First Gravedigger (17 page)

I said I'd consider his suggestion.

“Do you wish me to continue surveillance?” Valentine asked.

I told him yes. He thanked me for his drink and left.

Valentine had pretty much scotched my half-formed notion of getting Speer Galleries away from Nedda through a divorce action. Nedda could move in with her lover for all I cared; in fact, that might even work to my advantage. If she became so besotted with him that she wanted to make him Mr. Nedda number three, then she might be willing to sign over her shares of Speer's just to get me to agree to a divorce. And Arthur Simms's wife would have to be bought off too.

Arthur Simms. My successor? The trouble was I couldn't visualize Nedda getting
besotted
over anybody. But that didn't mean she wouldn't be willing to trade me in on a new model. First Mrs. Speer, then Mrs. Sommers, next Mrs. Simms? Nedda must have had an aversion to changing her monogram.

One thing about Arthur Simms bothered me: his profession. He was a financial advisor, Valentine had said, and a good one. All along I'd been worried that Nedda would get it into her head to run Speer Galleries herself. How better to go about it than to have an expert in advising financially troubled companies at her beck and call? Not that Speer's was in trouble. There were problems, yes, but they could be solved. All I needed was a little time.

Nedda didn't know profits had slipped the last quarter. I hadn't told her and my next annual report to the board wasn't due until the following January. Nor did Nedda know we stood to lose a pile because of Wightman. Peg McAllister knew about Wightman, and I think she suspected about the profits. So somehow I was going to have to make sure Nedda and Peg never sat down for a nice girlish chat. And it wouldn't hurt to keep Nedda and June Murray as far apart as possible, for obvious reasons. Something else—if June was still in cahoots with Wightman, she'd know that story I gave Peg about Wightman's paying us back in installments was a bunch of bull. Which meant that if June and Peg ever got together—my god, they had me coming and going. Maybe I should draw myself a flow chart.

But the main thing was to keep Nedda in ignorance of Speer's temporary financial problems. I'd just about made up my mind to start selling the chairs; I still had to figure out a way to deal with Peg. One thing at a time.

I drove back to the gallery. June wasn't in the outer office; I pushed open my office door and stopped, surprised.

Nedda looked up from the cherrywood table; she held the quarterly reports in her hands. “Not doing so hot, are we?” she said dryly.

CHAPTER 11

So I ended up telling Nedda about Wightman after all. I gave her the same version I'd given Peg, that Wightman would repay us in installments. It's better this way, I told her. No publicity.

“Why didn't you tell me about this before?”

“Hey,” I laughed, “how about a word of praise or even just a thank you? I uncovered a potentially dangerous situation and I'm dealing with it.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Nedda repeated.

“Because I didn't want you to worry about it. It's ugly.”

“That's odd,” Nedda said. “You don't usually show me that kind of consideration. And Wightman's chicanery hardly explains this drop in profits the London branch shows. What about that?”

I explained that Deborah Ainsley, the rare books woman, had made some questionable investments and even now was in the process of being replaced.

“Rare books?” Nedda said sharply. “Since when has Speer's been dealing in rare books?”

So my loving wife fancied herself a businesswoman, did she? “An experiment,” I said, “which the London branch manager didn't control carefully enough.” I talked on, minimizing the whole business. I couldn't tell from her face whether I'd convinced her or not.

“At least the Pittsburgh office seems to be doing all right,” she said. “Not exactly setting the world on fire, but all right.”

“Of course,” I said confidently. “What did you expect?” The reason the Pittsburgh quarterly report was “all right” was that all the chairs in the Fox Chapel house were included as assets. But once I'd sold them and used the money to pay off those good folk on the sucker lists, Pittsburgh's financial picture would change considerably. Next quarter we'd show a loss. But I saw no reason to point that out to Nedda.

The very next day I started making arrangements for selling the chairs. Not all of them at once, and not the Duprée at all, if I could avoid it. I decided which chairs were to be put up for auction, which ones had a chance for a good private sale. I sent a few of the chairs I'd bought in France to the San Francisco branch, including the Egyptian monstrosity. I thought it had a better chance of finding a home out there.

The first returns were a little disappointing. (“You bought too high,” Robin Coulter told me bluntly.) Early days yet. But Wightman's sucker list was growing shorter; every one of those creeps was being paid off. Soon I could start on my own list.

One day, as casually as I could, I asked Peg McAllister if she was thinking of retiring soon.

She turned a shocked face toward me. “Why? Why do you ask?”

I tried to speak soothingly. “Speer's has no mandatory retirement age, you know. But Peg, you'll be sixty soon, and that's about the time people start thinking about retirement. I just want to know if you've started thinking about it yet.”

Her face took on an expression I can only describe as a declaration of war. “I'm good for another ten years yet! What are you doing, talking to me about retirement?”

I retreated, all the way. “Peg, I just want to make sure I can count on your being here to see me through this Wightman mess. I don't want you to start thinking of rose-covered condominiums when there are still so many loose ends to tie up.”

She relaxed. “Is that all? Don't worry. I'll be here 'til the cows come home.”

That's what I was afraid of. “Good,” I said.

So she wasn't going to allow herself to be eased out. Peg was a shrewd old gal; if she ever became suspicious, I could have trouble on my hands. It wasn't just that I'd lied to her about Wightman, although that was part of it. When she saw the next quarterly report, she was going to start asking questions. And there was always the danger that somehow she might get on to my own list of suckers. (June could tell her, if she ever got mad at me.) Peg had already demonstrated once before that whenever she had to choose between Speer Galleries and Earl Sommers, Earl Sommers could be counted on to come in a very poor second indeed. Peg's all-seeing eye could be a danger; I'd have to watch her.

Unbidden, a memory floated into my mind: Charlie Bates, sitting on a bench by the yak pens, offering to do me a favor. I pushed the memory aside. It wouldn't be necessary.

I hoped.

One morning Nedda casually mentioned that she was meeting a friend named Sharon for lunch. Too casually.

Valentine had said that Nedda and her lover never met in public, but why would she be telling me about a lunch date with a woman friend now? Nedda never bothered keeping me informed of her during-the-day social engagements. So why this time?

“You remember Sharon, don't you?” Nedda asked me. “Tall blonde, bit of a weight problem?”

“Can't say I do. Was she at the wedding?”

Nedda nodded. “She's been in Canada since then. This is the first time I've seen her since she got back.”

Fascinating. I really wanted to know about Sharon's sojourn in Canada. I tried to match Nedda's casualness. “Where are you meeting?”

“Murphy's Back Room.”

I laughed. “You'll be there all day.”

She shrugged. “The food's good. We're in no hurry.”

She was making it easy for me. Murphy's Back Room was located in Gateway Towers, a building complex only ten minutes from Speer Galleries. It was as if Nedda were inviting me to check up on her.

I decided to accept the invitation. If Nedda suspected I knew she was having an affair with some pencil-pusher named Arthur Simms, then this was exactly the kind of thing she'd come up with to make me think I was wrong. Arouse my suspicions, let me check up and find her in a totally innocent situation, and then watch me feeling foolish. She and Artie Baby could have a good laugh about it afterward.

But I had some doubt as to how her little scenario was supposed to play. Was I to let her see me at the restaurant? Awkward confrontation, ill-concealed embarrassment, blah blah blah. Or was I supposed to feel so ashamed I'd slink away with my tail tucked between my legs? Improvisation would have to be the order of the day.

So at one o'clock I entered Gateway Towers and glanced into the Back Room and spotted Nedda at a table with a woman I didn't remember ever having seen before. I went into the bar and drank my lunch, keeping an eye on the door all the time. At two-thirty Nedda and her convenient friend left. This, I presumed, was my cue to exit too.

But outside the building the two women said goodbye and went their separate ways. I followed Nedda.

She gave a good imitation of a woman with time on her hands. Nedda wandered in and out of stores, ending up at Saks. She came out carrying a dress box and glanced around with studied casualness. Her eye slid right over me.

Right here, Nedda, right where you want me to be. Now what?

A drink, that was what. It was late afternoon; I'd lost half a day's work because of this silly stunt. Was all this innocent activity supposed to convince me of something?

I followed Nedda into the bar and slipped into a booth at the rear. Nedda didn't see me, oh my what a surprise. I knew now how the scene was to end. I was supposed to be thinking she was there to meet her lover. I was to sit there and stew in my own juice, watching for the appearance of The Other Man. Nedda would let me wait a little while, and then she'd casually get up and walk out—leaving me with egg on my face. Nedda disappointed me; I was hoping for a more dramatic climax.

“Hey, old buddy! Howya doing?”

Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus. His voice was so loud every head in the bar turned in our direction. Including Nedda's. About the last thing in the world I needed was any kind of public association with Charlie Bates. Nedda was smiling in our direction; she picked up her glass and started toward the booth.

“Sit down, Charlie,” I said with resignation.

He sat, but popped up again when Nedda reached the booth.

“Why, Earl,” she said innocently, “I didn't know you were here.”

I made room for her in the booth. “Didn't see you come in. Nedda, this is Charlie.”

She slid in beside me. “Does Charlie have a last name?”

“Bates,” Charlie said, sitting back down. “Charlie Bates.”

“Are you one of Earl's business associates?” she sparkled at him across the table.

Charlie grinned at her, openly appreciating her close-up good looks. “No'm. A friend. Me and Earl go a long ways back.”

I could sense Nedda's surprise at his way of expressing himself—but Charlie didn't see a thing, of course. “How far back?” Nedda asked.

“Alla way back to school. Peabody High School, 'smatter of fact. Me and Earl been through a lot together.”

Nedda was having trouble suppressing her laughter. “Oh? Like what?”

Charlie gave her what he thought was an enigmatic smile. “Things. Y'know.”

“No, I don't.”

“Just things.”

Nedda smiled winningly. “I'll bet you could tell some wild stories if you wanted to.”

Charlie laughed haw-haw-haw. “You better believe it.”

“Tell me.”

With such an attractive audience, Charlie didn't even try to resist. He launched himself on a nostalgia trip, narrating one boyhood escapade after another in his usual subliterate style. He never caught on that Nedda was laughing at him.

The more ignorant Charlie revealed himself to be, the more vivacious Nedda became. She flirted with him shamelessly. In Charlie she'd found the part of my past I'd managed to keep concealed from her up to now, the gutter beginnings I'd spent my entire adult life trying to get away from. Nedda could listen to Charlie and hear an earlier me. She was absolutely delighted.

I leaned back in my corner of the booth and watched the two of them, Charlie showing off for this sophisticated woman who seemed to find him so interesting and Nedda inwardly exulting over this new needle she'd found to use on me. I wondered how amused she'd be if she knew what Charlie did for a living.

Nedda turned toward me, her eyes gleaming. “Earl, you never told me anything about your boyhood.”

I smiled blandly. “Didn't think you'd be interested.”

“Oh, I'm interested. In fact, I'm fascinated. And if I hadn't met Charlie, I wouldn't have heard any of this! Charlie, you must come to dinner. I want to hear more. What about Friday?”

Charlie looked crestfallen. “I ain't gonna be here Friday. I gotta job to do in New York. Leaving tomorrow.”

Nedda looked almost as disappointed as Charlie. “How long will you be there?”

“Can't tell. One of them jobs that might go fast, might not. Y'know.”

Nedda fished in her purse for pencil and paper. “Here's our home phone number. Call me the minute you get back. Promise.”

“Sure.” Charlie took the number and grinned broadly at me. I stared back coldly; he didn't notice.

When Nedda and I got home, it took me several attempts to convince her; but finally I made her understand that if Charlie Bates ever set foot in that house, I'd burn the place down.

After three weeks of playing at love nest, June Murray finally deigned to tell me what she wanted out of life. Hal Downing's job.

“
Downing's
job?” I said, unbelieving. “Hal was a gofer, a lackey. Amos Speer's personal errand boy. You want a job like that?”