“Has Enid Bradley ever explicitly stated to you that her husband is dead?”
“Yes. Last Thursday. After your newspaper report came out. Just before she said I must be crazy and insisted Mary and I take a nice long vacation to this Mexican paradise.” Blaine sneezed and then laughed.
“Was it Enid Bradley who specified Puerto de Orlando?”
“Yes. She’s paying.”
“But you’ve been to Mexico before.”
Blaine sneezed again. “Acapulco.”
“I see.”
“Dusty place, this. When are you going back?”
“Can’t get a plane until tomorrow noon.”
“What are you going to do until then?”
“Snooze on the beach, I guess.”
“Will you permit Mary and me to entertain you at dinner tonight?”
“Certainly,” Fletch said. “Nice of you.”
“Not really,” said Blaine. “Seems to me, without really meaning to, I did you a lot of harm.” He stood up. “Will nine o’clock be all right?”
“See you then,” Fletch said.
“The hotel’s terrace diningroom.” Blaine put out his hand to shake. “Why don’t we stop this ‘Mister Blaine, Mister Fletcher’ nonsense? I suspect we’re both victims of the same accident—or, I got you into my accident, or something.”
Fletch stood and shook hands. “Okay, Charley.”
“Do I call you Irwin?”
“Not if you want to live till dinner. I answer to the name Fletch.”
Blaine leaned toward Fletch, his eyes magnified through his glasses. “Fletch, am I crazy, or is the world crazy?”
“That,” said Fletch, “seems an eminently sane question.”
26
T H R E E P E O P L E, M A R Y B L A I N E, Charles Blaine and Fletch, at dinner under the stars on the hotel terrace in Puerto de Orlando, Mexico.
Charles: Gin and tonics, please, with lime.
Fletch (to Mary Blaine): I’ve met your Aunt. She’s a real nice lady.
She fed me.
Mary: Isn’t she marvelous? She says she was born happy, and I believe it. That woman has had such suffering, such tragedy. Yet she is relentlessly happy.
Fletch: I know her nickname is Happy. What’s her real name?
Mary: Mabel.
Mary: Look at the moon.
Charles: Even in Puerto de Orlando I suspect prices are a little higher per item than they need be. I know it’s a new resort, or a resort-to-be, and the Mexican government is trying to attract people here. But I daresay, if you drive a few miles inland, into some of the real villages, you’ll find everything from limes to curios at half the prices …
Charles: Gin and tonics, please. With lime.
Mary: There’s something unreal about Enid Bradley. I mean, she’s the only contemporary woman I know who seems to have been born in a corset.
Fletch: Originally, Tom Bradley was from Dallas, Texas? Mary: You mean from where men are men? Charles: I don’t know.
Mary: Enid always looks terrified of what the next moment will bring—you know, as if she’s afraid someone is going to say something dirty. Charles: Her husband usually does. I mean, did.
Charles: Gin and tonics. Lime.
Mary: Look at the moons.
Charles: Didn’t I say something this morning, Fletch, about people vacationing in Mexico drinking three times more alcohol than usual? They make a lot of money off our fear of drinking the local water.
Mary: I mean, I just don’t see anyone ever having a rollicking time in bed with Enid Bradley, ever. I mean, I just can’t picture Enid Bradley without her sensible shoes on.
Mary: Isn’t this romantic, Charley? Look at the moons in the ocean. I have an idea. Why don’t we take this nice boy to bed?
Charlie: Mary, I think we should order dinner, don’t you?
Fletch: Is Thomas Bradley dead?
Mary: Why wouldn’t he be?
Charles: Frankly, I don’t think so. I think he committed some gross irregularity and decided to disappear. Trouble is, I can’t find what gross irregularity he committed. As Treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps, it’s my damned responsibility to find it. I’m a Certified Public Accountant, and I can’t find anything wrong. Please forgive me, Fletch. Please understand. This is very worrisome to me. Mary: He’s dead. It’s just that nobody cares much.
27
U P O N H I S R E T U R N to his apartment late Wednesday night, Fletch found on the coffee table, beside the bills and junk mail, a note and three letters of interest.
