your concern for me—well, for another human being—by coming here to help solve what you see as my problems.”
“My son?”
“Yes. The pool boy. Jack Faoni. The young man who was serving hors d’oeuvres on the terrace before dinner.”
“You know he’s my son?”
“You two circling each other on the terrace whispering questions and answers, making jokes, I believe, behind each other’s backs only each other could hear, and, I daresay, appreciate, was a piece of theater I would have regretted missing.”
Jack had said something to Fletch about being next to Chester Radliegh was like being next to a nuclear powered aircraft carrier: overwhelming.
Fletch said, “You can’t possibly know Jack Faoni is my son. Even your lover, Shana Staufel, doesn’t know it.”
Radliegh smiled. “People here at Vindemia believe all the phones are tapped, and that the one outside the General Store is not.”
Fletch said, “And that’s the one that is.”
Radliegh said, “It’s much cheaper, more efficient to tap one phone than dozens. Surely you can see that.”
“Yes,” Fletch said. “I can see that.” Radliegh knew every word Jack had said to him while Fletch was driving into Wyoming. “Did you invite me here so I can sing ‘Git Along Little Dogies’ to you?”
“I invited you here to thank you. And to assure you that everything is fine.”
“Everything is not fine,” Fletch said.
“And, by now, I assume you and your son have had a long chat and he has filled you in on everything he has learned about me and my household.”
“Right again.”
“Shana called Jack in without my knowledge or permission. I was very surprised to read the notes of her conversation with him from the phone outside—”
“—the General Store.”
“Reading those notes, something about Shana was confirmed, and, I learned something else about her. What was confirmed was her very real love, passion, and concern for me. What I learned is that snow turns her on in a way I hadn’t realized.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Apparently, a few years ago, she grabbed your sweating son in the snow in Stowe, Vermont, one night, tore his shirt off him, and hustled him to her bed for a few hours of passionate love crawl.”
“Oh.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“He hasn’t told me that part, yet.”
“It was in Berlin on a night snow was falling a year ago Shana and I discovered ourselves having a snowball fight in the street, shoving fresh snow down each other’s collars, etc.” Radliegh’s smile was shy. “Also confirmed was that there was nothing contrived about Shana and me ending up in bed together that night. Not that I thought there was. As a result of this discovery, I am making arrangements for business conferences in St. Moritz this next winter.”
“Shana really loves you,” Fletch posited. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Passionately. Isn’t that nice?”
“Wonderful.”
“So she called Jack. Jack came here. And he called you. And you came here. By the way, I did read
“No notes?”
“Of course notes. No questions, though. None that I remember.”
“That’s good. I felt I was facing an oral examination tonight.”
“No examination at all,” Radliegh said. “Just a simple thank you, and a statement that there is no problem.”
“There is a problem.”
“Are you genuinely interested in the Bierstadt?”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Fine. I’ll show it to you in the morning, as planned, before you leave.”
“Doctor Radliegh, someone, more than one is, I mean, are trying to kill you.”
“So what?” Radliegh’s fingers rubbed his chest.
“So what?”
“How many attempts on my life do you and Jack, and Shana, count? Four?”
“The coffeepot, the exploded cabin, the broken axle on the Jeep, the possibly poisoned horse—”
“Try eighteen. That’s a good number. Try twenty four.”
“These attempts have been going on that long?”
“I don’t know much about your education, Mister Fletcher, but somewhere along the way you must have picked up some scientific method.” Radliegh raised his left arm over his head and flexed it. “When you see four or five attempts on my life, you are right to be alarmed. When you’ve seen two dozen or so the proof, if you will, is that none has succeeded.”
“One did succeed. And I don’t think Doctor Jim Wilson was thinking primarily of scientific method while he was dying of lethal gas poisoning meant for you in your laboratory.”
“I trust he was. And whom do you accuse? My wife? You know Shana Staufel and I are lovers.”
“I sat beside your wife at dinner,” Fletch said. There had been sixty at dinner, and Fletch had been put at the foot of the table. “She kept talking about what she called ‘upsetting passions,’ even asking me to name mine. She seems to feel everyone around her is driven by one passion or another except her.”
“Yes,” Radliegh said. “Amalie is not without her insights.”
“I am not accusing your wife, in particular.”
“Do you accuse my children? As you no doubt have surmised, I am familiar with my children’s passions, to whatever extent you are familiar with them.”
“Doctor Radliegh, you have created a most unusual environment here at Vindemia.”
“Unusual?” Through his horn-rimmed glasses, Radliegh blinked at the ceiling. “Isn’t it the ideal environment, for my employees, friends, family that anyone would create if he could? Aren’t you enjoying your stay at Vindemia, Mister Fletcher?”
“You’ve created a dictatorship.”
“Weren’t you taught in school that the best form of governance is a benign dictatorship?”
“I was taught dictatorships do not remain benign long.”
“Mine has. I do not have to collect taxes. Quite the reverse. I do not have to conscript for wars.”
“But you do make demands. You are shoving one son into politics, another into business administration, a daughter into movie stardom—”
“I have every right to make demands. Look at all I have provided them. Having received so much, they must give, not to me, but to the world. The formula is simple.” Radliegh shook his left hand as if to get water off it. “I hate second generations which squander their resources.”
“Do I have to recite to you the results of your forcing this ‘formula,’ as you call it—”
“I know, I know. My daughter, Alixis, forced herself into your son’s bed last night.”
“She did?”
“There must be something magnetic about your son.”
“He plays the guitar.”
“I’ve heard him. He plays well. I suppose a young man who concentrates on the use of his fingers has a certain superficial sexual appeal.”
Fletch sighed. Having had only a sip of cognac, he was feeling uncommonly tired.
It had been a long day.
