I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“How about you?”
“Would I confess to save the life we have?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Absolutely.”
“And should we live separate sexual lives?” I said.
“Do you want to?” Susan said.
“No.”
“Me, either,” Susan said.
“So let’s not,” I said.
“Okay.”
She picked up her menu. I had a large sip of my scotch, which emptied the glass. I asked our waiter for more.
“I been reading Gary Eisenhower’s folder,” I said. “I got it from Quirk. He was blackmailing a woman named Clarice Richardson. They’d had an affair, same MO, pictures, audiotapes.”
“Married with a rich husband?” Susan said.
“Married,” I said. “But not to a rich man. She was the president of a small liberal-arts college in Hartland. I think it’s all women.”
“Outside of Springfield?” Susan said.
“Yeah. She was afraid she’d lose her husband, for whom she cared. And her job, for which she cared.”
“I think I’ll have the raw tuna,” Susan said.
“But she didn’t have enough money to keep making her payments.”
“So she went to the police?” Susan said.
“And Gary did three in Shirley.”
Susan had put her menu down.
“So what happened to her?” Susan said.
“I thought you and I could go out to Hartland and find out.”
“You and I?”
“Yeah.”
“Will we visit the Basketball Hall of Fame?” Susan said.
“Sure.”
“How about the Springfield Armory?” Susan said.
“Absolutely.”
“Anything else?”
“When we weren’t investigating, and sightseeing,” I said, “we could frolic naked in our motel room.”
Susan stared at me for a while.
“I am a nice Jewish girl from Swampscott,” she said. “I have a Ph.D. from Harvard. Do you seriously think I would wish to frolic naked in a motel room outside of Springfield?”
“How about Chicopee?” I said.
Susan looked at me in silence for a moment while she took another sip of her martini. The she nodded her head slowly and smiled.
“Springfield it is,” she said.
Her smile was like sunrise.
Chapter20
SPRINGFIELD IS A CITY of about 150,000 on the Connecticut River in Western Mass, near the Connecticut line. Hartland is a small town about fifteen miles upriver. We checked in to the William Pynchon Motel on Route 5, outside of Hartland, which made Susan look a little grim.
“I’m not sure about the naked frolicking,” she said. “I agreed to Springfield.”
“No need to decide now,” I said. “Hartland is nice.”
We drove into the town to look for Clarice Richardson, the woman who had put Gary Eisenhower in jail.
“Trees,” Susan said.
She had the same look of gladiatorial grimness that she’d had looking at the motel. We who are about to die salute you.
“Later we can have lunch,” I said. “I spotted a dandy little tearoom.”
“Oh, God,” Susan said.
Parking in Hartland was not an issue. We left the car right across from the wrought-iron archway that led to the college campus.
“Should we start at the college?” Susan said.
“Don’t know where else to start,” I said.
“It’s breathtaking sometimes,” Susan said, “to watch you work.”
“It’s one of the reasons I brought you,” I said. “Give you a chance to watch me in the field.”
“The excitement never stops,” she said.
We got directions to the president’s office and spoke to the secretary in the outer room.
“I’m trying to locate Clarice Richardson,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary said.
“With Clarice Richardson?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” the secretary said. “Do you have an appointment with President Richardson?”
I took out one of my cards, the plain, elegant one with only my name and address, no crossed pistols, and handed it to her.
“Please tell President Richardson it’s about Goran Pappas,” I said.
She took my card.
“Please have a seat,” she said, and went off down a short corridor.
“Brilliant,” Susan said, “how
“Yes,” she said.
“How about you?”
“Would I confess to save the life we have?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Absolutely.”
“And should we live separate sexual lives?” I said.
“Do you want to?” Susan said.
“No.”
“Me, either,” Susan said.
“So let’s not,” I said.
“Okay.”
She picked up her menu. I had a large sip of my scotch, which emptied the glass. I asked our waiter for more.
“I been reading Gary Eisenhower’s folder,” I said. “I got it from Quirk. He was blackmailing a woman named Clarice Richardson. They’d had an affair, same MO, pictures, audiotapes.”
“Married with a rich husband?” Susan said.
“Married,” I said. “But not to a rich man. She was the president of a small liberal-arts college in Hartland. I think it’s all women.”
“Outside of Springfield?” Susan said.
“Yeah. She was afraid she’d lose her husband, for whom she cared. And her job, for which she cared.”
“I think I’ll have the raw tuna,” Susan said.
“But she didn’t have enough money to keep making her payments.”
“So she went to the police?” Susan said.
“And Gary did three in Shirley.”
Susan had put her menu down.
“So what happened to her?” Susan said.
“I thought you and I could go out to Hartland and find out.”
“You and I?”
“Yeah.”
“Will we visit the Basketball Hall of Fame?” Susan said.
“Sure.”
“How about the Springfield Armory?” Susan said.
“Absolutely.”
“Anything else?”
“When we weren’t investigating, and sightseeing,” I said, “we could frolic naked in our motel room.”
Susan stared at me for a while.
“I am a nice Jewish girl from Swampscott,” she said. “I have a Ph.D. from Harvard. Do you seriously think I would wish to frolic naked in a motel room outside of Springfield?”
“How about Chicopee?” I said.
Susan looked at me in silence for a moment while she took another sip of her martini. The she nodded her head slowly and smiled.
“Springfield it is,” she said.
Her smile was like sunrise.
Chapter20
SPRINGFIELD IS A CITY of about 150,000 on the Connecticut River in Western Mass, near the Connecticut line. Hartland is a small town about fifteen miles upriver. We checked in to the William Pynchon Motel on Route 5, outside of Hartland, which made Susan look a little grim.
“I’m not sure about the naked frolicking,” she said. “I agreed to Springfield.”
“No need to decide now,” I said. “Hartland is nice.”
We drove into the town to look for Clarice Richardson, the woman who had put Gary Eisenhower in jail.
“Trees,” Susan said.
She had the same look of gladiatorial grimness that she’d had looking at the motel. We who are about to die salute you.
“Later we can have lunch,” I said. “I spotted a dandy little tearoom.”
“Oh, God,” Susan said.
Parking in Hartland was not an issue. We left the car right across from the wrought-iron archway that led to the college campus.
“Should we start at the college?” Susan said.
“Don’t know where else to start,” I said.
“It’s breathtaking sometimes,” Susan said, “to watch you work.”
“It’s one of the reasons I brought you,” I said. “Give you a chance to watch me in the field.”
“The excitement never stops,” she said.
We got directions to the president’s office and spoke to the secretary in the outer room.
“I’m trying to locate Clarice Richardson,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary said.
“With Clarice Richardson?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” the secretary said. “Do you have an appointment with President Richardson?”
I took out one of my cards, the plain, elegant one with only my name and address, no crossed pistols, and handed it to her.
“Please tell President Richardson it’s about Goran Pappas,” I said.
She took my card.
“Please have a seat,” she said, and went off down a short corridor.
“Brilliant,” Susan said, “how
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