“She and Andrew Owen were having a thing, Morrie. That’s why Sally divorced him.”
“Okay,” he said. “So?”
“There’s more.”
“Let me hear it,” he said.
I let him hear it All of it. The committee, the paintings, The Oreo — all of it. He listened without uttering a word. All I could hear on the phone was his level breathing. When I finished my recitation, he was still silent. I thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep on me.
“Morrie?” I said.
“I’m here,” he said.
“What do you think?”
“I think we ought to ask Lloyd Davis some questions,” he said.
Friday is always the longest day of the week.
This Friday — while I waited for the police to locate Lloyd Davis — was the longest of any Friday I could remember. I did not get back to the office after the closing at Tricity until almost ten-thirty, to find a couple named Ralph and Agnes West waiting in the reception room. The Wests were the nephew and niece-by-marriage of an elderly client who had died without leaving any truly close relatives; they had called me several times since his death to ask if they might come to the office to collect their share of the estate. I had told them each time they called essentially what I told them now. On the phone each time, it had taken four or five minutes. It now took almost an hour because both Ralph and Agnes West were (a) dense and (b) blindly determined not to be cheated out of their rightful share of the estate.
“There are a number of matters that must be taken care of before the estate can be distributed,” I repeated, by rote this time.
“What matters?” Ralph asked. He was a mean-looking man who had neglected to shave this morning. He sat with his knees pressed tightly together, as if he desperately needed to go to the bathroom. His wife, equally mean looking, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, sat beside him and nodded in affirmation.
“As I explained on the telephone,” I said, “there are probate proceedings, and notices to other heirs, and notices to creditors, and tax matters to be cleared up before distribution can be made.”
“That’s what you told us two weeks ago,” Ralph said, and Agnes nodded. “Uncle Jerry died on the thirteenth of November, Friday the thirteenth, this is already three weeks later, and we still ain’t got our money.”
“As I told you—”
“There’s a big sum of money involved here,” Ralph said, “and we aim to get it.” Agnes nodded.
“There’s ten thousand dollars in the estate,” I said, “and you’ll share it equally with the other heirs as soon as we can—”
“He shoulda left a will,” Ralph said to Agnes.
Agnes nodded.
“But he didn’t,” I said.
“Stupid old bastard,” Ralph said. “If he’da left a will, we wouldn’t be havin all them other people comin out of the woodwork.”
I was kind enough not to point out that Ralph and Agnes had themselves come out of the woodwork the moment they’d learned of dear Uncle Jerry’s death.
“So how long is this gonna take?” Ralph asked.
“Four to six months,” I said.
“What?” he said.
“What?” Agnes said.
“Four to six months,” I said.
“Jesus!” Ralph said, and Agnes nodded. “What the hell can possibly take that long?”
So — once again — I went through the entire rigmarole of probate, and notices to other heirs and creditors, and taxes to be paid from the estate, point by point, ticking off each point on my fingers, laying out the details slowly enough for even a pair of trained chimpanzees to have understood, and Ralph kept shaking his head and Agnes kept nodding and by the time I finally got them out of my office it was eleven-twenty and Cynthia buzzed to say that Attorney Hager was waiting on five.
Attorney Hager was a lawyer in Maine who had obtained a judgment there for $50,000 against a man who was now living in Calusa; he wanted my assistance in collecting. I told him to send me the papers so that I could file the judgment here, and I assured him I’d do my best to see that it was satisfied. I then took a call from a local author who had written a book that had sold a modest twelve thousand copies and who had not received a penny beyond the minuscule advance from his publishers, a New York City firm that had ignored his numerous requests for accounting and further payment. I told him that as a preliminary move I would write to them demanding accounting and payment — well, what I actually said was, “Don’t worry, I’ll get on their asses.”
Cynthia buzzed ten minutes later.
“There’s a wandering gypsy lady on six,” she said.
“What?”
“That’s how she announced herself. A wandering gypsy lady. From Mexico City. She sounds a lot like your daughter Joanna.”
I stabbed at the lighted button.
“Joanna?” I said. “Are you all right?”
“Who told you it was me?” Joanna said.
“Cynthia guessed. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, but we miss you. Also, all the cab drivers in Mexico City are rip-off artists. And it was a feast day or something when we went to the museum — the big archaeological museum you’re not supposed to miss, you know? — and there were no English-speaking guides and everything was in Spanish. I should be taking Spanish in school, Dad, and not French like you insisted.”
“As I insisted.”
“Yeah, as. We miss you to death, Dad, me and Dale.”
I knew better than to correct the “me and Dale.” There were young people with Ph.D.’s in comparative literature who still used the “me and” locution.
“How is she? Dale.”
“Oh, fine, Dad, she’s a real sweetie pie. We had such a fun time at Xochimilco yesterday, that’s where they have these little boats all decorated with flowers, you know? And you get rowed through these canals, well, poled, actually, the guys on the boats have these long poles they shove the boats through the water — Dad, guess what! One of the boats was Joanna! They all have names, you know, and Joanna was on one of the boats! Not Dale, though. I mean, not her name on any of the boats. She took a picture of the one with my name on it. Neat, huh?”
“Very neat,” I said. “Is she there with you? Can I talk to her?”
“May I talk to her, Dad,” she said, and I could swear she was grinning from ear to ear in grammatical triumph. “Just a sec.”
I waited.
“Hi,” Dale said.
“You okay?”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“The reason we’re calling—”
“I thought it was because you were desperate for the sound of my voice.”
“Oh, sure, that, too,” Dale said. “But I also thought I’d remind you we’re on Delta’s flight two thirty-three tomorrow, arriving in Calusa at 4:05 P.M.”
“I’ve got it on my calendar,” I said. “And also emblazoned on my forehead.”
“I truly do miss you, Matthew,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said. “Dale, the phone’s lighting up again. Hurry home.”
“Delta number two thirty-three,” Dale said.
It was already high noon on the longest day of my life.
Morrie Bloom did not call until eight o’clock that night. He caught me at home.
“Matthew,” he said, “we’ve got Davis here in Calusa. What we did, we called him in Miami and said we were trying to nail down some points about Harper’s alibi and would appreciate it if he could come here to help us. Said we’d pay his air fare, put him up in a motel here, the whole red-carpet routine. He fell for it — which is in itself suspicious, am I right? I mean, why didn’t he tell us to come down there if we wanted to talk to him? Anyway, he’s here now, at a place on the South Trail, and he’ll be in tomorrow morning at eleven sharp. I asked him, incidentally, if he’d mind Harper’s attorney sitting in on the questioning, and he said he’d be more than happy to confirm everything he told you in Miami. Now, Matthew, here’s the problem. We can’t charge him with anything, he’s here as a voluntary witness, and besides we don’t know if he did anything yet. At the same time, in case we hit pay dirt, I want a record of everything he tells us. I could wear a wire, be the easiest thing in the world to tape him that way. I don’t think he’d suspect a bug, do you? But wire or not, the guy’s not going to say anything incriminating unless we lead him down the garden, do you follow me, Matthew?”