She removed the apron and scuttled off to the front door. Just as she reached it, the bell rang again. She opened the door with a scowl.
An unfamiliar man—short, in a long brown mac with a briefcase—stood with a wide grin on his face. He removed his fedora hat. ‘Good afternoon, Velda!’ He took a step forwards, as if he were an old friend.
The visitor seemed surprised when Velda didn’t move to permit him entrance. ‘And who might you be?’ she asked.
The man’s face fell. ‘Your husband didn’t tell you I was coming over? It’s me—Johnny Brucker…’
Velda stared blankly. Neither the face nor the name struck familiarity with her.
‘Jeez, I know it’s his twenty-sixth birthday and all that but, come on…what, he didn’t say he’d asked Johnny Brucker over to talk about some investments he wants to make?’
Velda shook her head. ‘Not a single word, Mr Brucker.’
‘Well, is he home?’ he asked, trying to look over Velda’s shoulder.
‘Not yet, no; he’s at work.’
‘I do apologise, Mrs Jacklin. I must have made an error,’ he said, scratching his chin.
Velda watched as he stooped over and pulled something from his briefcase. A diary. He thumbed through it then stopped.
‘No, no error. Here,’ he said, passing the diary to Velda.
Roscoe Jacklin, 4pm (investments).
Mr Brucker looked at his wristwatch with a grimace. ‘It’s only a quick appointment—signing paperwork, mainly. I mean, I could come back…’
Velda retracted her outward irritation with the interruption, diverting it towards her husband. What was he thinking, making an appointment like this on his birthday? ‘No, come on in. He must be almost home, if he made the appointment with you for four o’clock.’
Mr Brucker followed Velda into the kitchen.
‘Please, take a seat. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Thank you—black, one sugar.’
As Velda made the man’s drink, she was aware of a creeping sense of vulnerability. She turned frequently, not wanting her back to him. She stirred his coffee, standing at a peculiar angle that kept him in her peripheral vision. He was glancing around the room, taking everything in.
‘Real nice place you’ve got here,’ he commented.
‘Thank you,’ Velda said, hurrying the coffee to the table in front of him and wishing that Joseph would hurry up.
‘Congratulations,’ Mr Brucker said, ‘If that’s okay to say so.’
She presumed that he was referring to the house and mumbled her gratitude. Then she noticed that his head was bobbed and his raised eyebrows were pointing in the direction of her stomach. Had he guessed, or had Joseph told him? They had agreed not to tell anyone just yet… ‘Early days,’ Velda muttered. Where was Joseph?
Mr Brucker took a swig of the coffee, then placed his briefcase on the table, popped open the brass clasps and flipped the lid open. ‘Listen, Mrs Jacklin. I can see you’re real busy. Maybe you could help me fill some of these forms in—it’s nothing financial or personal—just basic stuff.’
‘Well, I guess that would be okay,’ Velda replied uncertainly, eyes flicking to the front door.
Mr Brucker fumbled in his briefcase then withdrew a piece of paper and a pen. ‘So, I take it given all the balloons and decorations, that I have his birthday of April 3rd 1928 correct?’
Velda nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘And where was he born, exactly?’
‘Boston.’
‘Okay,’ Mr Brucker noted. ‘And where and when was he lucky enough to make you his wife?’
‘June sixth last year,’ Velda answered. ‘First Congregational Church, Wellfleet.’
Mr Brucker stroked his chin as he wrote. ‘And you were Miss Velda Henderson—is that correct?’
The previous reassurance that this man clearly knew her husband now began to trouble her. She had absolutely no dealings in her husband’s business and couldn’t understand why knowing her maiden name was a necessity in his investment paperwork.
Finally, a key in the door!
Velda took a deep breath and was able to relax. ‘We’re in here!’ she called quickly.
He strode into the kitchen with a smile.
‘Joseph…I mean, Roscoe Joseph,’ Velda stammered, ‘your friend’s here—about the investments.’ But Velda knew instantly that something wasn’t right. He was looking at the man with the same searching eyes that she herself had laid upon him.
Mr Brucker closed his briefcase, stood up and extended his hand towards Joseph. He wasn’t offering his hand to shake, Velda realised, but handing him a small card of some sort.
Joseph took the card. ‘Johnny Brucker. Private Investigator,’ he read impassively.
A vacuum of silence ensnared the room as the true purpose of the visit crystallised.
‘What does she want?’ Joseph asked.
Mr Brucker smiled. ‘To see you in court.’
Joseph laughed. ‘On what charge, exactly?’
‘Bigamy.’
‘Now listen here, Johnny,’ Joseph began, ‘if you think that—’
‘Don’t bother,’ Mr Brucker interjected. ‘Your good wife here has confirmed everything. You married her last year while still married to Audrey. Court cases don’t get much more open-and-shut than that, Joseph or Roscoe or whatever it is you’re calling yourself now.’
‘Get out of my house!’ Joseph yelled.
Mr Brucker smiled, placed his fedora back on his head and picked up his briefcase. ‘Good day to you folks.’ He paused at the doorway and turned. ‘Audrey said to say happy birthday. She wanted me to sing, but my voice ain’t all that good.’
The slamming of the front door coincided with the smashing of the bowl containing the icing sugar. Velda screamed. ‘That damned woman!’ Velda exploded. ‘When is she ever going to leave us alone?’
‘Maybe never,’ Joseph uttered solemnly. ‘We’ve got a war on our hands, Velda. A real war.’
Chapter Seventeen
2nd October 1976, Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, USA
Jack was sitting at his desk in front of his bedroom window, watching and waiting for the storm to break. Thick clouds
