“What kind of incident?”
“It was back in November, when you were away at that conference. It happened one afternoon at Lida Arkmanian’s house.”
“What incident?” Gregor insisted.
“It happened because of nothing,” old George went on serenely. “It was a Saturday afternoon and we were all sitting around in Lida’s television room, watching the Walt Disney Pinocchio on a tape. We were eating too, Krekor, you know what Lida’s house is like, the television room is just off the kitchen to make it easier to get snacks—”
“George.”
“Yes. Krekor. You see, Tommy got hysterical.”
“What do you mean, hysterical?”
“Hysterical,” George repeated. “He burst into tears and leapt into Donna’s arms and started screaming and crying and ranting and raving—like a crazy person, Krekor, or like a tantrum, and then, when Donna and Lida tried to calm him down, when they rocked him and soothed him, he started asking over and over again, ‘Why doesn’t my daddy love me? What was the wrong thing I did to make it so my daddy doesn’t love me?’ ”
Gregor winced. Old George was an eerily good mimic. It was as if Tommy Moradanyan were there in the room.
“Oh, dear Lord,” he said. “That’s a mess.”
“Yes,” old George agreed. “That’s a mess. It’s what I was trying to get across. Tommy is a very bright child, but he’s a child. He understands about half of things, which in this situation is the worst possible thing. And there is something more, Krekor. I think, in the months since then, the problem has been getting worse.”
“Worse how?”
“I don’t know. I am not a psychiatrist, Krekor. I am not even Ann Landers. I know only that Donna is very upset. And she is getting more and more upset every day.”
“She hasn’t talked to you about it?”
“She wouldn’t talk to me about it, Krekor. I am not her confidant.”
“What about Lida Arkmanian? Or Bennis? Isn’t Bennis her best friend?”
“Bennis is her best friend, but if they have talked about this, I don’t know. Women talk about everything together when they are friends, Krekor, do they not?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been able to figure out the first thing about women.”
“I, Krekor, have been able to figure out that whatever it is I think I am doing right, I am doing wrong, but this may not be universal. Robert Redford may have a different experience.”
“Robert Redford has a different experience from all of us,” Gregor said, getting up. “Do you think I should talk to her? Do you think there’s anything either one of us can do?”
“I think we should leave her alone to work it out for herself. You know how upset they all get when they think we’re meddling. Of course, they all meddle themselves the first chance they get, but this is human nature. Isn’t that right?”
“Of course it is,” Gregor said, and supposed he even believed it. After all, he had spent his life meddling in one thing or another. He hadn’t even been able to retire without finding a way to go on meddling.
He went out into old George’s foyer and picked up his coat and Bennis’s computer printouts.
“I’ll be back later today,” he said. “I’m glad you’re looking so much better than you did yesterday.”
“Angela came in and threatened to nurse me back to health,” old George said. “That always fixes me right up.”
2
Up on the third floor a few moments later, Gregor got his door open, threw his coat onto his coatrack, and looked at the sheaf of computer papers he still had under his arm. He thought about going up to Donna Moradanyan’s apartment, but decided against it. Old George was right. Donna wouldn’t welcome his meddling. If she wanted his help, she’d come along and ask for it. He threw the bolt on his door with a satisfying click and went into his kitchen. It didn’t matter to him that nobody else on Cavanaugh Street ever seemed to lock anything. He was a man of the world. He knew better. He threw Bennis’s computer paper onto his kitchen table and went hunting around for coffee.
“Hazzard,” he said to himself absently. “Paul Hazzard.”
It was impossible, really. He couldn’t stop himself. All the time he’d been down at old George’s, even when he and George had been talking about Donna Moradanyan, some part of his brain had been thinking about Paul and Jacqueline Isherwood Hazzard. And why? Bennis hadn’t said a single really intriguing thing about the case. He had no new evidence and no hope of getting any. The investigation was four years old and probably of no interest to anybody but melodrama enthusiasts like Bennis Hannaford and writers for second-rate local newspapers and supermarket tabloids. And yet…