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
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
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