quotation marks.
She looked across at me, eyes twinkling. Not because of the choking but because of the new plan she was about to lay on me.
“Still, if I’m to formally become part of the investigative side of the business,” she said, stressing the word ‘formally’, “we shall probably have to revise my salary.”
Well that idea went well, I thought.
“You’ll have to find a replacement for Sidney first.”
“Oh, don’t worry; I’ll bring him to heel.”
“Why do you think Gloria might have deleted emails relating to Susan?” I said.
“I don’t know that she would have, but some people delete emails that they’ve sent or received to unclog their email accounts. Most emails have settings which allow users to automatically delete emails that have been sent or received. It doesn’t necessarily signal anything covert. It seems to me that in order to do a thorough job the possibility of deleted emails should be considered.”
“I’ve never deleted any of my emails.”
“I’m sure you like to treasure the few that you get.”
“Anyway, you’ll have plenty of time to check the emails,” I said. You’re not exactly rushed off your feet at the moment, especially if Sidney leaves.”
Lucy’s female intuition had seen that one coming.
“I have the time,” she said, “it’s a question of whether I have the inclination.” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows in mock triumph.
Chapter Sixteen
Simon
Simon Philips lived with his wife and two small sons in Dedham which was no more than a hop and a skip away. Whatever reaction I’d been expecting from the elder brother it was subsumed by his enthusiasm to meet me. He told me that I was to join him and his wife for lunch and Sally wouldn’t take no for an answer. He and Sally were extremely grateful for the work I was doing for his father and were looking forward to seeing me and discussing the progress of my investigation. It was a great relief to know that the matter was being so competently handled, and so on and so on. I should have taped the call for Lucy; I was to be popularity Kane today and I could do no wrong.
Their home was a beautiful single story whitewashed brick house with dormers, on a large corner lot that looked like the showpiece from a garden center. I was warmly welcomed and shown into the drawing room which is how Sally referred to the triple aspect living room about half the size of an aircraft hangar. An enormous pure white fabric sofa curled itself around one corner of the room; the furniture was modern chic and there wasn’t a single item I could see that would have been within my budget. Full length folding doors led through to a comfortable looking family room and beyond that, round a corner, a dining room with a table that could have probably accommodated an entire basketball team. The drawing room looked out over the front yard, but the street was shielded from view by a large hedge. It gave the impression of total isolation from the world beyond. If the intention was for visitors to be impressed it worked.
A comprehensive buffet lunch had been laid out in the dining room and a large rectangular glass-top table had been set up on the flagstone patio at the rear beyond sliding glass doors which opened as smoothly and quietly as a ghost’s whisper. It was a little early for lunch when I arrived so I was supplied with a glass of scotch on the patio. The lot was only a fraction of the size of the Boylston house but it had been fastidiously planted with flowers, shrubs and trees so that the boundary was completely obscured by foliage.
“You obviously share your father’s love of flowers,” I said to Simon.
“Yes, but not tending to them I’m afraid. That’s Sally’s handiwork you’re admiring.”
Their children were staying with Sally’s parents for the weekend, but other guests were expected for lunch. Simon apologized for this but explained that it was too late to cancel the arrangements when they received my call and he didn’t want to delay our meeting either. The other guests were potential clients of Simon’s. Simon’s idea was that after lunch he and I would retire to his office to discuss the case and Sally would entertain the other guests. I had earmarked the entire afternoon for the meeting so I was perfectly happy with the arrangement, especially if Simon had a few drinks during lunch to loosen his tongue before our chat.
Three couples swanned in about a half hour after I arrived. I was introduced as a family friend. We sat outside and everyone drifted in and out to the buffet table. There was an excellent choice of cold meats and a salad that looked as though it had been professionally prepared. I congratulated Sally on the food and the presentation. She nudged Simon who winked at me and whispered “outside caterers”. I limit
ed myself to only one additional scotch because I wanted to keep on my toes. I avoided the selection of wines completely. There is something in that old adage about not mixing the grain and the grape.
Like a high school dance the men gravitated to one end of the table, the women the other. I was in the middle, caught between talk about derivatives and options on my right and desirable kindergartens on my left, neither of which I knew anything about so I smiled politely and nodded and tried to appear absorbed in the conversations. When the men started on the office anecdotes Simon excused himself and steered me back into the house. Disappointingly I hadn’t seen him consume any alcohol at all.
Simon’s study was surprisingly small. It had probably been commandeered from a former nursery. The house had obviously been either constructed or remodeled with entertainment in mind so that the bedrooms and study, as far as I could tell, took up only a fraction of the overall size of the building.
Simon produced a decanter of scotch from a bookcase before I’d had a chance to sit down and poured himself a large glass which he swallowed in two gulps before refilling it again. I declined another drink on the excuse of having to drive home. I told him about the previous afternoon’s drive home from his father’s house after my over indulgence. I thought it would set the right tone.
“I can’t afford to drink in front of my clients,” he said. “It wouldn’t look good having a lush trying to part them from their money.” There was contemptuousness in his voice which was completely at odds with the business persona I had seen networking the assembled gathering earlier.
“Greg tells me I can trust you completely,” he said, “and he asked me to be frank with you. Things have been a bit fraught between us lately but it’s not his fault, I can see that. It’s just that…” He closed his mouth tightly making a straight line with his lips. He lifted the decanter to refill his glass then thought better of it and placed it back on the desktop in front of him.
“I understand that Greg’s told you about my role in investigating Susan,” I said. “I don’t want to repeat things that you already know. I’ll be glad to answer any questions that you may have.”
FORGET ME NOT (Mark Kane Mysteries Book One) Page 11