Singer 01 - Compromising Positions by Isaacs Susan

Author:Isaacs, Susan [Isaacs, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453219676
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media LLC
Published: 2011-06-26T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

All I saw of Bob the next morning was a gold paisley tie stretched across his pillow with a note on top: “Took early train. Please have stain (prob fr coffee) removed. R.M.S.” I stood, stretched, and made the bed, making certain the spread neatly covered the tie. Then, prancing downstairs, I made the children a more than usually elaborate breakfast and sent them off to school with a showy display of hugs and kisses.

As I poured myself a second cup of coffee, I contemplated washing a pile of wool sweaters or making a call to Hyde Park to make arrangements for examining the Roosevelt-Morgenthau correspondence. Before I could decide, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said hopefully.

“This is Brenda Dunck.”

“Hi. How are you?” I inquired, as effusively as I could manage.

“Fine, thank you. You know my sister-in-law, Norma? Well, Dicky, my husband, spoke to her and she said it would be okay if you wanted to talk to her.”

“Oh.”

“You see, we’re leaving today for a couple of days’ vacation, and I thought if you wanted to see her, I should let you know before we left. I can give you her number, or if you want, I could call her.”

“That’s really very nice of you,” I said slowly. “Very nice.” I took a sip of coffee. “Brenda, could you manage to hold off for a while? I have an awful lot of notes I have to transcribe.”

“Yes, of course. The only reason I called is that you seemed so interested and you asked me to do it.”

“I know, Brenda, and I truly appreciate your help. But I’ll take a raincheck for a while. Thanks so much.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be in touch with you.”

“Okay. Bye.”

That was that. Anyone else who spoke to me about the case would get the same message, that I was no longer interested. There would be no more anonymous warnings. No more stiff, rejecting backs late in the night. I breathed what should have been a sigh of relief but wasn’t. Another sigh, and I picked up the phone and called information. “In Shorehaven, please. The number of Marvin Bruce Fleckstein, a residence.” I made the call.

“Hello,” said a voice, hoarse and dull-sounding.

“Is this Norma Fleckstein?”

“Yes,” the voice said, hesitantly.

“Hello. I’m Judith Singer. Your sister-in-law, Brenda, told me it was all right to call you. I’m doing my doctoral dissertation on the problems posed by freedom of the press and...”

“Yes. Why do you want to speak to me?”

“Because you’ve been hurt by scurrilous news stories,” I said, trying to sound comforting and outraged at the same time.

“Well, I guess it would be all right. When do you want to come?”

“This morning?” I suggested.

“No. This morning’s not good. The accountant is coming. Is tomorrow all right?” Only the dentalized ts of her slight New York accent prevented her from sounding like a robot. Her pitch didn’t alter, her voice didn’t rise at the end of a question, her timbre was flat, lifeless.

“Fine. Thank you. Would ten o’clock be too early?”

“No, that’s all right.

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