Fletch's Fortune Part 9

9:00 P.M P.M. Welcoming RemarksTERRORISM AND T TELEVISION Address by Hy Litwack

"I was afraid you'd show up," Bob McConnell said.

Dinner was half over when Fletch arrived to take his a.s.signed seat, at a corner table for six.

McConnell-a big man, fortyish, heavy, with sideburns and a mustache-had been alone at the table with Crystal Faoni and Fredericka Arbuthnot.

"I knew a table for six, empty except for two girls and myself, was too good to last."

"Hi, Bob."

"Hi."

"They put us together," Fredericka Arbuthnot said to Fletch. "Isn't that chummy?"

"Chummy."

Fletch glanced at the considerable distance to the head table.

"I guess none of us is considered too important," he said. "Another few feet to the right, through that wall, and we could stack our dishes in the dishwasher without leaving the table."

Bob said, "Yeah."

A few years before, Robert McConnell had left his job at a newspaper and spent ten months as press aide to a presidential candidate.

It would have been the chance of a lifetime.

Except the candidate lost.

His newspaper had taken him back, of course, but begrudgingly, and at the same old job.

His publisher, Walter March, had considered his mistaken judgment more important than his gained experience.

Walter March's judgment hadn't been wrong.

He had had his newspapers endorse the other candidate-who had won.

And it had taken Robert McConnell the interim years to work himself out of both the emotional and financial depression taking such a chance had caused.

Crystal said, "How was your ma.s.sage, sybarite?"

Bob said, "You had a ma.s.sage?"

To a good reporter, everything was significant "I was sleepy, afterwards," Fletch said.

"I should take ma.s.sages," Crystal said. "Maybe it would help me get rid of some of this fat."

"Crystal, darling," Fletch said. "You're a bore."

"Me?"

"All you do is talk about your fat."

Because he was late, the waiter placed in front of Fletch-all at one time-the fruit cup, salad, roast beef, potato, peas, cake with strawberry goo poured over the top, and coffee.

"You want a drink?" the waiter asked.

Fletch said, "I guess not."

"My fat is all anybody ever talks about," Crystal said.

"Only in response to your incessant comments about it." Fletch chewed the pale slices of grapefruit and orange from the fruit cup. "Historic Hendricks Plantation," he said. "Even their fruit cup is antebellum."

"I never, never mention my fat," Crystal said.

Purposely, humorously, she began to fork his salad.

"You never talk about anything else." Fletch pulled his roast beef out of her range. "You're like one of these people with a dog or a horse or a boat or a garden or something who never talk about anything but their d.a.m.n dog, horse, boat, or, what else did I say?"

"Garden," said Freddie.

"Garden," said Fletch. "Boring, boring, boring."

Crystal was sopping up the salad dressing with a piece of bread. "It must be defensive."

"Stupid," Fletch said. "You have nothing to be defensive about."

"I'm fat."

"You've got beautiful skin."

"Meters and meters of it."

She reached for his dessert.

Fredericka Arbuthnot said to Robert McConnell, "This is I. M. Fletcher. He gets along well with everybody."

"This stupid American idea," Fletch said, "that everybody has to look emaciated."

Crystal's voice was m.u.f.fled through the strawberry-goo-topped cake. "Look who's talking. You're not fat."

"Inside every slim person," Fletch proclaimed, "is a fat person trying to get out."

"Yeah," muttered Freddie. "But through the mouth?"

"If you'd stop telling people you're fat," Fletch declaimed, "no one would notice!"

Her mouth still full of cake, Crystal looked sideways at Fletch.

She could contain herself no longer.

She and Fletch both began to laugh and choke and laugh and laugh.

With her left hand Crystal was holding her side. With her right, she was holding her napkin to her face.

Not laughing, Fredericka Arbuthnot and Robert McConnell were watching them.

Crystal began to reach for his coffee.

Fletch banged her wrist onto the table.

"Leave the coffee!"

Crystal nearly rolled out of her chair-laughing.

Robert McConnell had signaled the waiter.

"Bring drinks, all around, will you? We need to catch up with these two."

The waiter scanned the dead gla.s.ses on the table, and looked inquiringly at Fletch.

Bob said, "Fletch?"

"I don't care."

"Bring him a brandy," Bob said. "He needs a steadier."

"Bring him another dessert," Crystal said. "I need it!"

Fletch sat back from his plate.

"Oh, I can't eat any more. I've laughed too hard." He looked at Crystal. "You want it, Crystal?"

"Sure," she said.

The plate stayed in front of Fletch.

Freddie asked Fletch, "Who were you talking to in your room?"

"Talking to?"

"I couldn't help hearing you through the wall."

"Hearing me through the wall?"

"It sounded like you were practicing a speech."

"Practicing a speech?"

"I couldn't hear any other voice."

"I was talking to Crystal," Fletch said. "On the phone."

"No," Freddie shook her head. "It sounded recorded. At one point, when I first heard you, you blurted out something. As if the playback volume was too high."

"Oh, yeah. I was using a tape recorder. Few notes to myself."

"A few notes on what?" Bob sat up straight so the waiter could set the drink in front of him.

"Ah, ha!" Crystal said. "The great investigative reporter, Irwin Maurice Fletcher, has discovered who killed Walter March!"

"Actually," Fletch said. "I have."

"Who?" Freddie said.

Fletch said, "Robert McConnell."

Across the table, Bob's eyes narrowed.

Freddie looked at Bob. "Motive?"

"For having his newspapers endorse the opposition," Fletch said, "a few years back. It s.n.a.t.c.hed the candy apple right out of Bob's mouth. Didn't it, Bob?" Robert McConnell's face had gone slightly pale. "If March's newspapers hadn't endorsed the opposition, Bob's man probably would have won. Bob would have gone to the White House. Instead, he ended up back at the same old metal desk in the City Room, facing a blank wall, with thousands of dollars of personal bank loans outstanding."

Fletch and Bob were staring at each other across the table, Fletch with a small smile.

Freddie was looking from one to the other.

"A few notes on what?" Bob asked.

Fletch shrugged. "A travel piece. I've been in Italy. By the way, has anyone seen Junior?"

Walter March, Junior, was the sort, at fifty, people continued to call "Junior."

"I hear he's drinking," Crystal said.

"Jake Williams took him and Lydia for a car ride." Bob sat back in his chair, relaxed his shoulders. "He wanted to get them out of here. Get Junior some air."

Freddie said, "You mean the police are making Mrs. March and son stay at this d.a.m.ned convention, where Walter March was murdered? How cruel."

"I suspect they could do something about it," Bob said, "if they want to."

Crystal said, "When you have the power of March Newspapers behind you, you are apt to be very, very conciliatory to petty authority."