“Yes. Mrs. MacIver had to make the trip to the rest room, all right, but when we got out there, just before she went inside, you know, the john, she turned to me and said, ‘I was hoping that I’d be able to speak to your boss alone.’”

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

“Anything else?” Leland asked.

“Just that,” Florence said. “I timed combing my hair so she would have to wait for me when she got out, but then she seemed to look straight through me. I don’t know, there’s something funny about her.”

“She seemed like a nice kid to me,” Mike said.

“I’m not sure of that,” Leland said. He was trying to encourage Florence. Mike was so generous with people that he intimidated practically everybody. It was hard even for Florence to be critical when she knew that Mike would object.

“It’s just a feeling I have,” she said, looking at Leland. “She’s not sure of herself—very unsure, in fact—but there’s a kind of hardness deep inside her, and she’s close to it now.”

“She connived this,” Leland said. “She saw the intercom on your desk and figured that you could work something.”

“That’s what I mean,” Florence said. “She’s capable of it. Her mind is really going.”

“I think you’re both reading too much into it,” Mike said. “She wants only what she said.”

“No,” said Leland, “you have to be with her to see it. Flo, you did a good job. If I call you, come in on the double. Her husband is dead, and in her condition, she might be more upset than we can see. Miller wouldn’t know.”

“Shoot, I don’t like this at all,” she said.

He didn’t want her going too far. “That’s not for you to say,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t go yet, Flo,” Mike said. “You can direct the calls into me now. I’ll be having lunch here, so I’ll have the extra time to work on these figures.”

On Mondays Mike had lunch with Joan. Leland waited until Florence had closed the door. “Is everything all right, fella?”

“Oh, sure.” He leaned back. “She just called. Her stomach’s upset. She doesn’t want to leave the house.”

“Oh. Well, tell her to take care.” Something needled Leland; he couldn’t make it out. “I’d better get back,” he said.

Their heads turned as he re-entered. He didn’t try to read anything on Mrs. MacIver’s face. In his chair, he swiveled to her and asked, “What did your husband die of?”

“That’s why we’re here.” That soft, controlled voice. It didn’t fit her.

Leland scratched the back of his hand. “Would you care for a cigarette?”

“No, thank you.”

The pack was on the desk. “Fred?”

“Thanks, I will.”