Mystery

FOUNDERS CLUB

Letters mailed on Mill Walk usually arrived on the day they were posted, and mail put in the box at night always arrived the next day. Tom told himself that nothing would happen on the day Captain Bishop got his letter, that it could be a week or more before the police took action or released any information about the murder of Marita Hasselgard. And because this was a Saturday, it was always possible that his letter might not arrive on Fulton Bishop’s desk until the following Monday. Everything went slower on the weekends. And if the letter arrived at headquarters on Monday, maybe it would sit half the day in the mail room before being rerouted to Bishop’s office. And maybe Bishop took Saturdays off, or never looked at his mail until evening.…

“You know what I think?” his father said. “Wake up, I’m talking to you.”

Tom’s head snapped up. From the other side of the breakfast table, Victor Pasmore regarded him with an unusual intensity. Tom had not even heard his father come into the kitchen. Now he was leaning on the back of a chair, staring as Tom absent-mindedly used his fork to push around on his plate the eggs he had scrambled himself. Like many heavy drinkers, Victor was virtually immune to hangovers, and the way he now looked at Tom was heavily confidential, almost paternal in a way that was rare with him.

“You have a good time last night? With the Spence girl?”

“Pretty good.”

Victor pulled the chair out and sat down. “The Spences are good people. Very good people.”

Tom tried to remember if he had seen any clippings about Sarah’s parents in the journal, and decided that he had not. He remembered something else, and on impulse asked his father about it.

“Do you know anything about the man who built their house?”

Victor’s look was now of confused impatience. “The guy who built the Spence house? That’s nothing but a waste of time.”

“But do you remember anything about him?”

“Christ, what are you, an archeologist?” Victor visibly calmed himself, and went on in a softer voice. “I guess it was some German. Way before my time, he wanted to knock everybody’s eyes out, and he pretty well succeeded. The guy was a real con man, I guess. He got into trouble up north, and nobody ever saw him again.”

“Why is it a waste of time?”

Victor leaned forward, his impatience struggling with his desire to impart an insight. “Okay, you wanna know, I’ll tell you. You look at that house, what do you see? You see dollars and cents. Lots of dollars and cents. Bill Spence started off as an accountant with your grandfather, he made some good investments, put himself where he is today. It doesn’t matter anymore who built that place.”

“You don’t know anything about him?” Tom asked.

“No!” Victor yelled. “You’re not listening to me! I’m making a point here. Look, it’s all tied in with what I wanted to say to you. Have you thought about what you’re going to do after Tulane?”

“Not really,” Tom said, beginning to feel even more tense than usual. It had been decided that he would attend Tulane, his grandfather’s college, after graduation.

“Well, hear me out on this. My advice is, think about business opportunities—go out and start fresh, make your own life. Don’t get stuck on this island the way I did.” Victor paused after making this surprising remark, and looked down at the table for a moment before going on. His voice was much softer now. “Your grandfather is willing to help you get started.”

“On the mainland,” Tom said. When he looked into the future, he saw only a terrifying void. His father’s advice seemed directed toward an entirely different sort of person, one who would understand what a business opportunity was.

“Your future isn’t here,” said Victor. “You can have a whole new life.” He looked across the table as if he had much more to say.

“How did you get started?”

“Glen helped me out.” The statement came out in a flat, grudging tone which meant that the conversation had essentially come to an end, and Victor Pasmore turned away from his son to look out the kitchen window. Outside in the flat hot sunlight, purple bougainvillaea blossoms, too heavy for their stalks, lolled on the white terrace wall. “Just like when you were sick, I mean after your accident, Glen paid for your nurses, the tutors, a lot of things like that. You have to be grateful to the old man.”

It was not clear to Tom if Victor Pasmore were talking about himself or his son. The gratitude seemed heavy, an obligation endlessly paid for. His father turned from the window, unshaven, as was usual on weekends, dressed in an unconvincing sports shirt. “I’m just trying to talk sense to you,” he said. “Save you from making mistakes. You think it’s too early for a drink?” His father raised his thick eyebrows and pulled down the corners of his mouth in a comic grimace. The thought of having a drink had put him in a better mood.