Barbara, bugs on her, was no longer scratching. She said, “That’s sick.”
“Pretty sharp,” Fletch said.
In the red of the setting sun, she shuddered. “Punk.”
Fletch ran his fingernail along her calf. “But do you get the point?”
“A little lacking in metaphor,” she said.
“But consider the irony.”
“Weird!” She moved the book in Fletch’s hand to see the cover. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“It’s a poem by Tom Farliegh called
“That’s poetry? Not exactly ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…’ ”
“I guess it’s called the Poetry of Violence. Tom Farliegh is its inventor, or chief current practitioner, or something.”
“Where did you get it, a motorcyclists’ convention?”
“Tom Farliegh may or may not be Donald Habeck’s son-in-law.”
“For a son-in-law I’d rather Attila the Hun.”
Fletch rolled onto his stomach. “It is sentimental, of course.”
“I prefer Browning.”
“At least he gives flesh and a knife their values.”
“Oh, yeah. He does that. And why, Irwin, are you carrying around a book of poetry by Habeck’s son-in-law the night that Habeck is murdered?”
Even facing away from the sun, Fletch squinted. “Don’t you find it interesting?”
“Fascinating!” she said falsely. “Is the whole book like that?”
“I’ll read you another.” He reached for it in the sand.
“Not before supper, thank you.” She stood up. “Flies and satanic poems. Did you bring anything for supper?”
“Yeah,” Fletch answered. “There are some pretzels in the car.”
“Great. I could tell you stopped somewhere on your way home. You arrived in nothing but swimming trunks.”
“I know how to prepare pretzels.”
“Come on. I brought lamb chops. I’ll show you how to prepare them.”
“I’m going to jump in the ocean.” Fletch began to get up slowly. “Wash the sand off.”
“You can tell me all about your new assignment,” Barbara said, beach bag under her arm like a football. “The one that has nothing to do with people getting bullets in the head.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Fletch said absently.
“So what’s your assignment?” At the stove, Barbara wore an apron over her swimsuit.
Fletch munched a pretzel. “Research on Ben Franklyn.”
Dark outside, light inside the beach house, the huge plate-glass windows reflected them.
“Somehow Ben Franklin doesn’t strike me as news.”
Fletch found the brown paper bag in which Barbara had brought the chops, potatoes, peas, and milk. In it, he put Donald Habeck’s suit, shirt, tie, drawers, socks, and shoes. “Got some string?”
“Look in that drawer.” She pointed with the potato masher. “What’s new about Ben Franklin?”
“Healthy sort of man. Very contemporary.” Fletch tied the string around the package. “Inventive. Diplomatic. Always liked the ladies. A businessman, too. He was a good businessman, wasn’t he?”
“How burned do you like your chops?”
“If you’re asking, stop cooking.” He tossed the package on the floor near the front door.
Sitting at the table, Barbara said, “I’m calling your mother.”
“What did I do now?”
“You’re getting married Saturday. Don’t you think Jessica ought to hear from me, her daughter-in-law-to- be?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Give her the opportunity to come to the wedding, you know? Make her feel really welcome.”
“I wrote her. Don’t know if she can afford to come. She’s a poor writer, you know. I should say, she’s a writer, and she’s poor. And if we pay her way from Seattle, we won’t be able to afford a honeymoon.”
“Still, her son’s getting married.”
“Naked?” Fletch asked. “Do you still mean for us to get married naked?”
“No.” Barbara scooped mashed potato into her mouth. “I haven’t been able to get rid of that eight pounds.”
“Ah,” smiled Fletch. “So you do have something to hide.”
“I’ll ask you once more about your father.”
“What about him?”
She asked, “What about him?”
“He died in childbirth.” Fletch shrugged. “That’s what mother always said.”
“Modern American marriage.” Barbara sighed and looked at their reflection in the window.
“Yeah,” Fletch said, “what’s it for?”
“What do you mean, ‘What’s it for?’?”
“Alston asked me at lunch if I was sure I want to get married. That was just after I asked him to be my best man.”
“Alston works for Habeck’s law firm, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he happy there?”
“Not very.”
“What did you answer?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Lawyers are always asking difficult questions. That’s their job. Makes ’em feel superior, I think. Helps them create the illusion they’re worth their fees.”
“Frank Jaffe said something or other about the only point in getting married is if you intend to have children.”
“He’s right. Almost.”
“Do we intend to have children?”
“Sure.” Barbara’s eyes glanced over the rough wooden floor of the beach house. “We have to have money, first. You’re not earning much. In fact, you’re not in a very high-paid profession. I’m not in a profession at all. Kids cost a lot.”
“Someone mentioned that today, too.”
“What did you do, go around today developing a brief against marriage?”
“I went around today announcing the joyful news you and I are getting married Saturday, and everybody asked,
