lifting voice again, the sarcasm more evident face-to-face. I said, “And you’re an executive not on the go?”
Wickmire closed the cover of the computer and set it and the spiral notebook aside, bringing her feet out from under her. The feet were bare, the nails painted a salmon pink approximating the shade of her hair. “Wild Bill didn’t tell you much about me, did he?”
I took out a pad just a little smaller than hers. “You can speak freely.”
She seemed to catch herself starting to smile, then didn’t. “I’m a free-lance writer, Mr. Cuddy. Right now I’m working on an article for Boston Magazine about the local charities. We’re going to separate the needy from the greedy.”
“Catchy.”
Wickmire seemed to measure something. “You aren’t exactly trying to butter me up, are you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“When I came in here, you played at being playful without seeming to mean it. Then you seemed to settle down somewhere around witty, so I’m just going along till I figure out what’s going on.”
“I don’t think you’d be a fun interview.”
“I don’t know how much your audience would be interested in reading.”
“Somehow I doubt that. But, like you said, let’s ‘figure out what’s going on.’ Darbra’s what’s going on for you, right?”
“I’ve been hired to find her, and most of the people I’ve talked with seem to point me toward you.”
“Ask your questions.”
“How did you and Ms. Proft come to know each other?”
“Boy, we’re starting way back, huh?”
“It’s usually the best place.”
“Okay. How. We met in college. Drama class. I was taking it because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with myself: actress, playwright, muckraking journalist. Darbra was a little more focused, and, of course, she went further with it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, she used to do summer stock on the Cape or up in New Hampshire, Vermont. You know, The Fantasticks and that kind of schmaltzy stuff, where you fiddle around with the costumes and makeup while you’re also the star for the week.”
“How long did the acting last?”
“Not long. Darbra’s big on looks, but short on talent. I saw her once. She kind of … overplayed things, in order to stand out, you know?”
Pretty frank for a good friend talking to a stranger like me. “You stayed in touch after school, then?”
“More or less. We both settled in the area. She bounced around, workwise. Mostly Mac-jobs.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mac-jobs, like the fast food. Office temp, morning shift in a health club, the kind of short-term stuff that’s all your generation will let our generation have the chance to do.”
I’d forgotten. “How long have you lived here?”
“About a year? Yeah, about. We were both looking at the same time, and these like identical one-bedrooms came up in this building. I guess I saw the ad first, in the paper, and Darb was having lunch with me, and we came over together to see them. We liked both places, so we tossed a coin, and I won.”
“You won?”
“The higher-floor unit. Less noise from the street.”
“You both were looking at one-bedrooms?”
Wickmire suddenly grew cautious. “That’s right.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Well, a free-lance writer and a free-lance everything, I’d have thought two college friends might try to room together, save some money.”
A shrug that didn’t quite come off. “Prices were right, the recession and all. Besides, our allergies don’t match.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Darb has a cat. I’m allergic to their dander.”
“What’s her allergy?”
The coy smile. “I’ll let you guess when we see her place.”
Moving right along. “Ms. Proft talk with you much about work?”
Another shrug, this one real. “What’s to tell? Boring, boring, bor -ing, except for one special somebody.”
“Who?”
“She won’t tell me. Darb’s like that. I came in on her once, on the phone,
Wickmire closed the cover of the computer and set it and the spiral notebook aside, bringing her feet out from under her. The feet were bare, the nails painted a salmon pink approximating the shade of her hair. “Wild Bill didn’t tell you much about me, did he?”
I took out a pad just a little smaller than hers. “You can speak freely.”
She seemed to catch herself starting to smile, then didn’t. “I’m a free-lance writer, Mr. Cuddy. Right now I’m working on an article for Boston Magazine about the local charities. We’re going to separate the needy from the greedy.”
“Catchy.”
Wickmire seemed to measure something. “You aren’t exactly trying to butter me up, are you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“When I came in here, you played at being playful without seeming to mean it. Then you seemed to settle down somewhere around witty, so I’m just going along till I figure out what’s going on.”
“I don’t think you’d be a fun interview.”
“I don’t know how much your audience would be interested in reading.”
“Somehow I doubt that. But, like you said, let’s ‘figure out what’s going on.’ Darbra’s what’s going on for you, right?”
“I’ve been hired to find her, and most of the people I’ve talked with seem to point me toward you.”
“Ask your questions.”
“How did you and Ms. Proft come to know each other?”
“Boy, we’re starting way back, huh?”
“It’s usually the best place.”
“Okay. How. We met in college. Drama class. I was taking it because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with myself: actress, playwright, muckraking journalist. Darbra was a little more focused, and, of course, she went further with it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, she used to do summer stock on the Cape or up in New Hampshire, Vermont. You know, The Fantasticks and that kind of schmaltzy stuff, where you fiddle around with the costumes and makeup while you’re also the star for the week.”
“How long did the acting last?”
“Not long. Darbra’s big on looks, but short on talent. I saw her once. She kind of … overplayed things, in order to stand out, you know?”
Pretty frank for a good friend talking to a stranger like me. “You stayed in touch after school, then?”
“More or less. We both settled in the area. She bounced around, workwise. Mostly Mac-jobs.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mac-jobs, like the fast food. Office temp, morning shift in a health club, the kind of short-term stuff that’s all your generation will let our generation have the chance to do.”
I’d forgotten. “How long have you lived here?”
“About a year? Yeah, about. We were both looking at the same time, and these like identical one-bedrooms came up in this building. I guess I saw the ad first, in the paper, and Darb was having lunch with me, and we came over together to see them. We liked both places, so we tossed a coin, and I won.”
“You won?”
“The higher-floor unit. Less noise from the street.”
“You both were looking at one-bedrooms?”
Wickmire suddenly grew cautious. “That’s right.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Well, a free-lance writer and a free-lance everything, I’d have thought two college friends might try to room together, save some money.”
A shrug that didn’t quite come off. “Prices were right, the recession and all. Besides, our allergies don’t match.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Darb has a cat. I’m allergic to their dander.”
“What’s her allergy?”
The coy smile. “I’ll let you guess when we see her place.”
Moving right along. “Ms. Proft talk with you much about work?”
Another shrug, this one real. “What’s to tell? Boring, boring, bor -ing, except for one special somebody.”
“Who?”
“She won’t tell me. Darb’s like that. I came in on her once, on the phone,
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