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 myfather 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
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 myfather 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
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