One False Move
Page 23
“Can you set up a meet?”
“No problem. They’ve been hitting us up for a sizable donation.” He crossed his ankles. “So how does Arthur Bradford fit into all this?”
Myron recapped the day’s developments: the Honda Accord following them, the phone taps, the bloody clothes, Horace Slaughter’s phone calls to Bradford’s office, FJ’s surprise visit, Elizabeth Bradford’s murder, and Anita’s role in finding the body.
Win looked unimpressed. “Do you really see a link between the Bradfords’ past and the Slaughters’ present?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Then let me see if I can follow your rationale. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Win dropped his feet to the floor and steepled his fingers, resting his indexes against his chin. “Twenty years ago Elizabeth Bradford died under somewhat murky circumstances. Her death was ruled an accident, albeit a bizarre one. You do not buy that one. The Bradfords are rich, and thus you are extra-suspicious of the official rendering—”
“It’s not just that they’re rich,” Myron interrupted. “I mean, falling off her own balcony? Come on.”
“Yes, fine, fair enough.” Win did the hand-steeple again. “Let us pretend that you are correct in your suspicions. Let us assume that something unsavory did indeed occur when Elizabeth Bradford plunged to her death. And I am further going to assume—as you no doubt have—that Anita Slaughter, in her capacity as maid or servant or what have you, happened upon the scene and witnessed something incriminating.”
Myron nodded. “Continue.”
Win spread his hands. “Well, my friend, that is where you reach an impasse. If the dear Ms. Slaughter did indeed see something that she was not supposed to, the issue would have been resolved immediately. I know the Bradfords. They are not people who take chances. Anita Slaughter would have been killed or forced to run immediately. But instead—and here is the rub—she waited a full nine months before disappearing. I therefore conclude that the two incidents are unrelated.”
Behind them Brenda cleared her throat. They both turned to the doorway. She stared straight at Myron. She did not look happy.
“I thought you two were discussing a business problem,” she said.
“We are,” Myron said quickly. “I, uh, mean we’re going to. That’s why I came here. To discuss a business problem. But we just started talking about this first, and well, you know, one thing led to another. But it wasn’t intentional or anything. I mean, I came here to discuss a business problem, right, Win?”
Win leaned forward and patted Myron’s knee. “Smooth,” he said.
She crossed her arms. Her eyes were two drill bits—say, three-sixteenths of an inch, quarter inch tops.
“How long have you been standing there?” Myron asked.
Brenda gestured toward Win. “Since he said I had nicely toned legs,” she said. “I missed the part about being too big for his tastes.”
Win smiled. Brenda did not wait to be asked. She crossed the room and grabbed an open chair. She kept her eyes on Win. “For the record, I don’t buy any of this either,” Brenda said to him. “Myron has trouble believing a mother would just abandon her little daughter. He has no trouble believing a father would do the same, just not a mother. But as I’ve explained to him, he’s something of a sexist.”
“A snorting pig,” Win agreed.
“But,” she continued, “if you two are going to sit here and play Holmes and Watson, I do see a way around your”—she made quote marks with her finger—“impasse.”
“Do tell,” Win said.
“When Elizabeth Bradford fell to her death, my mother may have seen something that appeared innocuous at first. I don’t know what. Something bothersome maybe but nothing to get excited about. She continues to work for these people, scrubbing their floors and toilets. And maybe one day she opens a drawer. Or a closet. And maybe she sees something that coupled with what she saw the day Elizabeth Bradford died leads her to conclude that it wasn’t an accident after all.”
Win looked at Myron. Myron raised his eyebrows.
Brenda sighed. “Before you two continue your patronizing glances—the ones that say, ‘Golly gee, the woman is actually capable of cogitation’—let me add that I’m just giving you a way around the impasse. I don’t buy it for a second. It leaves too much unexplained.”
“Like what?” Myron asked.
She turned to him. “like why my mother would run away the way she did. Like why she would leave that cruel note for my father about another man. Like why she left us penniless. Like why she would leave behind a daughter she theoretically loved.”
There was no quiver in the voice. Just the opposite, in fact. The tone was far too steady, straining too hard for normality.
“Maybe she wanted to protect her daughter from harm,” Myron said. “Maybe she wanted to discourage her husband from looking for her.”
She frowned. “So she took all his money and faked running away with another man?” Brenda looked at Win. “Does he really believe this crap?”
Win held his hands palms up and nodded apologetically.
Brenda turned back to Myron. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but it just doesn’t add up. My mother ran away twenty years ago. Twenty years. In all that time couldn’t she have done more than write a couple of letters and call my aunt? Couldn’t she have figured out a way to see her own daughter? To set up a meet? At least once in twenty years? In all that time couldn’t she have gotten herself settled and come back for me?”
She stopped as though out of breath. She hugged her knees to her chest and turned away. Myron looked at Win. Win kept still. The silence pressed against the windows and doors.
Win was the one who finally spoke. “Enough speculating. Let me call Arthur Bradford. He’ll see us tomorrow.”
Win left the room. With some people, you might be skeptical or at least wonder how they could be so sure a gubernatorial candidate would see them on such short notice. Not so when it came to Win.
Myron looked over at Brenda. She did not look back. A few minutes later Win returned.
“Tomorrow morning,” Win said. “Ten o’clock.”
“Where?”
“The estate at Bradford Farms. In Livingston.”
Brenda stood. “If we’re finished with this topic, I’ll leave you two alone.” She looked at Myron. “To discuss a business problem.”
“No problem. They’ve been hitting us up for a sizable donation.” He crossed his ankles. “So how does Arthur Bradford fit into all this?”
Myron recapped the day’s developments: the Honda Accord following them, the phone taps, the bloody clothes, Horace Slaughter’s phone calls to Bradford’s office, FJ’s surprise visit, Elizabeth Bradford’s murder, and Anita’s role in finding the body.
Win looked unimpressed. “Do you really see a link between the Bradfords’ past and the Slaughters’ present?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Then let me see if I can follow your rationale. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Win dropped his feet to the floor and steepled his fingers, resting his indexes against his chin. “Twenty years ago Elizabeth Bradford died under somewhat murky circumstances. Her death was ruled an accident, albeit a bizarre one. You do not buy that one. The Bradfords are rich, and thus you are extra-suspicious of the official rendering—”
“It’s not just that they’re rich,” Myron interrupted. “I mean, falling off her own balcony? Come on.”
“Yes, fine, fair enough.” Win did the hand-steeple again. “Let us pretend that you are correct in your suspicions. Let us assume that something unsavory did indeed occur when Elizabeth Bradford plunged to her death. And I am further going to assume—as you no doubt have—that Anita Slaughter, in her capacity as maid or servant or what have you, happened upon the scene and witnessed something incriminating.”
Myron nodded. “Continue.”
Win spread his hands. “Well, my friend, that is where you reach an impasse. If the dear Ms. Slaughter did indeed see something that she was not supposed to, the issue would have been resolved immediately. I know the Bradfords. They are not people who take chances. Anita Slaughter would have been killed or forced to run immediately. But instead—and here is the rub—she waited a full nine months before disappearing. I therefore conclude that the two incidents are unrelated.”
Behind them Brenda cleared her throat. They both turned to the doorway. She stared straight at Myron. She did not look happy.
“I thought you two were discussing a business problem,” she said.
“We are,” Myron said quickly. “I, uh, mean we’re going to. That’s why I came here. To discuss a business problem. But we just started talking about this first, and well, you know, one thing led to another. But it wasn’t intentional or anything. I mean, I came here to discuss a business problem, right, Win?”
Win leaned forward and patted Myron’s knee. “Smooth,” he said.
She crossed her arms. Her eyes were two drill bits—say, three-sixteenths of an inch, quarter inch tops.
“How long have you been standing there?” Myron asked.
Brenda gestured toward Win. “Since he said I had nicely toned legs,” she said. “I missed the part about being too big for his tastes.”
Win smiled. Brenda did not wait to be asked. She crossed the room and grabbed an open chair. She kept her eyes on Win. “For the record, I don’t buy any of this either,” Brenda said to him. “Myron has trouble believing a mother would just abandon her little daughter. He has no trouble believing a father would do the same, just not a mother. But as I’ve explained to him, he’s something of a sexist.”
“A snorting pig,” Win agreed.
“But,” she continued, “if you two are going to sit here and play Holmes and Watson, I do see a way around your”—she made quote marks with her finger—“impasse.”
“Do tell,” Win said.
“When Elizabeth Bradford fell to her death, my mother may have seen something that appeared innocuous at first. I don’t know what. Something bothersome maybe but nothing to get excited about. She continues to work for these people, scrubbing their floors and toilets. And maybe one day she opens a drawer. Or a closet. And maybe she sees something that coupled with what she saw the day Elizabeth Bradford died leads her to conclude that it wasn’t an accident after all.”
Win looked at Myron. Myron raised his eyebrows.
Brenda sighed. “Before you two continue your patronizing glances—the ones that say, ‘Golly gee, the woman is actually capable of cogitation’—let me add that I’m just giving you a way around the impasse. I don’t buy it for a second. It leaves too much unexplained.”
“Like what?” Myron asked.
She turned to him. “like why my mother would run away the way she did. Like why she would leave that cruel note for my father about another man. Like why she left us penniless. Like why she would leave behind a daughter she theoretically loved.”
There was no quiver in the voice. Just the opposite, in fact. The tone was far too steady, straining too hard for normality.
“Maybe she wanted to protect her daughter from harm,” Myron said. “Maybe she wanted to discourage her husband from looking for her.”
She frowned. “So she took all his money and faked running away with another man?” Brenda looked at Win. “Does he really believe this crap?”
Win held his hands palms up and nodded apologetically.
Brenda turned back to Myron. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but it just doesn’t add up. My mother ran away twenty years ago. Twenty years. In all that time couldn’t she have done more than write a couple of letters and call my aunt? Couldn’t she have figured out a way to see her own daughter? To set up a meet? At least once in twenty years? In all that time couldn’t she have gotten herself settled and come back for me?”
She stopped as though out of breath. She hugged her knees to her chest and turned away. Myron looked at Win. Win kept still. The silence pressed against the windows and doors.
Win was the one who finally spoke. “Enough speculating. Let me call Arthur Bradford. He’ll see us tomorrow.”
Win left the room. With some people, you might be skeptical or at least wonder how they could be so sure a gubernatorial candidate would see them on such short notice. Not so when it came to Win.
Myron looked over at Brenda. She did not look back. A few minutes later Win returned.
“Tomorrow morning,” Win said. “Ten o’clock.”
“Where?”
“The estate at Bradford Farms. In Livingston.”
Brenda stood. “If we’re finished with this topic, I’ll leave you two alone.” She looked at Myron. “To discuss a business problem.”
