Read Online Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Gregory McDonald - Free Book Online

you did a few years ago. But, no, what you did was too, too absurd. It doesn’t leave your newspaper a leg to stand on. I was even going to ask your Mister Jaffe if I could see you, talk to you, but—well, he discouraged me.”
    “How did he do that?”
    “He said you’re very young, which you are, and that young people make mistakes, which they do.”
    “You settled on the conclusion that I’m very sick.”
    “Yes and no. I did and I didn’t.” She brought her glass of wine to her lips and replaced it on the coffee table. No wine seemed missing from the glass. “I’ve taken another step …” She hesitated. “… which is more to my purpose, if you know what I mean.”
    “No. I don’t.”
    Enid Bradley shrugged. “It really can’t be important to me, Mister Fletcher, if you are a sick, cruel man—as long as you don’t hurt me or my family again.” In her lap, her fingernails worried each other. “It’s very hard for me. You must understand. Wagnall-Phipps was Thomas’ company. He built it and he ran it. For the last twenty years I’ve been a housewife and mother. But at least for now I’m trying to run the company.”
    Sympathetic phrases plodded through Fletch’s mind but he gave voice to none of them.
    “But your editor, Mister Carraway, came out Thursday night.”
    “Carradine.”
    “Is his name Carradine? I was so upset. He sat with me and my children, Tom and Ta-ta. He was very kind. He was more explicit.”
    “About what?”
    Her eyes flashed into his. “He said you’re a fool, Mister Fletcher. That you’re always doing wild and stupid things. He said you’re an office joke. He said you’re a compulsive liar.” Her eyes fell. “He also said you were to be fired the next day, and that you’d never work in the newspaper business again.”
    “Say, he was kind.”
    Her eyes looked into his again, with less anger. “Were you fired?”
    “Of course.”
    “Then, from your own point of view, why are you pursuing this matter further?”
    “Because I’m a good journalist and I’ve got two statements, or impressions, which don’t match.”
    “Are you sure you’re not just being cruel?”
    “Mrs. Bradley, I wrote a newspaper article quoting your husband. I never heard of your husband before, or you, or your family, and if I’d ever heard of Wagnall-Phipps it meant nothing to me. Then I’m told your husband is dead. I’m shocked. I’m hurt by this, too.”
    Her voice squeaked drily. “Do you think I’m lying to you?”
    “The
News-Tribune
did not print an obituary on your husband. I haven’t been able to check the Bureau of Vital Statistics yet, because it’s Saturday and I just got back to town last night. But I will on Monday.”
    “It will do you no good,” said Enid Bradley. “At least, I don’t think so. My husband died in Switzerland.”
    “Oh.”
    “I thought everyone knew that. He was cremated there.”
    “I see.”
    Expressing exasperation, she rose from her chair, crossed the room, took a hand-sized, decorated box from the mantel and placed it on the coffee table in front of Fletch. “These are his ashes, Mister Fletcher.”
    Fletch stared at the filigreed box lid.
    “Open it,” she said. “Go ahead. Open it.”
    “I don’t need to.”
    She opened it. Inside were ashes, looking as if they had settled toward the center while still wet.
    “Do you have any more questions, Mister Fletcher?”
    “Yes,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
    She sat in the chair again. “I will tell you everything,” she said, “if you will just go away and stop this insane harrassing of us.”
    “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
    “My husband had a form of blood cancer. Which means that, in order to stay alive, his blood had to be changed regularly. That is, his own blood had to be drawn out while fresh blood was being pumped into him. You can imagine what a horror that is.”
    “Yes. I’m sorry,” he said. He closed the lid of the box.
    “You’re going