“No. In fact, Peter hadn’t been home for seven weeks. If he and Daddy had a fight, it had to be over the telephone. Maybe at the office, but not out at the house.”
“That’s good. Now, going back to this other business, I’ve got to know what it is your father knew about their deal. Can you think of anything that might help me? Did he and Mr. Masters lock themselves up in the study for long talks?”
“Yes, but lots of men do that-did that. Daddy did business with lots of people, and they would often come over to the house to talk about it.”
“Well, what about money?” I asked. “Did Mr. Masters ever give your father a lot of money? or the other way around?”
She laughed embarrassedly and shrugged her shoulders. “I just don’t know about any of that kind of stuff. I know Daddy worked for the bank and was an officer and all, but I don’t know what he did exactly, and I don’t know anything about the money. I guess I should. I know my family is well off, We’ve all got these big trusts from my grandparents, but I don’t know anything about Daddy’s money.”
That wasn’t too surprising. “Suppose I asked you to go back to Winnetka and look through his study to see if he had any papers that mention McGraw or Masters or both. Would that make you feel dishonest and slimy?”
She shook her head. “If it would help I’ll do it. But I don’t want to leave here.”
“That is a problem,” I agreed. I looked at my watch and calculated times. “I don’t think we could fit it in before dinner this evening, anyway. But how about first thing tomorrow morning? Then we could come back here to the clinic in time for the baby rush hour.”
“Sure,” she agreed. “Would you want to come along? I mean, I don’t have a car or anything, and I would like to come back, and they might try to talk me into staying up there once I got there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” By tomorrow morning the house probably wouldn’t be filled with police anymore, either.
Jill got up and went back to the nursery. I could hear her saying in a maternal voice, “Well, whose turn is it? ” I grinned, popped my head in Lotty’s door, and told her I was going home to sleep.
14
In the Heat of the Night
I set off for the University Women United meeting at seven. I’d slept for three hours and felt on top of the world. The fritata had turned out well-an old recipe of my mother’s, accompanied by lots of toast, a salad constructed by Paul, and Paul’s warm appreciation. He’d decided his bodyguarding included spending the night, and had brought a sleeping bag. The dining room was the only place with space for him, Lotty warned him. “And I want you to stay in it,” she added. Jill was delighted. I could just imagine her sister’s reaction if she came back with Paul as a boyfriend.
It was an easy drive south, a lazy evening with a lot of people out cooling off. This was my favorite time of the day in the summer. There was something about the smell and feel of it that evoked the magic of childhood.
I didn’t have any trouble parking on campus, and got into the meeting room just before things began. About a dozen women were there, wearing work pants and oversized T-shirts, or denim skirts made out of blue jeans and with the legs cut apart and re-stitched, seams facing out. I was wearing jeans and a big loose shirt to cover the gun, but I was still dressed more elegantly that anyone else in the room.
Gail Sugarman was there. She recognized me when I came in, and said, “Hi, I’m glad you remembered the meeting.” The others stopped to look at me. “This is-” Gail stopped, embarrassed. “I’ve forgotten your name-it’s Italian, I remember you told me that. Anyway, I met her at the Swift coffee shop last week and told her about the meetings and here she is.”
“You’re not a reporter, are you?” one woman asked.
“No, I’m not,” I said neutrally. “I have a B.A. from here, pretty old degree at this point. I was down here the other day talking to Harold Weinstein and ran into Gail.”
“Weinstein,” another one snorted. “Thinks he’s a radical because he wears work shirts and curses capitalism.”
“Yeah,” another agreed. “I was in his class on ‘Big Business and Big Labor.’ He felt the major battle against oppression had been won when Ford lost the battle with the UAW in the forties. If you tried to talk about how women have been excluded not just from big business but from the unions as well, he said that didn’t indicate oppression, merely a reflection of the current social mores.”
“That argument justifies all oppression,” a plump woman with short curling hair put in. “Hell, the Stalin labor camps reflected Soviet mores of the 1930s. Not to mention Scheransky’s exile with hard labor.”
Thin, dark Mary, the older woman who’d been with Gail at the coffee shop on Friday, tried to call the group to order. “We don’t have a program tonight,” she said. “In the summer our attendance is too low to justify a speaker. But why don’t we get in a circle on the floor so that we can have a group discussion.” She was smoking, sucking in her cheeks with her intense inhaling. I had a feeling she was eyeing me suspiciously, but that may have just been my own nerves.
I obediently took a spot on the floor, drawing my legs up in front of me. My calf muscles were sensitive. The other women straggled over, getting cups of evil-looking coffee as they came. I’d taken one look at the overboiled brew on my way in and decided it wasn’t necessary to drink it to prove I was one of the group.
When all but two were seated, Mary suggested we go around the circle and introduce ourselves. “There are a couple of new people here tonight,” she said. “I’m Mary Annasdaughter.” She turned to the woman on her right, the one who’d protested women’s exclusion from big unions. When they got to me, I said, “I’m V. I. Warshawski. Most people call me Vic.”
When they’d finished, one said curiously, “Do you go by your initials or is Vic your real name?”
“It’s a nickname,” I said. “I usually use my initials. I started out my working life as a lawyer, and I found it was harder for male colleagues and opponents to patronize me if they didn’t know my first name.”
“Good point,” Mary said, taking the meeting back. “Tonight I’d like to see what we can do to support the ERA booth at the Illinois State Fair. The state NOW group usually has a booth where they distribute literature. This year they want to do something more elaborate, have a slide show, and they need more people. Someone who can go down to Springfield for one or more days the week of August fourth to tenth to staff the booth and the slide show.”
“Are they sending a car down?” the plump, curly-haired one asked.
“I expect the transportation will depend on how many people volunteer. I thought I might go. If some of the rest of you want to, we could all take the bus together-it’s not that long a ride.”
“Where would we stay?” someone wanted to know.
“I plan to camp out,” Mary said. “But you can probably find some NOW people to share a hotel room with. I can check back at the headquarters.”
“I kind of hate doing anything with NOW,” a rosy-cheeked woman with waist-long hair said. She was wearing a T-shirt and bib overalls; she had the face of a peaceful Victorian matron.
“Why, Annette?” Gail asked.
“They ignore the real issues-women’s social position, inequities of marriage, divorce, child care-and go screwing around supporting establishment politicians. They’ll support a candidate who does one measly little thing for child care, and overlook the fact that he doesn’t have any women on his staff, and that his wife is a plastic mannequin sitting at home supporting his career.”