At 7:15 I took the pork out of the oven and put it on the counter to rest. I took the lid off the vegetables, turned up the heat, and boiled away the moisture while I shook the pan gently. It made them glaze slightly. I put them in a covered chafing dish over a low blue flame. I put the French bread into the still warm oven. I had stopped on the way back from Smithfield and bought a dozen native tomatoes at a farm stand. Each was the size of a Softball. I sliced two of them about a half-inch thick and sprinkled them lightly with sugar and arranged them slightly overlapping on a bed of Boston lettuce on a platter and put them beside the roast to warm up. Tomatoes are much better at room temperature.
I had just finished washing my hands and face when the doorbell rang. Everything was ready. Ah, Spenser, what a touch. Everything was just right except that I couldn’t seem to find a missing child. Well, nobody’s perfect. I pushed the release button and opened my apartment door. I was wrong. Susan Silverman was perfect.
It took nearly forty years of savoir-faire to keep from saying “Golly.” She had on black pants and a knit yellow scoop-necked, short-sleeved sweater that gaped fractionally above the black pants, showing a fine and only occasional line of tan skin. The sleeves were short and had a scalloped frill, and her black and yellow platform shoes made her damned near my height. Her black and yellow earrings were cubed pendants. Her black hair glistened, her teeth were bright in her tan face when she smiled and put out her hand.
“Come in,” I said. Very smooth. I didn’t scuff my foot; I didn’t mumble. I stood right up straight when I said it. I don’t think I blushed.
“This is a very nice apartment,” she said as she stepped into the living room. I said thank you. She walked across and looked at the wood carving on the server. “Isn’t this the statue of the Indian in front of the museum?”
“Yes.”
“It’s lovely. Where did you get it?”
This time I think I did blush. “Aw hell,” I said.
“Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, it’s very good.” She ran her hands over the wood. “What kind of wood is it?”
“Hard pine,” I said.
“How did you get the wood so smooth?”
“I rubbed it down with powdered pumice and a little mineral oil.”
“It is very lovely,” she said. “Did you do all these wood carvings?” I nodded. She looked at me and shook her head. “And you cook too?”
I nodded again.
“Amazing,” she said.
“Can I get you a drink?” I said.
“I’d love one.”
“Would you take a vodka gimlet?”
“That would be splendid,” she said. Splendid. In her mouth it sounded just right. Anyone else who said “splendid” would have sounded like the wrong end of a horse.
I put five parts of vodka and one part Rose’s lime juice in a pitcher, stirred it with ice, and strained some into two short glasses.
“Would you care to sit on a stool and drink it while I make last-minute motions in the kitchen?”
“I’ll do better than that, I’ll help set the table while I’m drinking my drink.”
“Okay.”
The kitchen area was separated from the living-dining area by a waist-high partition and some lathe-turned risers extending to the ceiling. As I poured oil and vinegar over the tomatoes, I watched her through the partition. She was probably between thirty-five and forty. Her body was strong, and as she bent over the table placing the silverware her thighs were firm and smooth and her back and waist graceful and resilient where the blouse gapped. She moved surely, and I bet myself she played good tennis.
I sliced half the pork en croûte in quarter-inch slices and arranged them on the serving platter. I put the chafing dish of vegetables on the table, put the tomatoes and roast out also. Susan Silverman’s glass was empty, and I filled it. My head was feeling a little thick from five beers and a large gimlet. Some would say a thickness of head was my normal condition.
“Candles too hokey?” I said.
She laughed and said, “I think so.”
“Shall we finish our drinks before we eat?” I asked.
“If you wish.”
She sat at the end of the couch and leaned back slightly against the arm, took a grown-up sip of her gimlet, and looked at me over the glass as she did so.
“What ever happened to your nose, Mr. Spenser?”
“A very good heavyweight boxer hit it several times with his left fist.”
“Why didn’t you ask him not to do that?”
“It’s considered bad form. I was hoping for the referee.”
“You don’t seem to choose the easiest professions,” she said.
“I don’t know. The real pain, I think, would be nine to five at a desk processing insurance claims. I’d rather get my nose broken weekly.”
Her glass was empty. I filled it from the pitcher and freshened mine. Don’t want to get drunk on duty. Don’t want to make a damned fool of myself in front of Susan Silverman, either.
She smiled her thanks at me. “So, sticking your nose into things and getting it broken allows you to live life on your own terms, perhaps.”
“Jesus, I wish I’d said that,” I said. “Want to eat?”
“I think we’d better; I’m beginning to feel the gimlets.”
“In that case, my dear, let me get you another.” I raised my eyebrows and flicked an imaginary cigar.
“Oh, do the funny walk, Groucho,” she said.
“I haven’t got that down yet,” I said. I gestured toward the pitcher, and she shook her head. “No thank you, really.”
I held her chair as she sat down, sat down opposite her, and poured some wine in her glass.
“A self-effacing little domestic red,” I said, “with just a hint of presumption.”
She took a sip. “Oh, good,” she said, “it’s cold. I hate it at room temperature, don’t you?”
I said, “Let’s elope.”
“Just like that,” she said. “Because I like cold wine?”
“Well, there are other factors,” I said.
“Let’s eat first,” she said.
We ate. Largely in silence. There are people with whom silence is not strained. Very few of them are women. But Susan Silverman was one. She didn’t make conversation. Or if she was making conversation she was so good at it that I didn’t notice. She ate with pleasure and impeccable style. Me too.
She accepted another slice of the roast and put sauce on it from the gravy boat.
“The sauce is super,” she said. “What is it?”
“Cumberland sauce,” I said. “It is also terrific with duck.”
She didn’t ask for the recipe. Style. I hate people who ask for recipes.
“Well, it is certainly terrific with pork.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re Jewish.”
“Yes?”
“You’re not Orthodox?”
“No.”
“Serving a pork roast on your first date with a Jewish lady is not always considered a slick move.”
She laughed. “I didn’t even think of that. You poor thing. Of course it is not a slick move. But is this a date? I thought I was going to be questioned.”
“Yeah. That’s right. I’m just softening you up now. After dessert and brandy I break out the strappado.”
She held out her wineglass. “Well then, I’d better fortify myself as best I can.”
I poured her more wine.
“What about Kevin Bartlett? Where do you think he is?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. How could I? Haven’t you got any clues at all?”
“Oh yeah, we got clues. We got lots of clues. But they don’t lead us to anything. What they tell us is that we’re into something weird. It’s freak-land again.”
“Again?”
“That’s just nostalgia, I guess. Used to be when you got a kidnapping you assumed the motive to be greed and you could count on that and work with it. You ran into a murder and you could figure lust or profit as a starter. Now you gotta wonder if it’s political, religious, or merely idiosyncratic. You know, for the hell of it. Because it’s there.”
“And you yearn for the simple crimes like Leopold-Loeb?”
“Yeah,” I grinned. “Or Ruth Judd, the ax murderess. Okay, so maybe there was always freaky crime. It just seems more prevalent. Or maybe I grow old.”
“Maybe we all do,” she said.
“Yeah, but I’d like to find Kevin Bartlett before I get senile. You know about the kidnapping note and the hearse and the dummy?”
“Some. The story was all over the school system when they found the hearse behind the junior high. But I don’t know details.”
“Okay,” I said, “here they are.” I told her. “Now,” I said, and gestured with the wine bottle toward her glass.
“Half a glass,” she said. I poured. “That’s good.”
“Now,” I said again, “do you think he was kidnapped? And if he was kidnapped, was it just for money?”
“In order,” she said, “I don’t know, and no.”
“Yeah, that’s about where I am,” I said. “Tell me about this group he ran with.”
“As I said when you saw me the other day in my office, I really know very little about them. I’ve heard that there is a group of disaffected young people who have formed a commune of some sort. Commune may be too strong a word. There is a group, and I only know this from gossip in the high school, which chooses to live together. I don’t want to stereotype them. They are mostly, I’ve heard, school- and college-age people who do not go to school or work in the traditional sense. I’ve heard that they have a house somewhere around Smithfield.”
“Who owns the house?”
“I don’t know, but there is a kind of leader, an older man, maybe thirty or so, this Vic Harroway. I would think he’d be the owner.”
“And Kevin was hanging around with this group?”
“With some of them. Or at least with some kids who were said to be associated with this group. I’d see him now and then sitting on the cemetery wall across from the common with several kids from the group. Or maybe from the group. I’m making this sound a good deal more positive than it is. I’m not sure of any of this or of even the existence of such a group. Although I’m inclined to think there is a group like that.”
“Who would know?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. Chief Trask, I suppose.”
“How bizarre is this group?”
“Bizarre? I don’t know. I hadn’t heard anything very bizarre about them. I imagine there’s grass smoked there, although not many of us find that bizarre anymore. Other than that I can’t think of anything particularly bizarre. What kind of bizarre do you mean?”
The wine was gone, and I was looking a little wistfully at the empty bottle. It was hard concentrating on business. I was also looking a little wistfully at Susan Silverman. Neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night maybe, but red wine and a handsome woman — that was something else.
She said, “What kind of bizarre are you looking for?”
“Any kind at all. The kind of bizarre that would be capable of that dummy trick in the coffin, the kind of bizarre that would make a singing commercial out of the telephone call. The kind of bizarre that would do the ransom note in a comic strip. Would you like some brandy?”
“One small glass.”
“Let’s take it to the living room.”
She sat where she had before, at one end of the couch. I gave her some Calvados and sat on the coffee table near her.
“I don’t know anything bizarre about the group. I have the impression that there is something unusual about Vic Harroway, but I don’t know quite what it is.”
“Think about it. Who said he was odd? What context was his oddness in?”
She frowned again. “No, just an idea that he’s unusual.”
“Is he unusual in appearance?”
“I don’t know.”
“Size?”
“Really, I can’t recall.”
“Is he unusual in his sex habits?”
She shrugged and spread her hands, palms up.
“Religious zealot?”
She shook her head.
“Unusual family connections?”
“Damn it, Spenser, I don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“Try picturing the circumstances when you got the impression he was unusual. Who said it? Where were you?”
She laughed. “Spenser, I can’t do it. I don’t remember. You’re like a hammer after a nail.”
“Sorry, I tend to get caught up in my work.”
“I guess you do. You’re a very interesting man. One might misjudge you. One might even underrate you, and I think that might be a very bad error.”
“Underrate? Me?”
“Well, here you are a big guy with sort of a classy broken nose and clever patter. It would be easy to assume you were getting by on that. That maybe you were a little cynical and a little shallow. I half figured you got me in here just to make a pass at me. But I just saw you at work, and I would not want to be somebody you were really after.”
“Now you’re making me feel funny,” I said. “Because half the reason I invited you in here was to make a pass at you.”
“Maybe,” she said and smiled. “But first you would work.”
“Okay,” I said. “I worked. I am a sleuth, and being a sleuth I can add two and two, blue eyes. If you half expected me to make a pass and you came anyway, then you must have half wanted me to do so... sweetheart.”
“My eyes are brown.”
“I know, but I can’t do Bogart saying ‘brown eyes.’ And don’t change the subject.”
She took the final sip from her brandy glass and put it on the coffee table. When she did she was close to my face. “See?” she said looking at me steadily. “See how brown they are?”
“Black, I’d say. Closer to black.”
I put my hands on either side of her face and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed me back. It was a long kiss, and when it ended I still held her face in my hands.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe they are more black than brown. Perhaps if you were to sit on the couch you might be able to see better.”
I moved over. “Yes,” I said, “this confirms my suspicion. Your eyes are black rather than brown.”
She leaned forward and kissed me. I put my arms around her. She turned across my lap so I was holding her in my arms and put her arms around my neck. The kiss lasted longer than the first one and had some body English on it. I ran my hand under her sweater up along the depression of her spine, feeling the smooth muscles that ran parallel. We were lying now on the couch, and her mouth was open. I slid my hand back down along her spine and under the waistband of her pants. She groaned and arched her body against me, turning slightly as I moved my hand along the waistband toward the front zipper. I reached it and fumbled at it. Old surgeon’s hands. She pulled back from the kiss, reached down, and took my hand away. I let her. We were gasping.
“No, Spenser,” she managed. “Not the first time. Not in your apartment.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I was concentrating on breathing.
“I know it’s silly. But I can’t get rid of upbringing; I can’t get rid of momma saying that only dirty girls did it on the first date. I come from a different time.”
“I know,” I said. “I come from the same time.” My voice was very hoarse. I cleared my throat. We continued to lie on the couch, my arm around her.
“There will be other times. Perhaps you’d like to try my cooking. In my house. I’m not cold, Spenser, and I would have been hurt if you hadn’t tried, but not the first time. I just wouldn’t like myself. Next time...”
“Yeah,” I said. Clearing my throat hadn’t helped, but I was getting my breathing under control. “I know. I’d love to try your cooking. What say we hop in the car and drive right out to your place now for a snack?”
She laughed. “You’re not a quitter, are you.”
“It’s just that I may be suffering from terminal tumescence,” I said.
She laughed again and sat up.
I said, “How about dinner together next week? That way you won’t feel quite so hustled, maybe?”
She sat and looked down at me for some time. Her black hair falling forward around her face. Her lipstick smeared around her mouth. “You’re quite nice, Spenser.” She put her hand against my cheek for a moment. “Will you come and have dinner with me at my home next Tuesday evening at eight?”
“I will be very pleased to,” I said.
We stood up. She put her hand out. I shook it. I walked to the door with her She said, “Good night, Spenser.”
I said, “Good night, Susan.”
I opened the door for her, and she went out. I closed it. I breathed as much air as I could get into my lungs and let it out very slowly. Next time, I thought. Tuesday night. Dinner at her house. Hot dog.