Rough Weather Part 36

60.

I was reading the morning the morning Globe Globe in my office with my feet on the desk. I had made coffee and was drinking some. It was a bright day outside, temperature in the forties, and the sun reflecting off the windows of the office tower across the street made my office bright. I read methodically. The newspaper had years ago become a ritual, and I did it every morning, starting at page one, and wading on to the end. Every year there were more stories about shoes, and celebrities, and hot restaurants, so that every year I read less. But I still checked every headline. I still read in my office with my feet on the desk. I had made coffee and was drinking some. It was a bright day outside, temperature in the forties, and the sun reflecting off the windows of the office tower across the street made my office bright. I read methodically. The newspaper had years ago become a ritual, and I did it every morning, starting at page one, and wading on to the end. Every year there were more stories about shoes, and celebrities, and hot restaurants, so that every year I read less. But I still checked every headline. I still read Doonesbury Doonesbury carefully, and carefully, and Tank McNamara Tank McNamara, and Arlo & Janis Arlo & Janis. I still took some time on the sports page, though even there, ever more s.p.a.ce was devoted to the financial aspects of the games, which interested me less than the Bank of America annual report.

I was studying a strip called Stone Soup Stone Soup, which seemed pretty good, and might fill the void left by Calvin & Hobbes Calvin & Hobbes, when Maggie Lane came in to see me. She was wearing jeans, and boots, and a short leather jacket. Her hair was loose and looked sort of soft. She was wearing more makeup than I remembered, and looked somewhat less crisp and businesslike than she had on Tashtego Island. I did not feel pa.s.sion welling, but she no longer made me think of d.i.c.k Butkus.

I offered her a seat. She took it. I gave her coffee. She took that. I went back behind my desk and sat down and tilted my chair back a little.

"What's up?" I said.

"I am no longer employed," she said, "by the Bradshaws."

"Bradshaws?" I said.

"Excuse me?"

"Plural?" I said. "Bradshaws?"

"Yes," she said. "It's what I wanted to speak to you about."

"Okay," I said.

"When I heard about poor Mr. Bradshaw being killed," Maggie Lane said, "I . . . The place is like a fortress now. Heidi is terrified. She won't leave the island except with a bunch of guards."

"I know," I said. "What's she terrified of?"

"I a.s.sume whoever killed her husband," Maggie Lane said.

I nodded.

"I had to get out of there. I was, very simply, frightened. I'm as loyal as the next person, and I stuck with them during that awful time at the wedding. But now Mr. Bradshaw is gone. And I don't feel close enough to Heidi, and in truth, my salary is insufficient to overcome my anxiety."

"So you quit," I said.

"I resigned," she said. "Yes."

"And why was it you said that you worked for the Bradshaws plural?"

"I did," Maggie said. "I was equally a.s.sistant to both. Run the household staff, arrange their travel, see to the laundry and dry cleaning, deal with the caterer, manage their social calendar, everything . . . except finances."

"Who handled the finances?"

"Mr. Bradshaw," she said.

"Himself?" I said.

"Yes, he was very private about that."

I nodded.

"And is that what you came here to tell me?" I said. "That you worked for both of them?"

"Well, yes . . . no. I don't know. I was originally hired by Mr. Bradshaw. But what I guess I really thought you should know is that they weren't actually separated."

"Tell me about that," I said.

"He was at the island often. They were . . . When he came to the island, almost always they . . ."

Maggie's face got slightly pink. She hesitated.

"They were intimate?" I said.

"Yes," she said, "rather carelessly, I thought."

"Don't you hate that," I said. "Why the fake estrangement?"

"They never explained exactly why to me, but the official word was that she had kicked him out."

"You don't think his frequent intimate visits were an attempt to reconcile?"

"No. They explained to me carefully that they weren't really separated. But it had to do with Mr. Bradshaw's business."

"But when Bradshaw died . . ." I said.

"I felt it might be a clue," she said.

"But it wasn't a clue when Adelaide was kidnapped and six people died?"

"No, I know, it sounds foolish, but I am a loyal person."

"Is it fair to say you were more loyal to Mr. Bradshaw than to Mrs.?" I said.

"I admired him very much," she said.

"During his time there, how did he get along with his stepdaughter?"

"Oh," Maggie Lane said, "Adelaide."

"Adelaide," I said.

"It was hard to get along with Adelaide. She was so mean and whiny."

"Anger and self-pity?" I said.

"I suppose," Maggie said. "I know Mr. Bradshaw tried to befriend her. But . . ."

"Didn't like Adelaide so well yourself?"

"No. I mean, I was always thoroughly professional," Maggie said. "But she was very difficult."

"Who did Adelaide get along with?" I said.

Maggie thought for a moment, and shook her head.

"How about Maurice Lessard," I said. "Her momentary husband?"

"I really saw very little of him or of them together," Maggie said.

I nodded.

"She close to her mother?"

Maggie almost sniffed in disdain.

"Heidi never showed much mothering instinct," she said.

"How about spousal instinct?" I said.

"I saw very little," Maggie said. "It was mostly about s.e.x and money."

"Her, too," I said.

"I think Mr. Bradshaw tried to be a good father to Adelaide and a good husband to Heidi."

"And to you?" I said.

Her face, which had gotten pinkish at the mention of intimacy between Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, began to glow brightly.

"He was a very kind employer," she said.

"I'm sure he was," I said. "How about intimacy?"

She didn't know what to do with her face.

"I beg your pardon?"

I smiled at her.

"Okay," I said. "I won't make you say it out loud. We both know there was intimacy. We both know you were taken with him. We both know it's why you didn't say anything until he was gone."

She put her head down into her hands.

"Don't feel bad," I said. "Most of us have thought with our pelvis at one time or another."

61.

We were in my office. It was overcast outside, and raining tentatively with the promise of more vigor as the day wore on. Hawk was making coffee. I was gazing alertly out the window, a.s.sessing the rainwear of the women on the street. It was overcast outside, and raining tentatively with the promise of more vigor as the day wore on. Hawk was making coffee. I was gazing alertly out the window, a.s.sessing the rainwear of the women on the street.

"You know what I can't figure out," I said.

"Almost everything?" Hawk said.

"There's that," I said. "But more specifically, I can't figure out why women can look s.e.xy in few clothes, and equally so in ankle-length yellow slickers."

"Maybe got to do with the woman more than it got to do with the outfit," Hawk said.

"That's a possibility," I said.

"Or maybe it got to do with the observer," Hawk said.

"You are a deep b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I said.

"I am," Hawk said. "And I'm glad you focused on the big issues."

"Like why Heidi and Harden were pretending to be estranged?"

"No, I know we can't figure that out," Hawk said. "I was wondering why Bradshaw was boppin' Miss Maggie."

"Because he could?" I said.

"You and me could could," Hawk said.

"But you and me wouldn't," I said.

"So the question remains," Hawk said.

"Supply and demand?" I said.

"Supply no issue in my life," Hawk said.

"Nor mine," I said.

"Not much variety," Hawk said. "But very high quality."

"So what else could it be," I said.

"Taste," Hawk said.