“I thought
“I don’t know about acquivitiveness.”
“Poor boy. We none of us know about the soul. Are you
“At night.”
It became her turn again and she pocketed three balls. “I had expected to become more devout as I grow older but somehow I haven’t,” she said. “It’s a great pity.”
“Would you like to live after death?”
“It would depend on the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like to live forever.”
“I hope you will live forever.”
“Thank you.”
Moxie pocketed the last ball. She had won. “You were very kind to play,
“It was a great pleasure.”
“We will walk out together.”
* * *
She was putting the telephone receiver back on the cradle when he came back into the bedroom.
“That was Geoff McKensie,” she said. “He’s driving down. He called from Key Largo. Guess he was feeling woebegone.”
She was wearing the black dress. She looked hot. He had put on his shorts.
They had heard the Lopezes come into the house.
“I’ll go get you some clothes,” he said.
In the foyer of The Blue House, the Lopezes greeted Fletch.
“Mister Fletcher,” said Mrs Lopez. “Good to have you here again.”
Mister Lopez smiled and shook hands and said nothing.
“Thank you for having everything so nicely arranged when we arrived last night.”
Mrs Lopez took his head in her hands and kissed him. “But you ate nothing. You left the sandwiches and drank none of the beer.”
“We had something on the plane.”
“And this morning I did not make breakfast. Someone else did.”
“We tried to clean up our mess.”
“I can tell.”
“Upstairs is a young woman and her father. And I guess one or two more will be coming for lunch. We can use the sandwiches you made.”
“I’ll make something fresh.”
“I’m going down to the stores,” Fletch said.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Lopez asked.
“No,” Fletch said. “Just picking up a few things. Until later.”
“Until later,” said Mrs Lopez.
12
When he returned, walking slowly down Duval Street in the sunlight and warm wind, his arms ladened with packages, there were two cars with their trunks open in front of The Blue House. It had taken Fletch much longer to shop for Moxie than he had expected. Originally, there was confusion in the salesman’s mind. Clearly he wanted to think Fletch was buying this feminine clothing for himself, and clearly he wanted to play with Fletch in the process.
The short, weather-beaten man Fletch had seen in the police station was unloading a small yellow car. Apparently he had travelled alone. A large blue sedan was disgorging Edith Howell, the actress who could and did look like everybody’s mother, and John Meade, who could not stop looking like a hayseed even when he wasn’t being paid to do so. They had much luggage. Fletch had not been told to expect Edith Howell and John Meade.
Across the street a small group of tourists, cameras around some necks, stood in a loose group, to watch and chat with each other over what they were and were not seeing. A tourist road-train was crawling by in the street. The tour guide was saying through his amplifier:…
The front door of The Blue House was wide open.
Moxie was in the dining room stacking a tall pile of napkins. “Thank God,” she said, seeing the packages in Fletch’s arms. “I’m broiled and baked.”
“You have more guests arriving,” Fletch said. “Edith Howell. John Meade.”
“Yeah. They called from Key Marathon.”
“Geoff McKensie. I think.”
“You knew he was coming.” She was tearing through the packages on the diningroom table.
“More in the backyard. Gerry Littleford and his wife. Sy Koller flew down with them.”
“Sy Koller? We have two directors in the house? Isn’t that like having two ladies wearing the same expensive dress?”
Moxie was holding the bottom of a yellow bikini against her black dress. “I think it will fit.”
“I just ordered for the American build. Where is everyone going to sleep?”
“There are couches, hammocks, swings on all the balconies.”
“Where’s Oh, Luminous One?”
“Gone out for some conviviality.”
“This house lacks conviviality? It’s about to burst with conviviality. Moxie, my idea of getting you away for a few days—”
“I am away. I don’t need to hide out.” Vexed, she was pincering all the packages from the table against her breasts. “I didn’t murder anybody, you know.”
“Then we’d better find another suspect,” said Fletch. “Damned quick. And it’s not going to be easy to find a better suspect than you are.”
“I’ll go change.” She dashed out of the dining room and headed for the stairs. “You go meet the people.”
Fletch carried a glass of orange juice into the backyard.
Gerry Littleford was the first to see him. “You’re a Fletch,” he said.
“Right.”
“I’m Gerry.” He stood up to shake hands. “This is my wife, Stella.”
Stella was the young woman who the day before had taken Marge Peterman in hand.
“You know Sy Koller?”
The heavy man in the stressed T-shirt had also been kind to Marge Peterman the day before. Today’s stressed T-shirt was green. He did not rise for Fletch or offer his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said to Fletch.
“You’re a cook?” Gerry sat down again.
“Moxie only said that before she tried my omelette.”
“Not afterwards?”
“No. Not afterwards.”
Everyone in the group had a Bloody Mary.
“I really am sorry,” Roller said again. His eyes said he was sorry.
“Sorry for what?” Fletch sat in one of the white, wrought-iron, cushioned love seats. It was cooler in the walled garden, without the warm Gulf wind.
“For turning you down for that part.”
“You never did.”
Koller looked relieved and grinned. “I was sure I had. By my age, son, a director has turned down almost
