“The kind of woman who marries you isn’t really interested in sex,” Calvin said stiffly, “she’s interested in money.”
“Sheila spent six thousand dollars in the month of August on cosmetics alone,” Jon said, with a kind of wonder. “That takes talent, if you want my opinion. That takes dedication.”
“I take it you want to divorce her,” Calvin said.
“Of course I do.” Jon sat down on his bunk, stretched out, thought better of it, and stood up again. He was a little too fast, and bumped his head against the beam. He rubbed his hand against the spot—sore, Charlie supposed, although he himself was always so careful on the Pilgrimage Green, he never got conked—and went to the porthole, to look out on God knew what. There wasn’t anything to see any more. They were well out on the water now and headed north. They wouldn’t spot land again until they reached the coast of Massachusetts and the passage to Candle Island.
“The thing about women like Sheila,” Jon said, “is that you’re supposed to divorce them. The other thing about women like Sheila is that they don’t like you for it. I was wondering whether the two of you would like to do me a favor.”
“No,” Calvin said.
“Of course,” Charlie insisted.
Jon smiled slightly. “I just want you two to talk to her, keep her out of my hair, keep her out of Demarkian’s hair especially, if you know what I mean. His presence here bothers the hell out of her. I think she’s convinced he’s the—other private detective.”
“If he had been, you’d have got more on her,” Calvin said.
“Maybe so. Right now, she’s really not the person I’m principally interested in getting something on. Women like Sheila are always very reasonable in divorce courts. They have to be if they want to get their settlements. It’s the people who aren’t very reasonable who worry me. Aren’t they the people who worry you?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said, feeling confused again. “I suppose people aren’t unreasonable very often around me. Maybe it’s because I’m not a strong enough personality.”
“Maybe it’s because you barely remember what’s going on in the business from one day to the next,” Calvin said. Then he flushed and apologized, in his way. “I’m a little on edge,” he told them. “This discrepancy. Sheila. Mr. Gregor Demarkian.”
“You leave Mr. Demarkian to me,” Jon said. “Charlie doesn’t ask me about Demarkian.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry me,” Charlie said. “What is he here for, anyway? I thought he went around investigating murders.”
“I thought he went around meddling in other people’s business,” Calvin said. “If you want my opinion, Jon, what you’ll do about Demarkian is—”
“But I don’t want your opinion,” Jon said. This time, instead of pacing, he went straight to the door and opened it. Outside, the hallway was lit. Since there was no electricity on the boat, there was nothing to light it except the candles they might carry, and neither Charlie nor Calvin had candles. Seeing their predicament, Jon rummaged around in his table until he found a pair of tallows and lit them off his own lamp.
“Go,” he said. “It’s not all that long until dinner and I have a lot I want to do. We’ll talk about numbers some more in the morning.”
“But—” Calvin said.
Jon shooed him away. “Even if I didn’t have anything else on my mind, I’d have this damned Thanksgiving dinner. Do I want yams or do I want sweet potatoes? Should the onions be cooked in lard? You should see the damn fool note I got from the cook this afternoon. Four pages long and requiring an answer faster than FDR expected answers from Harry Truman. Go.”
“But,” Calvin said again.
“Go,” Jon insisted.
Charlie stepped into the hall, holding one of the candles, lit now, in his right hand. It provided very little light in the long, narrow, low-ceilinged place, and the one Calvin was carrying didn’t make much of a difference.
“If you ask me,” Calvin said, as Jon shut the door firmly in their faces, “it’s a kind of jinx. You’re just asking for trouble.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Charlie said.
“Of course you do. Asking a murder expert to go along for the ride. You do that, you’re likely to land yourself with a murder for your expert to be expert about. That’s what I think.”
Then he stomped off down the hall, apparently sure of where he was going, apparently undaunted by the cramped space or the lack of light.