Confess, Fletch

After standing in a warm shower, he sat on the edge of his bed and checked all the local telephone books.

There was no listing for Lucy Connors.

However, there was a listing, on Fenton Street, in Brookline, for Marsha Hauptmann.

He dialed the number and waited through four rings.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is Martin Head, of Très Magazine. Is Ms. Connors there?”

Fletch guessed it was Ms. Hauptmann who said, “Just a moment, please.”

Another voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Ms. Connors, this is Martin Head, of Très Magazine. I’ve been trying your number all week.”

“Yes?”

“Ms. Connors, I’d appreciate your listening very carefully to what I have to say, and see if you can’t agree to it.”

“I doubt I will.”

“Please. You’ll see our intention is good and, with your cooperation, the result may be good.”

“You’ve got me mystified. I don’t read your magazine.”

“We would like to do a sensitive, personal story—without mentioning any names, or using any photographs—on women who have declared themselves lesbian, especially after having gone through a few years of married life.”

“Where did you get my name?”

“Your husband.”

“Bart’s in Italy. I can’t believe that.”

“We met him Tuesday night, in Montreal. Apparently he’s far more understanding, or trying to be far more understanding, than many husbands in similar circumstances we have met.”

“Bart? I suppose so.”

“I believe you could give our readers some genuinely sensitive insights into what you’ve been through—some real understanding. You’d be an ideal interview.”

“I don’t think so. Is it Mister Head?”

“Martin.”

“Does this have anything to do with the murder?”

“What murder?”

“There was a murder in my husband’s apartment the other night. I wouldn’t want to comment on it. It’s perfectly irrelevant.”

“I didn’t know about that.” Fletch’s eyes wandered around Lucy and Bart Connote old bedroom. “If it’s irrelevant, why should it be mentioned?”

“I don’t think so, Martin. This has been bad enough, without publicity.”

“Lucy, think how bad it is for other women in the circumstances you were in. I daresay you felt pretty alone, going through it.”

“Certainly did.”

“It sometimes helps to be able to read that someone else has been through it. You’ve resolved your problems, fairly successfully, I gather…”

“You’re a very convincing fella, Martin.”

“Furthermore, I guarantee you, there will be no personal publicity. You’ll be referred to as ‘Ms. C,’ period. Nice, tasteful drawings, probably abstracts, will be made up as illustrations.”

“And what if you don’t?”

“You can sue us. We know we’re trespassing here on personal, intimate affairs. We’re doing a story on your feelings, rather than the facts. We’re not out to expose anybody, or anything.”

“I see. Would you let me read the story and okay it before it’s published?”

“We don’t like to do that. The editors sort of feel that’s their job.”

“I won’t talk to you unless I see the story before it’s published.”

Fletch forced himself to hesitate. “Okay, Lucy. I agree. It will have to be between us, but I’ll let you see the story before I hand it in. When can I see you?”

“Marsha and I are going shopping this afternoon if this rain ever lets up. And we’re seeing friends tonight.”

“May I come tomorrow morning?”

“Okay. About ten?”

“Ten-thirty. 58 Fenton Street?”

“Apartment 42.”

“Will Ms. Hauptmann be there?”

“You bet. You goof up one little bit, Babe, and we’ll both stomp you.”