“Haven’t stayed anywhere but at home.”
Fletch ran his eyes over the bungalow. The paint was so thin the wood was dried out. On the porch was one rocking chair. A burst cushion was in its seat.
“I guess you never stayed at the Park Worth Hotel.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Do you have a son, a grandson named James St. E. Crandall?”
“None of your business.”
“Look, mister. I found this wallet, see? It has money in it. And the name James St. E. Crandall, I’m trying to give the wallet back to its owner.”
“It’s not mine. I said that.”
“Your son’s?”
“Never had any children. My damned wife died thirty years ago, God rot her soul. Never had any nephews I ever heard of, and if I did, I hope they’re perishin’ in jail.”
“You’re a nice guy. You go to church?”
“ ’Course I do.”
“You ever heard of anyone else in the world named James St. E. Crandall?”
“Wouldn’t care if I had.”
“Sorry to have bothered you,” Fletch said. “Nice passin’ the time of day with you.”
“Let me see your license and registration.”
Fletch was still within the limits of Newtowne when the police car came up behind him, growled its siren at him, and pulled him over.
He handed the officer his papers.
“Irwin Maurice Fletcher,” the policeman read. “What kind of a name is that?”
“A stinky name. My parents were expecting a skunk.”
“Did they get one?”
“No, they had a nice kid.”
“And what kind of a scam is their nice kid pullin’ now?”
“I don’t get you,” Fletch said.
The policeman continued to hold Fletch’s papers in his hand. “Well, you go up to a man’s door and tell him you found his wallet and there’s money in it. What’s the swindle?”
“Jeez. Crandall did call the cops.”
“Never mind who called.”
“What a grouchy guy.”
“You want to come down to the police station and explain yourself?”
“I’ll explain myself here, officer.”
“I’m listenin’.”
“I found a wallet with the name James St. E. Crandall in it. No address. I’m trying to find the James St. E. Crandall it belongs to. I asked the one you’ve got here in your town and he damned near threw me off his place. And called you.”
“Let me see the wallet.”
“Why?”
“To save yourself from being arrested for trying a confidence game.”
“You haven’t enough proof for that.”
“To save yourself from being arrested for driving with no shoes on.”
“You can only give me a ticket for that.”
Referring to Fletch’s license, the policeman wrote out a ticket. “Twenty-five dollars fine,” the policeman said.
“Don’t retire until you get my check.”
The policeman handed Fletch the ticket. “Let me see the wallet.”
“No.”
“Are you leaving town?”
“Trying to.”
The policeman handed Fletch his license and registration. “Just keep on drivin’, Irwin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way,” the policeman said, “your parents did have a skunk for a kid. What would you call someone tryin’ to swindle senior citizens?”
“I wouldn’t call him,” Fletch said. “I’d wait for him to call me.”
11
T H E O D O R O F cooked hamburger wafted through the screen door. All that morning Fletch had only had coffee.
“Hi, good lookin’,” the woman said to him through the Blaine’s screen door. Through the door she looked down at Fletch’s bare feet and smiled and ran her eyes up his body again. “What can I do for you?”
She was a bosomy woman in her mid-sixties, wearing a yellow turtleneck sweater, tight slacks and sneakers.
“How’s Mister Blaine today?” Fletch asked.
“How would I know?” The woman’s brown eyes were lively.
“Isn’t this Charles Blaine’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t he have the flu?”
“Hope not. It would ruin his vacation.”
“He’s on vacation?”
“San Orlando. ‘Way down on the Mexican coast. They’ve been in Mexico before,’ bout two years ago.”
“Sorry,” Fletch said. “I’m not explaining myself. I’m just surprised. I was told he had the flu. My name is Fletcher.
“Fletcher, Fletcher, Fletcher,” the woman said. “You the one wrote that story on what rip-off artists some funeral directors are?”
“No.”
“Thought I knew your name. You hungry?”
“Of course.”
“That’s the right answer. All good men are hungry all the time.” She held the screen door open for him. “I’ll make you a hamburger.”
“Wow.”
“You’re going to say that’s right nice of me.”
“Yeah.”
“No need. It gives this woman a great deal of pleasure to feed a hungry man.” The screen door swung closed behind Fletch. “My name’s Happy Franscatti,” she said.
“You are happy. I mean, you are a happy person.”
“Yes, I am.” She led the way through the livingroom and diningroom into the kitchen. “I’ve lost a husband and two children in three separate accidents.”
“That’s God-awful.”
“Yes, it is. But I’m still a happy person. I was just born cheerful, I guess.” She slapped three hamburger patties onto the grille. “I suspect it has something to do with the body chemistry. It’s in the glands, or something. I know people who have no particular problems, but they act terrible sad all the time.” She spoke loudly over the sizzle of the hamburgers. “They just have no capacity for happiness. I wake up every morning five-thirty, and the day’s song is already goin’ in my heart. I run to the window and peak out at the world to see what the day will
