Every light was on in Henry’s house by the time Mr. C’mere and I got back. A big, fancy car I’d never seen gleamed in the drive. Mr. C sniffed the tires and stayed back while I scouted ahead. Before I got to the porch I heard voices coming from the unused room at the front of the house.
Through the windows I saw that somebody had pulled the bedsheets off the furniture. It looked like a regular living room now, with all the lamps lighted and a fire burning in the fireplace. Bessie sat talking in the fireside armchair. Henry stood leaning against the mantel scowling at some faraway thing, and a man and a woman I didn’t know sat on the couch, the man lying on his back with his head in the woman’s lap. She was about Henry’s age, I guessed, blond and pretty, with an interested expression on her face. The man held a cigarette holder with no cigarette in it, and he kept looking up at the woman.
In no mood for company, I slipped in the kitchen door to get the skinny from Fred. “I was just wondering when the ransom call would come,” he said, glancing up from glazing a ham. “Henry and I have been worried sick. We were giving you ten more minutes before we called the sheriff.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, taking a handful of carrot sticks from the colander.
“Henry didn’t tell you?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet. Tell me what?”
“Mayor Peters is offering a five-thousand-dollar reward to know who hurt his son. He says he has a good idea who it was.”
“Is that a fact?” I said, wishing it had been me.
“It is,” Fred said, lifting an eyebrow. “The mayor says you and Hargrove had words earlier this week—”
“I caught Hargrove going through my desk!”
“And you went through his.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Hargrove’s been weird to me since the first day! He didn’t like me even before I got here! He stole my journal! He—”
“All the more reason to be careful,” Fred interrupted.
I crunched my carrot sticks, glad the steam pouring out of my ears was invisible. I’d been stupid to spend even half a second feeling sorry for Hargrove. He’d insulted me, stolen my property, and invaded my sacred place. I was beyond happy that somebody’d shot at him. That was just the start of what he should suffer for all he’d done.
“Are you listening to me?” Fred asked.
“Who’re those people in there?” I said, changing the subject.
“Helen Cavanaugh and her husband, Franklin. Old, old friends of Henry’s from New York who came to surprise him. She’s a painter. And he’s some hotshot writer, and a lawyer besides.”
I made a face, remembering Lillian and Sid, but Fred saw what I was thinking.
“Not like that,” he said. “They’re good people, so you be nice. They’re here for Thanksgiving. They’ll stay in Henry’s room, and he’ll sleep out in the studio.”
“He practically sleeps out there anyway,” I said.
Fred gave me a dark look and slid the ham back in the oven. “Try to behave, will you? Go introduce yourself. They’ve been waiting on you.”
I was in no mood to meet new people, but I couldn’t get upstairs without going by the front room.
“Odysseus returns,” said the man, standing as I came into view. I’d seen people do this in the movies, but nobody had ever stood up for me. He held out his hand, and I went over and shook it. “Franklin Cavanaugh III. Pleased to make your wily and intrepid acquaintance.”
“I’m Helen,” said the woman. “Just Helen. You should be flattered. Franklin doesn’t stand up for any reason if he can avoid it.”
“‘Never stand when you can sit; never sit when you can lie down,’” Franklin said, stretching out beside her on the other two-thirds of the couch.
“I like that,” Bessie said. “I’m going to write that down.”
Franklin sucked on the end of his empty cigarette holder.
“There’s no cigarette,” I said.
“Dr. Royster forbids it,” Franklin whined, giving Henry a long-suffering look.
“I say it too, but do you listen to me?” Helen said. She turned toward Henry. “Could we just move in, so Franklin will behave?”
“I can’t seem to get anyone else around here to do as I ask,” Henry said sharply. “Why should Franklin be the exception?” He’d looked relieved when I came in the room, but suddenly he turned to me, all annoyance. “Nice of you to join us.”
“We heard about those two boys,” Bessie said. “Fred and Henry were worried into next Tuesday, but I told them you were scrappy and quick and smarter than all of us put together. I’d have gone up there with you, except for the old women around here holding me back. What’d you find out?”
“Not much,” I said, pleased she thought I was smart. “They made a big mess. Beer cans, cigarette butts—”
“Torture me,” Franklin moaned.
“Sorry,” I said.
“If you play bridge, I’ll forgive you.”
“I don’t.”
“Poker?”
“Not really.”
“Gin?”
“Now you’re talking.”
Franklin pulled a deck of cards out of his left shirt pocket. “Dollar a point?” he said.
Helen looked at me, then at Franklin. “You two are made for each other. A nickel a point. I’ll stake you, but later, okay?” She turned back to me. “Henry tells us you’re a writer.”
“I’m writing my memoir, if that’s what you mean.” I cut my eyes to Henry, not sure I liked everybody knowing, but not sure I didn’t either.
“Franklin writes fine novels,” she said. “Henry has them in his library.”
“Well, I want to borrow them,” Bessie said. “I like a good story.”
Franklin nodded his appreciation.
“What do you write about?” I asked him.
“This and
