On the Other Hand, Death

Deem was still gazing fixedly at the TV set, which was
now singing a song about how "If it's not your mother, it must be Howard Johnson's."
"I was hoping," I said, "that one of you here, Mr. Deem, might have some idea of who's been harassing Mrs. Fisher. Later today she and Mrs. Stout also received a letter and then a phone call threatening them with death if they didn't get out of the neighborhood. It's all turning into a fairly serious and frightening business for them."
Deem slowly raised his head and peered at me again. "Oh, no," he said when my words had registered. He shook his head. "No, I really can't imagine who around here would behave in such an un-Christian way. Do you suspect us? Is that why you're here?" He suddenly looked hurt, incredulous.
"I don't suspect anybody," I said. "It seemed like a logical idea, though, to talk to the people with something to gain from Mrs. Fisher's selling out. Of course, you're one of them. Are there other members of your household besides the three of you? Dot Fisher mentioned you had a son."
"You're really looking in the wrong place," Deem said, shaking his head, seeming more relaxed now, and faintly amused at the thought. "Heck, it's true we've been pretty disappointed with Mrs. Fisher for making things a little bit tough for us. It's not that we really need the money, actually. I mean, we're above water. I'm a provider. It's just that selling to Millpond would be a real opportunity for us. Know what I mean? To get ahead. But this stuff on the news—wow! No, Sandra and I just weren't brought up that way."
Mrs. Deem was back at the stove now, dropping pink franks into a pot of boiling water. She giggled nervously and said, "Like Jerry says, we could use the money. Right, Jer? Steak would be nice for a change. Or even hamburger," she added, and giggled again.
I took it this was all for her husband's benefit, but he let it go by.
I said, "What sort of work do you do, Mr. Deem?"
"I'm an accountant," he said, watching me carefully again.
"Where?"
"Where do I work?"
"Yes. Where are you an accountant?"
"Murchison Building Supply. In Colonie. I just got home from the office a little bit ago."
We were still standing in the dining alcove. No one had invited me to sit down again since Deem had entered the room. The boiling hot dogs smelled like boiling hot dogs but they reminded me that I was hungry.
The screen door banged open and Heather reappeared. "Hi-ee."
"Hi, honey," Sandra Deem said. "Getting hungry?"
"Yep. We're having hog-ogs for supper," she said to me proudly. Then, to her father: "Where's Joey?"
Deem didn't answer for a second or two. Then he said, "At work. Joey's at work, sweetheart. He'll be home later."
"Joey's your son?" I said.
"Yes. That's right. Joey's working over at the Freezer Fresh for the summer. He turned sixteen in June and just got his driver's license, and Joey's saving up for a new transmission for that eyesore out in the yard. Teenagers. Boy, what a handful they are."
I nodded knowingly. Raising adolescents was a topic of which I knew nothing, though a brief affair I'd once had with an eighteen-year-old suggested to me that "handful" was hardly the word for it.
Sandra Deem was grim-faced again as she set the table without looking at any of us. We were all pirouetting awkwardly as Mrs. Deem reached around us trying to get the plates and utensils into place.
Deem said, "Well, gee. I'm sorry we couldn't help you out, Mr. Strachey. It's our suppertime now, but if we think of anybody who might be mixed up in this thing down at Mrs. Fisher's we'll be sure to let you know."
"I'd appreciate it," I said and handed him my card. "Just give me a call."
"Will do. And you have Mr. Trefusis give us a call. I mean, if Mrs. Fisher changes her mind. I mean—with all this trouble she's having—maybe it would make sense for her to make the move. You know, cut her losses while she can. I guess she's kind of stubborn though, isn't she?"
"What she is is gutsy," I said, and automatically looked over my shoulder for Edith.
"Are you going to talk to the Wilsons?" Mrs. Deem asked as her husband led me to the front door. "Maybe it's nervy of me to put my two cents in, but . . . well, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't put anything past them."
"Oh, yeah," Deem said, liking the sound of that. "Yeah, check out the Wilsons. Gosh, they're about as trashy a family as you'll ever run across. It's hard to tell what kind of funny business they might pull. Don't mention we said it, but that's a good idea Sandy had there. You check out the Wilsons."
"I plan to stop by there now."
"Swell idea. Well, nice meeting you. Sorry we couldn't help out."
"Thanks anyway. See you again."
"Oh. Yeah. Well, that would be nice."
"Bye," Sandra Deem called from the kitchen.
"By-eee," another voice added.
In the car, I got out my notebook and wrote: "1. Joey Deem."
I guessed her age to be between twenty-five and seventy. Phosphorescent blond wig, the last beehive north of Little Rock, and beneath the mountain of shimmering hair, active black eyes in a wide mottled face that still held suggestions of the youthful pretty face under the mask that age had grown there. She was grandly voluptuous in a white halter above the waist, a vast lumpy pudding below. Her tight powder blue shorts had worked up into her crotch, and as I approached the porch, where she occupied a sagging plastic chaise, she laid her National Enquirer demurely across her lap.
"If you're lookin' for Bill," she said, giving me a what-the-hell's-this-one-want look, "he's down to the plant. Won't be back till later."
"I'm Don Strachey from Millpond Plaza Associates," I said. "Are you Mrs. Wilson?"
She perked up at the sound of Millpond and set her can of Pabst on the concrete floor as her eyes widened. "Yeah, I'm Kay Wilson. You work for Crane Trefusis?"
"Right now I do, yes."
She struggled upright with one hand, adjusted her wig with the other, and, offering a toothy grin, motioned for me to sit in the lawn chair next to her. Her opinion of me had risen.
"Now, that Crane, he's quite a guy, ain't he? Quite . . . a . . . guy. Bill and I had Crane over for a drink on the Fourth of July, he tell you that, Bob? Crane's wife was feeling poorly and couldn't make it, but Crane, he came. Sat right where you're sitting. Drank Chivas Regal with a chunk of lemon. Say now, what's your pleasure, Bob?"
"It's Don. Don Strachey. A cold beer would be great."
"Hot enough for ya?" she said, winking, and commanding her inertia-prone lower body to raise her more willing upper body off the chaise, like an elephant trainer urging the mammoth beneath her into motion. She
stepped carefully across the gap between the new porch and the old house and returned a moment later with two more Pabsts.
"Did you happen to see the TV news this evening, Mrs. Wilson?" I said.
"Nah, I just got home a bit ago. You got the big check with you?" she asked, watching me expectantly and raising her beer can, poised for a toast. "You bring ol' Kay that big, beautiful hunert 'n' eighty grand from Crane?"
"No such luck," I said.
She shrugged and drank anyway. "I didn't s'pose you would. Crane said when the big day came he'd bring it out himself. Hell with it anyway. We ain't gonna get it."