Fletch and the Widow Bradley

didn’t embarrass us all when we look at them?” The man moved his paint bucket nearer the stern of the boat. “Tell her her house is worth a lot of money, and you can find her a nice condominium down nearer the center of town— one with padded walls.”

13

“W O U L D  Y O U  L I K E a drink, Mister Fletcher?” Enid Bradley asked.

“No. Thank you.”

“I think I will.”

Fletch was sitting in the broad, deep divan of Enid Bradley’s livingroom. Through sliding glass doors sparkled a good-sized swimming pool.

Enid Bradley moved across the livingroom to a bar disguised as a book case and poured herself a large glass of white wine. “Seeing I must go to the office every day during this period, relaxing with a drink Saturday afternoon is quite all right, isn’t it? Isn’t that the excuse you men always use for drinking on the weekend?”

“No.”

“You are younger than I was expecting, Mister Fletcher.”

Enid Bradley did not seem relaxed to Fletch. She seemed someone eager to show she was relaxed. Her eyes had been too searching in his face when she opened the door to him; her sigh had been too deep when he identified himself. She was an over-weight woman in her mid-forties in a slightly out-of-date dress and high-heeled shoes. Fletch could not guess what she might have been doing before the doorbell rang. The only image that came to his mind was that of her standing somewhere in the house, fearfully anticipating him, or some other threatening visitor.

She sat in a chair placed at a slight angle to the coffee table, and to him. The surface of the coffee table was bright inlaid tile.

Fletch put his fingertips on the mosaic. “Did your husband make this?”

“Yes.”

“It’s very nice.”

“There are several around the house. In the den. In our bedroom. In a table by the pool.” Her eyelids hooded as she turned her face toward the light from the glass doors. Then her free hand gestured over her shoulder. “And, of course, there’s that one, on the wall.”

There was a large mosaic of precisely shaded concentric circles, brightest at the center, on the wall next to the fireplace.

“I don’t blame you for coming to see me, Mister Fletcher. If I’m offended, I’m also curious.” She put her glass on the coffee table. “I read your article about our company in Wednesday’s News- Tribune. I was obliged to call your managing editor. It was just too upsetting to my children and, of course, the employees.”

“I regret that.”

“Where did you ever get the idea of quoting my husband?”

Saying nothing, Fletch just looked at her.

“We’re not suing the newspaper. What’s the use? I didn’t even ask your managing editor, that Mister Jaffe, to reprint a retraction. I can’t imagine what it would say. ‘The recent article on Wagnall-Phipps Incorporated by I.M. Fletcher erroneously had quotes by the late Thomas Bradley’? No, that would just stir up more confusion. More hurt.”

“You might let the News-Tribune print an obituary on your husband. They never have.”

“Rather late now, isn’t it?”

“When exactly did your husband die, Mrs. Bradley?”

“A year ago this month.”

Fletch sighed. “A year ago this month. I saw memos from him dated as recently as three weeks ago.”

“You couldn’t have. I mean, how could you have? Why do you say you did? The idea is absurd. You see, Mister Fletcher. I have the choice of thinking you’re a very sick young man. You’ve done a very cruel thing to me and my family.”

“Or—?”

“What do you mean, ‘Or—?’ ”

“You said you had a choice. Either I’m very sick, or, what?”

“Or someone else is. The reason I’m talking to you, didn’t close the door in your face, is because I have a suspicion. At first I thought your article was just another effort on the part of your newspaper to smear Wagnall- Phipps—as you did a few years ago. But, no, what you did was too, too absurd. It doesn’t leave your newspaper a leg to stand on. I was even going to ask your Mister Jaffe if I could see you, talk to you, but—well, he discouraged me.”

“How did he do that?”

“He said you’re very young, which you are, and that young people make mistakes, which they do.”

“You settled on the conclusion that I’m very sick.”

“Yes and no. I did and I didn’t.” She brought her glass of wine to her lips and replaced it on the coffee table. No wine seemed missing from the glass. “I’ve taken another step …” She hesitated. “… which is more to my purpose, if you know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t.”

Enid Bradley shrugged. “It really can’t be important to me, Mister Fletcher, if you are a sick, cruel man—as long as you don’t hurt me or my family again.” In her lap, her fingernails worried each other. “It’s very hard for me. You must understand. Wagnall-Phipps was Thomas’ company. He built it and he ran it. For the last twenty years I’ve been a housewife and mother. But at least for now I’m trying to run the company.”

Sympathetic phrases plodded through Fletch’s mind but he gave voice to none of them.

“But your editor, Mister Carraway, came out Thursday night.”

“Carradine.”

“Is his name Carradine? I was so upset. He sat with me and my children, Tom and Ta-ta. He was very kind. He was more explicit.”

“About what?”

Her eyes flashed into his. “He said you’re a fool, Mister Fletcher. That you’re always doing wild and stupid things. He said you’re an office joke. He said you’re a compulsive liar.” Her eyes fell. “He also said you were to be fired the next day, and that you’d never work in the newspaper business again.”

“Say, he was kind.”

Her eyes looked into his again, with less anger. “Were you fired?”

“Of course.”

“Then, from your own point of view, why are you pursuing this matter further?”

“Because I’m a good journalist and I’ve got two statements, or impressions, which don’t match.”

“Are you sure you’re not just being cruel?”

“Mrs. Bradley, I wrote a newspaper article quoting your husband. I never heard of your husband before, or you, or your family, and if I’d ever heard of Wagnall-Phipps it meant nothing to me. Then I’m told your husband is dead. I’m shocked. I’m hurt by this, too.”

Her voice squeaked drily. “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

“The News-Tribune did not print an obituary on your husband. I haven’t been able to check the Bureau of Vital Statistics yet, because it’s Saturday and I just got back to town last night. But I will on Monday.”

“It will do you no good,” said Enid Bradley. “At least, I don’t think so. My husband died in Switzerland.”

“Oh.”

“I thought everyone knew that. He was cremated there.”

“I see.”

Expressing exasperation, she rose from her chair, crossed the room, took a hand-sized, decorated box from the mantel and placed it on the coffee table in front of Fletch. “These are his ashes, Mister Fletcher.”