Roger Bartlett was home from work, and he installed me in a bedroom on the second floor. It was a big pleasant room, paneled in pine planking stained an ice-blue, The ceiling was beamed in a crisscross pattern; there was a wide-board floor and a big closet with folding louvered doors and a bureau built in behind them. There was a double bed with a Hitchcock headboard and a patchwork quilt, a pine Governor Winthrop desk, and a wooden rocker with arms and a rush seat that had been done in an antique-blue and stenciled in gold. There was a blue and red braided rug on the floor, and the drapes on the windows were a red and blue print featuring Revolutionary War scenes. Very nice.
“You eat supper yet?” Roger Bartlett asked.
“No.”
“Me either. Come on down and we’ll rustle up a little grub. Gotta eat to live, right?” I nodded.
“Gotta eat to live,” he repeated and headed downstairs.
A portable TV on the kitchen counter was showing a ball game. The Sox were playing the Angels, and neither was a contender. It was nearly the end of the season, and the announcers and the crowd noise reflected that fact. There is nothing quite like the sound of a pointless ball game late in the season. It is a very nostalgic sound. Sunday afternoon, early fall, car radio, beach traffic.
Bartlett handed me a can of beer, and I sipped it looking at the ball game. Order and pattern, discernible goals strenuously sought within rigidly defined rules. A lot of pressure and a lot of grace, but no tragedy. The Summer Game.
“What do you think about this stuff, Spenser? What’s going on?” Bartlett was cutting slices of breast meat from a roast turkey. “I mean, where’s my kid? Why does someone want to kill my wife? What the hell have I ever done to anybody?”
“I was going to ask you,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this whole thing smells of revenge. It smells of harassment. It just doesn’t feel right as a kidnapping. The time between the disappearance and the ransom demand.
The peculiar note. The peculiar phone call. The trick with the coffin—someone put a lotta work into that. Now the threatening phone call—if it’s not just a crank. Someone doesn’t like you or your wife or both.”
“But who the hell…” Marge Bartlett came in carrying the highball glass. Her lipstick was fresh and her hair was combed and her eye shadow looked newly applied.
She poked the glass at her husband. “Fill ’er up,” she said and giggled. “Fill ‘er up. Or is there a fuel shortage?”
“Why don’t you slow down, Marge?” Bartlett said. He took the glass.
“Slow down. Slow down. That’s all you can say. Slow down. Well I’m not going to slow down. Live fast, die young, and have a good-looking corpse. That’s my motto.”
She did a pirouette and bumped against the counter.
“Everything is slow down with you, Roger. Old slow-down-Roger, that’s you.”
Bartlett gave her a new drink.
“You want mayonnaise?” He asked me.
“Please,” I said. He put a plate of sliced turkey, a jar of mayonnaise, some bread-and-butter pickles, and a loaf of oatmeal bread on the table. “Help yourself,” he said.
“My God, Roger,” Marge Bartlett said. “Is that how you’re going to feed him? No plate? No napkins? Can’t you even make a salad? We have those nice mugs for beer that Dolly and I bought you.”
“It’s a lot better than the way you’re feeding him,” Bartlett answered. “Or me.”
“Oh, certainly. I should be cooking a big meal when my very life has been threatened. I should be keeping your supper warm in the oven when you won’t even come home from work to protect me.”
“Christ! Trask was here and Paul Marsh and Earl. I was way the hell and gone out past Worcester on a job.”
“Well, why don’t you work closer to home, anyway?
You’re never around when I need you.”
“I can’t find enough work close to home to pay for all the goddamned scotch you drink.”
“You bastard,” she said and threw her drink at him. A little scotch spattered on my turkey sandwich. Not a bad combination.
“Oh, stop showing off for Spenser,” Bartlett said. He got a paper towel and wiped up the moisture on the table. She made a new drink.
“i’m sorry, Mr. Spenser. It’s just that I’m under great strain, as you might imagine. I’m an artist. I’m volatile; I’m quick to anger.”
“Yeah,” I said, “both those things. You got a lousy arm, though. You got scotch on my sandwich.”
She drank half her drink. Not only her face but her whole body seemed to get progressively slacker as she drank. Her voice got harsher, while her language got more affected. I wondered if the progress continued until she sank to the floor screaming nonsense. I didn’t think I’d find out. I was pretty sure I’d crack first.
“Can you think of any connection between this death threat and Kevin’s disappearance?” Slick how smoothly I changed the subject.
“I think someone is out to get us,” she said. Oddly, I agreed with her. It made me nervous.
“Who the hell would be out to get us?” Bartlett said.
