While she was struggling to move from day to day, he’d stood his ground and hidden away whatever it was he needed to keep secret. On their wedding day, they’d sworn to love one another for better or worse. She’d kept that promise and stayed faithful through the worst. Had he done the same?
Earlier Margaret felt hungry; now the thought of food nauseated her. She left the can of soup sitting on the counter and pulled a brandy snifter from the cupboard. Pouring a full inch of cognac into the glass, she swirled it as she’d seen Albert do then tipped the glass to her mouth and drank. It was the first brandy she’d had in years, decades maybe. Albert had enjoyed a nightly cognac, but she’d never found pleasure in it until now.
The heady brown liquid was sweet and satisfying. It eased the fluttering in her chest. She took another sip and then another. When the glass was empty, she refilled it and carried it into Albert’s office. This was where he’d hidden those invoices. If there was anything more to find, this was where it would be.
She slid a note paper in the telephone directory to mark her place, closed the book, and placed it on the credenza. It was too late to call anyone now. She’d have to continue tomorrow. Bateman seemed to be a family name, so it stood to reason that the person who owned the detective agency was a Bateman. Sooner or later she’d find them.
Although she’d started her search hoping to discover some charity, organization, or person Albert might have wanted to be the next beneficiary of his estate, now she would be content to learn the truth about Albert himself. If through all of this she found nothing, she’d name a beneficiary of her own choosing; a children’s hospital perhaps or, better yet, an adoption agency. A charity to help women with broken hearts find a family.
Taking another sip of brandy, Margaret returned to the task at hand. Tonight she would go through the one remaining drawer and tomorrow search the credenza and bookshelf.
She pulled open the small drawer and started sorting through a jumble of rubber bands and paper clips. Behind the box of pencils, she found a stack of note pads with “A.J. McCutcheon, Attorney at Law” printed at the top. A thousand times he’d used those same pads to leave her reminders: pick up the dry cleaning; pay the paper boy; have the car washed. At times the notes had been a source of aggravation, and she’d grumbled about him treating her like a servant. Now she’d give anything for just one more note signed with his scrawling “A.”
The thought of never again seeing one of those notes, of never having anyone remind her of anything, was almost overwhelming. Fighting to hold back the tears, she downed a swig of brandy and dropped the note pads into the waste basket. She’d be better off without all those blank pages reminding her of how empty her life had become.
With the note pads gone from the drawer, Margaret spied something she hadn’t noticed before: a packet of business cards banded together. The top card was from the trucking company they’d used when they moved into the house. She lifted the packet and as she did so the dry rubberband snapped, sending a spray of cards across the desk.
She spotted it right away: a business card from Bateman Investigative Services. It read, “Thomas H. Bateman, Serving you with discretion. Licensed, Bonded, & Insured.” She thought the street address and telephone number on the card appeared to be the same as on the invoices. Taking no chances, Margaret checked and they were the same. She now had his full name but little else.
Setting Bateman’s card on the side of the desk, she began to shuffle through the others. An electrician, a barber, cleaning services, two plumbers. Tradesmen Albert had dealt with years ago; nothing of any use. Seeing no value in these, she swept her hand across the desk and brushed the pile of cards into the waste basket. Her elbow hit Bateman’s card and knocked it to the floor. When she bent to retrieve it, she saw a handwritten phone number on the back side. Realizing this number was not the same as the one she’d called earlier ignited a spark of hope.
She glanced at the clock: 10:30. Too late to call…or was it? If it were an office no one would answer anyway, and if it was Bateman’s home she’d hang up and say nothing. In either case, she’d know if this was a working number. Pushing past the trepidation that had settled in her chest, she dialed the number and waited. On the ninth ring, a man answered.
Her plan to hang up was quickly forgotten.
“Thomas Bateman?” she asked.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“The Thomas Bateman who owns the Bateman Investigative Services company?”
“Used to. I retired five years ago. What’s this about?”
“My name’s Margaret Rose McCutcheon. You did some work for my husband back in forty-four, and I was—”
“If you’re looking to hire a detective, get somebody else. I’m retired.”
“I’m not really looking to hire a detective. I just want to find out—”
“It’s damn near eleven o’clock, lady! I’m not interested in what you want; I told you, I’m retired.”
“But if you’ll just listen to—”
There was a click, and he was gone.
Even though Thomas Bateman hadn’t been willing to hear her out, Margaret felt strangely optimistic about the next day. She now knew who the mysterious Mr. Bateman was and where to find him. She lifted the snifter, drained the glass, and started toward the bedroom.
——————
THE TWO SNIFTERS OF BRANDY enabled Margaret to drift off, but her sleep was fitful and the dreams disturbing. She saw herself standing at the edge of a room filled with people. At first they seemed strangers, but as she ventured into the crowd familiar faces began to take shape: her mama, Dewey, Louella, and, over on the far side of the room, Albert, eyeing her with a smug smile. She waved to him, grabbed Dewey’s hand, and started across the room. As she was making her way through the crowd, she could see a great sadness on Albert’s face so she called out to him and waved again. He looked at her, gave one last smile, and evaporated into nothingness.
“Albert!” she screamed and woke with a start.
The sky was still dark when she opened her eyes and sat up. A quick glance at the clock told her it would be another hour before it would be light and several more before she could call Thomas Bateman. Knowing sleep was now impossible, she climbed from the bed, pulled on a robe, and started downstairs.
She never liked being up at such an ungodly hour. It reminded her of the years in West Virginia when they’d left the house before daybreak and walked out of the hollow. Dewey had held her hand as they made their way along the long dirt road, but still she’d been frightened. He’d asked why, and she told him in the dark she couldn’t see trouble coming. That morning he’d held her hand a bit tighter and said not to worry, that he’d always be there to protect her.
After Barrettsville and the family breaking up, he’d been the one she missed most.
Margaret brewed a pot of coffee, poured herself a cup, and sat at the kitchen table. She thought through what she’d say to Tom Bateman and tried to anticipate any arguments he might have. She wasn’t going to give up, not even if he hung up on her again. It seemed unlikely that would happen, but if it did she’d drive over to his house, bring homemade cookies as a peace offering, and refuse to leave until he agreed to talk to her.