Fletch and the Widow Bradley

6

“T R Y I N G T O F I N D my uncle,” Fletch said.

It had taken the creaky old policeman a long moment to stand up from his padded swivel chair and walk across the main room of the Wramrud Police Station to the counter. There was a hearing aid in his left ear.

“His name is James Crandall.” Fletch spoke slowly and distinctly.

“Live here in town?”

“Supposed to.”

“What do you mean ‘supposed to’? Nobody’s ‘supposed to’ live anywhere. Haven’t you heard this is a free country?”

“My mother gave me this address.” Fletch handed the policeman the piece of note paper he’d had from Jacques Cavalier’s desk.

“I can’t find Courier Drive,” Fletch said.

“47907 Courier Drive, Wramrud,” the old policeman read aloud.

“The man in the drugstore doesn’t seem to know where it is.”

The policeman looked at Fletch sharply. “Bob doesn’t know where it is?”

“I guess not.”

“This Crandall fellow. He your mother’s brother?”

“Yes,” said Fletch.

“You know you have sand on your face?”

Fletch brushed his face with his hand.

“Why do you have sand on your face?”

Fletch shrugged. “I was playing in a sandbox.”

“You ought to shave before you see your uncle.”

“Yeah. I guess I should.”

The policeman looked again at the piece of paper in his hand. “Bob don’t know where Courier Drive, Wramrud, is because there is no Courier Drive, Wramrud.”

“There isn’t?”

“Your mother lie to you often, son?”

“First time ever.”

“Far as you know. Nope. No Courier Drive. Fact is, we don’t have anything called a Drive around here. Lots of roads and streets but nothing as fancy as a Drive.”

“You have any street like Courier?”

“How do we know?”

“I mean, a street that sounds like Courier, or might look like Courier written out.”

The man’s rheumy eyes gazed through the plate glass window. “Century Street. Cold Water Road. We don’t have any address numbers that run that high, either. Forty-seven thousand something. We only got nineteen hundred households this whole town.”

“You know a man named Crandall?”

“You mean, your uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Nope. Man named Cranshaw, not your uncle.”

Fletch smiled. “How do you know?”

“ ’Cause I’m Cranshaw and my sister don’t lie.”

“Okay,” Fletch said. “I give up. You’ve never heard of a man named Crandall in this town.”

“Nope. And we’re the only town named Wramrud I ever heard of, too. You ever heard of another town named Wramrud?”

“No.”

The policeman’s eyes were inspecting Fletch’s neck and sweater. “You got sand all over you, boy. You want a shower?”

“What?”

“You want to take a shower? Shave?”

“Where?”

“Back in the lock-ups. I can give you a fresh razor.”

“Mighty nice of you.”

“Well, seems to me you have a long way to go to find your uncle.” The policeman lifted a section of the counter to let Fletch through. “Any boy whose mother tells whoppers like your’s—ain’t no tellin’ where you might end up.”

Fletch followed the policeman toward the door to the jail cells.

“Why do you suppose your mother would tell you a lie like that?” the old policeman asked. “Do you suppose you have an uncle at all? ’pect she told you he’s rich …”

“Your hair is wet,” Moxie said. She was waiting by the car. “And you shaved.”

“I got cleaned up.”

“Where?”

“In the jailhouse. Want a shower? Nice old policeman.”

“How’d it smell?”

“Terrible.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather shower at your apartment.”

Fletch started the car and took the road back toward the freeway. “There is no James St. E. Crandall in Wramrud. Never has been.”

Moxie rubbed her back against the back of the car seat and then scratched her elbow. “I am itchy. We are going straight to your apartment, aren’t we?”

“No.”

“Oh, lord. Fletch, I can understand your natural reluctance to get back to the city—we can hear the general laughter from here—but I do want a proper meal and a proper shower.”

“Thought we’d stop at Frank Jaffe’s house first.”

“Who’s he? Does he exist, or did he die?”

“He’s my managing editor. My ex-managing editor.”

“You think you can find his house?”

“I know where he lives. We go right by it.”

“Boy, Fletch. Someone told me you’re a great reporter. Can’t even find a person in a little town like Wramrud, or wherever we just were.”

“Who told you I’m a great reporter?”

“You did.”

Coming onto the freeway, Fletch stepped on the accelerator, hard. “Guess I was wrong.”