The Face on the Wall(35)

“They want to send him away?”

“No, no. Worse than that. He keeps having accidents. She thinks it’s more than just carelessness on their part. She thinks it’s deliberate.”

Homer couldn’t handle it. “Oh, God, I don’t know. Don’t you think she’s just being melodramatic?”

“Well, possibly, but don’t you think somebody should—?”

“Listen, I’ve got to go.” Homer looked at his wife despairingly and zipped up his briefcase. “Later, we’ll talk about it later.” With a guilty harrumph he went out and slammed the front door. His feet pounded heavily down the porch stairs.

Mary tried to remind herself of Homer’s good qualities, and couldn’t think of any. Sighing, she gathered up her own books and papers, put on her coat and followed him out the door. It was time for her weekly class as Historian in Residence at Weston Country Day.



For half an hour the house was empty. The phone rang and rang in the presence of curtains and rugs, tables and chairs, then stopped ringing. But when Homer roared back down the driveway in a rage, catapulted up the porch steps, and snatched up his forgotten lecture notes, it rang again.

Angrily he grabbed it, dropped it, picked it up, juggled it, and shouted, “HELLO.”

There was a pause, while the caller recovered his hearing. “Homer, this is Bill Kennebunk.”

“Oh, God, Bill, I’m sorry. How’s Rollo McNutt today? Is he within earshot? Listening for compliments” Homer raised his voice. “Hey there, McNutt, you’re a sleazeball and an asshole.”

Sergeant Kennebunk snickered. “No, no, it’s okay. He’s shut himself in his office to write reports. Actually, he goes in there every morning to take a nap. Listen, Professor Kelly, I mean Homer, I called that hotel in Albany. The name Pearl Small appears on the register, single room, number 609, April eighth and ninth.”

“No kidding?” Homer pondered. “Of course, it doesn’t mean—”

“That’s right. Anybody could use a false name. The hotel people aren’t about to ask for a birth certificate. So I asked for a description. Blonde, the guy said. Cute blonde, maybe thirty, thirty-five.”

“Cute blonde? Does that sound like a princess? Remember, Bill, I told you Princess was her nickname, because she looked like one. You know, in a fairy story. Mary puts a lot of stress on her long golden hair. I like brunettes myself.”

“The point is, somebody should go there. Right away.”

“Go there! Oh, right. Go to Albany and interview the staff before they forget which guest was which.” Homer winced, feeling the questioning glance of Kennebunk’s brown eyes across fifteen miles of Massachusetts landscape—highways, fields, strip malls, and the miscellaneous sprawl of suburban Boston. “Well, I’m afraid it can’t be me. I can’t possibly get away. Couldn’t you get McNutt to assign you to Albany to look into the whole thing?” This suggestion was answered by ironic laughter, and at once Homer saw the impossibility of his suggestion. “Well, no, I suppose you couldn’t. But—oh, God, Bill—if you knew my schedule. I’ve just been explaining it to my wife. Oh, Jesus, Bill, I’ll think about it. I know, I know, it’s got to be done right away. Hey, I’ve got an idea. My wife will go.” Homer rolled his eyes at the ceiling, imagining the domestic strife to come.

“Your wife?”

“Certainly. Mary’s a good sport. She’ll go. You’ll see.”





Chapter 26



Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall….

Lewis Carroll,

Through the Looking Glass




Annie’s broker was on the phone, her old boyfriend Burgess. He had walked out on Annie a long time ago, but he made up for it by giving her investment tips from time to time. Annie trusted him. Burgess wasn’t your typical suit-and-tie corporate kind of stockbroker, he was a sporting adventurer in business for himself, but his insane speculations usually paid off. “Listen, Annie, I’m going to take every single cent out of those mutual funds of yours. I’ve got a really hot tip.”

“Well, fine, Burgess. Anything you say.”



Annie had forgotten about Minnie Peck’s giant hubcap woman. She didn’t think of her again until she brought a bag of garbage to the compost heap and stumbled over a heap of junk. Good God, it was Millennial Woman stretched out on a pile of oak leaves. Annie called Flimnap and he came to look. He had been away—it was yet another of his mysterious absences—but now he was back.

“We’ve got to get that thing out of here before the vegetation closes in,” said Flimnap. “Why don’t I rent a flatbed trucks?”