Hi, Sam."
"Hi, Veronica." Although she was two hours and eighty miles away, I sat bolt upright in the chair and looked around the room as if she were on the phone and nearby at the same time.
"Hello, sweetheart. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I have incredible news. Did you know Pauline and Edward Durant were married?"
"Married? How do you know?"
She laughed like a child. "I told you: I'm a great researcher! When I was looking at her notebooks I saw she'd written 'Forever Yours Motel, Vegas' with a big red question mark at the end. It was the only thing in there that made me curious. I played a hunch and contacted the town hall in Las Vegas. Voila! There's a marriage license issued to them three months before she died."
"Incredible! I don't know what it means, but it's gotta play into it somewhere."
"I know! I'm wondering what if Gordon Cadmus had found out? If he was in love with her, or even just jealous, what would he do if he discovered she was married? Maybe he did kill her in a jealous rage."
"Then why is someone sending me notes, and why did he shoot his son?"
"I don't know. But it adds a whole new twist, eh? You know what I was thinking? I could catch the five o'clock train up there and we could go out for a celebratory dinner. I don't have anything to do tomorrow and, well, it could be a nice night."
"Do you mind if we do it another time, Veronica? To tell you the truth, I'm feeling kind of grumpy today."
"I could make you feel better."
"I don't think so."
Her silence weighed a ton.
Two things happened in quick succession that drove me even farther away from Veronica.
I was at the supermarket doing my weekly shopping. Halfway down an aisle, I looked up and saw a staggeringly beautiful woman holding a package of chicken in one hand. It took some seconds to absorb her beauty. Only then did I realize she was talking to the package. I couldn't hear all that she was saying, but just enough to know she was completely mad. Both my heart and soul shivered, then froze.
One person rushed into my mind and took up all the space there. Veronica. Watching this beautiful lunatic talking to the chicken as if she were Hamlet and it was Yorick's skull, the only thing I could think of was my new lover. Was she crazy too?
Then I discovered that my favorite fountain pen was gone the day I was to interview Edward Durant Sr. I'm not a particularly tidy person, but when it comes to my desk I'm fanatical. Both Cass and the cleaning woman know never to even go near it. Everything had its place, particularly that lucky pen. If something was missing, even dumb Scotch tape, I'd get cuckoo and search until I found it. The loss of the pen was heart-attack country. I scoured the house to no avail. I even looked in the dog's bed in the kitchen, so aggravated by then that I thought he might have taken it to spite me. I could just see him chewing it while smiling the whole time. But he didn't have it. I called Cass in the city but she knew nothing about it. When she suggested I ask Veronica, a stone door in my brain slammed shut with a tremendous bang. Veronica! She'd broken into the house once before. She knew how important the object was to me . . .
"Yes, I have it." No more than that. No explanation, apology, just yes. I hesitated to ask when she had taken it because I did not want to hear she had been in the house again without my knowing.
"I need it, Veronica. You know I need that pen."
Most casually, she said, "Well, it's simple: I'll give it to you when we see each other."
"Don't do this, Veronica! You're stepping way over the line. Give it back to me. I need it for my work."
"And what about my needs, Sam? What about the fact you've been avoiding me like I'm diseased! What's happening to us? What is going on in your head? Everything was fixed. We were going to work on your book together and –"
"No, you said that, Veronica, not me. I never collaborate on books. You're too close, do you understand? You're taking away all the air in the room. I can't breathe."
"And what am I supposed to do, Sam, while you're in your room with the door shut and all that air around you?"
"I don't know. We have to talk about this another time. I must go now. Please send the pen back."
"You're making me feel like shit, Sam. I don't think I owe you any favors right this minute." She hung up.
The pen arrived the next morning via express mail. It had been cut into two perfectly equal pieces.
Tappan was a pretty village with a cannon from some war plunked down in the middle of the town green like an old brown toad. Whoever came up with the bent idea of leaving large decaying weapons around as reminders of death and loss?
Driving beneath huge old trees that flanked the roads, I caught glimpses through them of the Hudson River below. Tappan's houses were a mixture of Colonial and modern. A great many were for sale. I wondered why. Following Durant's jovial directions, I found his place with no problem.
From all I had heard about the man, I expected his home to be a fifteen-room colossus with pillars and a lawn that stretched for acres. Instead it turned out to be a simple split-level fifties house with a driveway in front and a small but nicely kept yard. The man obviously liked to garden because there was a wide assortment of bright lush flowers all over. Two fat pugs lay in the middle of the driveway, their little tongues hanging out in the heat. I pulled up and got out. Both of them rose slowly and came over to have a look.
"Hey, boys. Hot day, huh?" I bent down to pet them and they cuddled right up. The more I scratched their ears the more ecstatic their panting became. One fell over on his side and wiggled all his paws for me to scratch more. A screen door heeched open.
"Looks like they found a friend." Edward Durant Sr. did not look, as I had heard, like a man in a conservative suit and French cuffs. About five foot seven, he was thin and delicate. He had a large head and a closely trimmed white beard. He didn't look well and carried himself carefully, as if certain that his parts were not working correctly.
His voice contradicted the rest. Deep and full, it had the pitch and timbre of a radio announcer or public speaker. It was easy to imagine that voice in a courtroom. Sexy. It was an extremely sexy voice and he used it well.
"I'm a great admirer of your work, Mr. Bayer. A great admirer. In fact, if you don't mind, I would be very grateful if you would sign some of your books before you leave."
When we went into his house it was like entering a small town library. There were books everywhere, and what was as interesting was the way they were cared for. It appeared every single one was covered with a transparent plastic jacket and they were all behind glass. The whole house was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made out of some kind of rich dark wood I couldn't identify.
"It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it? A hobby that turned into an obsession. I was a sickly boy and books were my only way out of the bedroom for a couple of years. Best friends I ever had.
"Now, I have all of your books right over here –" He walked to a shelf and, bending down, carefully opened the glass door. There they were, all my little chickens, standing together in perfect condition.
"I must admit I don't read a lot of fiction anymore. But yours has a wonderful snap to it."
"That's very flattering. Thank you." I looked around the room at his thousands of books. "What do you usually read?"
"Biography." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the whole shebang. "Since retiring, my time has been spent studying other people's lives and how they muddled through. It's a contemptible occupation."