♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
When the whiney-voiced Mr. Brent arrived, they didn’t invite him up to Max’s comfortable second-floor office of leather, mahogany and greenery. Instead, the stocky man stomped around the reception area. They did not offer him a drink to calm his obviously ragged nerves.
“Aren’t you going to take notes?” Mr. Brent offered his pen to Max.
Max tapped his temple. “Your wife, I assume?”
“You’re good.” Mr. Brent opened his coat and sat down in one of the wingback chairs. He took out his handkerchief, looked at its snowy whiteness and replaced it unused in his inside pocket. “Anita isn’t speaking to me these days. May I smoke?”
“I think Dad would fry us.” Helen sat down in the chair perpendicular to Mr. Brent’s, crossing her slim legs.
Smokeless, Mr. Brent continued, “She wants children and I … We haven’t been having much luck. Now she wants to adopt brats.” The man spread his palms face up on his knees. “Some other man’s child?” He glanced briefly at Helen. “I talk to her. Ask her where she’s been. If we can’t just get along. She still allows me my marital rights, in bed. Even then, not a word. Nothing.” He sighed. “You two are my only hope. I should ask her for a divorce, but the pre-nuptial agreement was very generous. I’m the only Honda dealer in Washtenaw County.” He stood and buttoned his suit coat. “The marriage contract does have a clause negating the agreement in instances of infidelity.”
Something about the tone of Mr. Brent’s wheedling voice probably offended his wife, as it did Max. No one would want to prolong a conversation with the man. “Could you describe her?”
“I should have brought a picture.” Mr. Brent furrowed his brow. “Her teeth are not opaque white.” He pulled out his clean handkerchief, again. “Whiter than this. Bluer. Can teeth be blue? Anyway, they’re so white they shine. Anita never had them touched, you know - painted or bleached.” Mr. Brent rubbed his finger over his closed upper lip. “Mine are permanently stained from tobacco.”
“Besides her teeth?” Helen asked.
“Green eyes, orbs. Big irises in large eyes. She stares without blinking. Lots of tears. Nearly washes her face in tears.” Mr. Brent smiled to himself. “Faucets really. I once asked her if she could cry on command. Anita denied it. I can’t cry like that.”
“How tall is she? Hair color?” Max stroked the rawhide string and then his peace symbol.
“A goddess. Taller than me.” Mr. Brent shook his head. “I wish I could brainwash her. Take children out of the equation. At our dinner parties, she talks - even brags I give her anything she wants. I love being around her. A stylish woman. I’ve always been an elitist. What else is money for?”
Max wanted the creep out of the office. “Shall we call you when we find out anything?”
Helen escaped to the computer room.
“Sure, sure.” Mr. Brent offered his hand to Max.
Max coughed into his own. “Have you been vaccinated for this latest fungus thing?”
“I’ll wait to hear from you, before I contact a divorce lawyer.”
When the door shut behind the unctuous man, Max wanted to open the windows, install an exhaust fan, spray room deodorizer around, something.
Max never imagined, after getting out of the army, life would be sweet again. While he was getting his degree, he ran around with his army buddies. Max had stopped drinking after a saloon waitress asked him if he thought he might end up like his friends. One of them died in a car crash and another was in a state-ordered recovery program. Max didn’t need the stuff, and his newest girlfriend, Maybell, didn’t drink.
Max had managed to instill enough respect in the street people in town to insure they wouldn’t approach him for a handout when he accompanied a date. He stared them down if they came too close, or were stupid enough to speak. When he was alone, he paid them his their due the way all affluent pedestrians ought to those who dwell in the street.
His present flame’s skin was as milky as a lily-of-the-valley. Maybell’s delicacy entranced him. He was content to let women paw him, but Maybell only looked at him. Her intelligent eyes dominated her features. They scoured the pit of his stomach. She was someone who made a man with his social skills feel humbled. He knew he would be willing to spend his whole life with her, but he couldn’t touch her hand. He first ran across her at the City Club while he was chasing down another older woman in an investigation.
One cold Friday night when he refused to take comfort in wine or easily accessible women, Max decided to make his intentions known to Maybell. The pursuit of happiness was his due. After all, he put up with the indignities of the armed services to afford life and liberty. He needed a wife to crown his success at the detective agency. Everything else had been too easy. He relished the challenge of courting her, on her terms. He felt akin to mountain climbers making resolutions about the peaks they would reach. His highest aspiration was to show Maybell how much love he could bestow.
The watercolor classes Maybell attended every Thursday morning at the City Club had allowed Max easy access. He’d opened the door for her one morning and carried her things from the car the next week. He admired the leaning lighthouse picture she shared with him. He praised her astounding freedom of colors, the yellow skies, the pink lakes. After one class, Max asked her to go to lunch.
Maybell’s table manners put him to shame. He endeavored to keep his feet under his side of the table, but the temptation to touch or bump her leg caused his feet to creep. Her perfume diverted his best intentions. His witticisms failed to elicit more than brief smiles. After he escaped the Club, he felt ridiculous. He pounded the steering wheel, trying to stop an insane urge to open his mouth and pant. He wanted Maybell’s lingering scent to reach his innermost recesses.
The next week, Max asked Maybell why she didn’t wear rings. The remark came out without forethought. The sight of her ringless hands made him deliriously happy. He doubted if he could have stopped the question from blurting out.
Maybell examined her manicured nails. “My hands swell in the night, and in the morning I can’t remove my rings.”
Her hands were as perfect as a model’s, as far as Max was concerned. He wondered if the painting caused them to swell from overwork.
She lifted the heavy lids of her magnificent eyes. “I wear bracelets instead.”
Max planned to immediately purchase her every available round piece of jewelry in the world. “Is one of those made of ivory?”
Maybell blushed. “I know ivory is illegal, but I think this is an antique.”
Max wanted to stop her embarrassment. Who was he to cause her any discomfort? In the next breath, it was out. “Will you marry me?”
She laughed, heartily. Tears came to her eyes. She used her napkin to hush her hysterics, but she never stopped looking into his eyes.
As Max watched the mirthful tears roll down Maybell’s cheeks, he thought all was lost.
She patted his hand. “Would you like any of my watercolors?”
“Could I have all of them?”
In the parking lot, to say good-bye, Maybell stretched up on the toes of her classy shoes to plant a warm kiss on his hot lips. She pulled the back of his hair, and Max lost all semblance of order. He engulfed her slenderness against him, kissed her with his mouth shut. He held her beautiful face in his hands until she opened her eyes. “When will you marry me?”
“Some day,” she said without the laughter, but with the tears. “Some day, soon.”
Max was so besotted with Maybell he thought he could, even now, smell her essence in the reception area of The Firm. “Helen?” he yelled.
The clock behind him chimed one o’clock.
Helen emerged from the computer room. “Dad wants us to visit Mother. Big case in the works. Twenty thousand to find out the background of a young man, who just happens to want to marry into the rich Clapton family.”
Andrew followed Helen into the reception area. “Your mother knows Mrs. Clapton.
” Max didn’t enjoy Andrew’s lurid wink. “So did I, before I met my wife, Julia.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
In the Costello’s immaculate living room, Helen Costello’s mother pumped Mrs. Clapton for information about the future groom.
Mrs. Clapton smiled endlessly at Max, as if modeling for a toothpaste commercial.
In the dining room, Helen paged through stacks of bridal magazines with the daughter of her mother’s high-school acquaintance. The younger women faced the living room, where their mothers were talking with Max.
The matrons in matching chairs on each side of the fireplace faced Max whose largeness was distributed across most of the love seat’s cushions. He resembled an over-sized teddy bear come to tea with delicate china dolls. Helen searched her mother’s face. Julia Costello’s hands were steady as she handed the delicate china cup-and-saucer to Max and the toothy Mrs. Clapton.
No speck of dust, no newspapers, shoes or sweaters were allowed to rest in her mother’s house, especially not in the white-carpeted dining room and visitors’ parlor. Even the family room’s shiny wood floors brooked no mess for long. The fireplace tiles sparkled a day after a cozy fire as they had the day before. Every stray item was returned to its proper place, and every inappropriate emotion hidden. The only time Helen heard her father complain about her mother’s compulsive cleaning was when she threw away notices for plays and concerts as she opened the mail.
Julia Costello did allow storage of important items. All of Helen’s prom dresses were cleaned and kept in individual hanging fabric bags. However, after each style season, Helen was required to justify why each piece of clothing in her closet and dresser drawers should be kept for the following year. If her mother couldn’t remember seeing her wear a particular outfit, the entire ensemble was sent to Purple Heart, as were books which would not be read a second time.
The work of constant upkeep occurred whenever Helen and her father were out of the house. Nevertheless, Helen recognized the sustained effort housekeeping, or homemaking required. The paraphernalia necessary to embark on a single life even in an apartment boggled her mind. Raising children couldn’t be contemplated because of the sheer enormity of the work involved. Supposedly, children just happened to most people as if caught unaware as a hurricane or tornado approached their lives.
If Helen moved out of her parents’ home, where would she store her collection of dollhouses? The twenty-five diminutive homes decorated in furniture spanning decades from the 15th through the 21st centuries, lined her bedroom walls and the upstairs hallways. She would need an extra bedroom for the multitude of miniature abodes. Helen spent an inordinate amount of time justifying her present status as an unmarried daughter satisfactorily living at home.
Her mother entertained not at all. Except for church functions, Julia Costello didn’t keep up with people in town. No grandparents on either side of the family, no aunts or uncles added to their small family. For a detective, Helen realized she knew nothing about the cause of her mother’s social isolation. Maybe she’d been raised to be a recluse, too.
Helen asked Mrs. Clapton’s daughter, Millicent, “A June wedding?”
Millicent rubbed her reddening nose. “A year from now. Mother insists you will take that long to secure a man’s background.”
“Is his family questionable?”
“I don’t know.” Millicent sniffed. “He’s so beautiful!” She lowered her eyes to whisper, “I’d like to lick the sweat off his back.” She straightened in her chair, rubbing her palms down the thighs of her slacks. “He plays tennis at the club. Swims there too.”
“Millicent,” pink-haired Mrs. Clapton called. “Come join us.”
Before Helen replenished the tea service with more cucumber sandwiches, she wondered who she should inform the girl was in lust, not love.
Instead, she heard Max tell Mrs. Clapton, “We provide a wealth of information for our clients. I assume there is one subject you are concerned about?”
“The usual. Business dealings, family connections, habits.” Mrs. Clapton ate another sandwich, before adding, “That sort of thing.”
“Is he non-communicative?” Helen’s mother asked.
“Oh, it isn’t that!” Millicent interrupted.
“I’ve informed Millicent.” Mrs. Clapton looked adoringly at her somewhat ugly daughter. “It’s best not to encourage a man one knows so little about. For instance, Helen, did you know I dated your father, before he caught sight of your mother?”
Millicent dropped her eyes and spoke softly. “George Clemmons doesn’t yet know I’m interested.”
Julia Costello spilled her tea onto the immaculate white carpeting.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Later the same afternoon, Helen explained to her father, “Mother says we should return the check.”
Andrew shook his head. “George Clemmons? His son, no doubt.”
Max moodily flicked paperclips into a wastebasket across the room. “Didn’t we say there would be cases we didn’t need? Andrew, is it three o’clock? Should I call Sally Bianco at home?”
“You dated that mean Mrs. Clapton.” Helen could see why her father had ended any contact with the vindictive woman. “Give her another hour, Max. Sally doesn’t move that fast anymore.”
Andrew nodded sheepishly, waving his hands as if his opinions were of no consequence.
Max changed the subject by plowing his own field. “Why can’t I stand that creep? What’s his name? Brent? Do I feel sorry for his wife?” He tossed another paper clip. It bounced off the wall into the plastic basket. “Why does Brent act like he purchased his wife at a dime store?”
“Dime stores don’t exist, never did as far as I know.” Andrew shook his head. “You said you wouldn’t take cases involving gun-packing clients. I never agreed to judge who else could or could not be investigated. You kids aren’t going to stay in business long with this attitude. What are we going to do? Hand back $30,000?”
Helen felt she should take off her shoes or wash her hands. A shower would help. “I know we owe you money, Dad.”
“Andrew,” he said.
“Why worry your dad about a guy we don’t even know?”
“It’s not like you know Mrs. Brent.” Guilty about sparring with Max, Helen asked, “What’s her Christian name?”
“Anita Brent, isn’t it?” Max shook his head at the distasteful tasks they’d undertaken.
For the first time, Helen experienced a profound sympathy for her partner. They had not agreed to start The Firm to get rich. “The Truth.” Helen was surprised to hear herself say the two words aloud. Max turned in her direction and shrugged. Helen walked toward the computer chair he was sitting in. She hadn’t repeated their motto to nag him. “We never knew recording the truth would be this sticky.”
“Gruesome? Were we idealists?” Max reached out his hand as she passed behind him.
When she touched his huge hand, he gripped hers. The warmth of his hand, or the meaning of the gesture, softened her heart, even more. Helen quickly withdrew her hand.
Max swung his chair towards her. “Did you know cats pull away when they want to be petted?”
“George Clemmons.” Andrew interrupted their interplay. “I remember now. Your mother dated him big-time, before I got in the picture.”
“I wondered why she was upset.” Actually, Helen’s mother refused to discuss the Claptons’ visit or George Clemmons, the younger.
“Mrs. Clapton knows they dated.” Andrew positioned his chair to start searching the Web. “I always thought I broke your mother’s engagement with George.” He spoke over his shoulder to Helen. “Don’t bother your mother anymore about the guy.”
“Okay.” Helen felt unaccountably worried. “Mrs. Clapton gave me a creepy feeling.” Her father wasn’t listening so she addressed Max. “Didn’t she act gleeful?”
Andrew turned in the swivel chair to face them. “Promise.”
“We’ll find out all we need to know,” Ma
x said, “with your expert help.”
“Here’s his address and phone. Good luck.” Andrew pushed in his chair. “I’m going to talk to your mother about the check … and George.”
When they were alone in the huge computer room, Helen remembered Sally Bianco’s comment about their naive reason for starting The Firm. “We’re both recorders of the truth; but Sally said the third recorder’s way of handling the truth was superior to ours. She meant God’s way of life.”
Max stood up to leave. “Well if we take the Clapton case which you don’t relish, I guess we need to drive over to Anita’s house, too?”
“Drive?” As long as Helen had known Max, she had never seen him drive his yellow Mustang convertible. Some gorgeous woman was always at his disposal. Not the same woman. Lots of them. All about Helen’s age or younger. Andrew had commented the stupid ones seemed younger than they actually were. Helen agreed. Some of the women’s faces were unlined because they never entertained a serious thought.
After one of Max’s women started stalking him, he suggested wooden shutters on the front windows to keep down the utility bills. Helen thought the shutters helped him stay out of trouble with his entourage. Max installed fake greenery in the plant hangers and lined the reception area walls with law books. He added a bar enclosed in a roll-top desk. Dark green wingback chairs, an antique pendulum clock, and standing brass light fixtures changed the reception area from a technological nightmare into a set ready for Sherlock Holmes’s entrance.
Max shoved his hands into his pockets. “Did you think I couldn’t drive? Having a woman chauffer me around wasn’t good cover?”
“More of a way to entice them under the covers.”
Max sat back down. “Wasn’t there some bed-hopping in your own family?”
Helen tsk’d. “Dad says most people were promiscuous in the Sixties because of the birth-control pill. When AIDS came onto the scene, everything went back to the romantic Fifties.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” Max scratched his head. Max’s voice dropped an octave. He seemed to be speaking to himself. Helen needed to lean forward to hear each word. “Aren’t times more romantic now? Isn’t that why Maybell and I spend most of our time together talking about the future?” Max turned his attention back to Helen. “Are we following our hearts right over a cliff?”
Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 03 - The Recorder's Way Page 3
