Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,40

plastic thing in the turkey,” Hawk said, “that pops up when it’s ready.”

“Big mouth,” I said to Hawk.

“It’s all right,” Susan said. “I love you anyway.”

“How come?” Hawk said.

“Damned if I know,” Susan said.

Thanksgiving at Spenser’s: Hawk and Susan sipping champagne, Pearl asleep in front of the fire, the rich scent of the roasting bird filling the room, the dining room table set and beautified by Susan, Hawk’s shotgun leaning on the corner of my bookcase.

When I got the food to the table my duties were over. Hawk carved surgically. Susan served meticulously. I ate. Pearl watched each mouthful closely. Susan had ruled that it was absolutely forbidden to feed her from the table. All three of us ignored the rule.

“Wonder what Rugar doing for Thanksgiving,” Hawk said.

“And Adelaide,” I said.

“No,” Susan said. “Not on Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving we worry about whether we’ll be hungry enough before bedtime to have a turkey-and-stuffing sandwich with cranberry sauce and mayo.”

“No business?” I said.

“None,” Susan said.

“No concern for the less fortunate?” I said.

“Fuck ’em,” Susan said.

“That be my other Thanksgivings,” Hawk said.

“Works for me,” I said. “Pleasant and not fattening.”

“I was using a metaphor,” Susan said.

“Fact it probably burn calories,” Hawk said.

“Today is a day to enjoy the fact that we love each other,” Susan said. “That’s enough.”

“All three of us?” Hawk said.

“And Pearl,” Susan said.

“’Scuse me,” Hawk said. “All four of us?”

“You know we love you, Hawk,” Susan said. “Pearl included. And you damned well know that in your own singular way, you love us.”

Hawk grinned widely.

“Singular,” I said.

“Sho ’nuff, Missy,” Hawk said to Susan.

He bent over and gave Pearl a bite of turkey. He watched her chew it, still bending over, and when she was finished she looked up at him hopefully.

“Sho ’nuff,” he said to her.

43

I went to see Van Meer. We sat in the same room we’d sat in last time. He offered me a drink. I declined. He made one for himself. It appeared that he’d started early today. He was already a little glassy-eyed at two in the afternoon.

I couldn’t think of a way to ease in, so I just went.

“You in financial difficulty?” I said.

“No,” he said, “not at all.”

“The bank’s foreclosing on this place,” I said.

“Oh, the banks are always doing something,” he said. “I don’t pay any attention.”

“You’ve cashed out your life insurance,” I said.

Van Meer smiled happily.

“Had better things to do with it,” he said.

“What about your daughter? She was the beneficiary.”

“She was marrying into one of the richest families in the country,” he said. “She didn’t need it.”

I nodded. I wondered if he remembered that his daughter was missing.

“So the reports of your financial vulnerability are greatly exaggerated.”

Van Meer nodded several times.

“You bet,” he said. “I’m rich.”

“In the early 1980s,” I said, “while she was married to you, Heidi was in Bucharest, Romania, with Harden Bradshaw.”

“I know,” Van Meer said.

“Talk about that,” I said.

“We had a big fight,” he said. “She went to Bucharest. When she came back, we made up. In fact, that’s when Adelaide was conceived.”

He sipped his drink. He was sedate. No guzzling.

“What was the fight about?”

“Oh, God,” he said. “I don’t know. We had fights all the time.”

“You know she was cheating on you?”

“Yes.”

“With Bradshaw?”

“Yes.”

“Might it have been a fight about that?” I said.

“Coulda been,” Van Meer said.

“How’d you feel about that?” I said.

Van Meer shrugged.

“Hell, she cheated on me all the time, with anybody available,” he said, and sipped again.

“How’d you feel about that?” I said.

He laughed.

“You sound like all of my many shrinks,” he said. “Why do you want to know all this?”

“If I knew ahead of time what was important to know and what was not . . .” I said.

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

He had another swallow. Like a lot of experienced boozers, he could go a long time before he began to slur his words. He held his glass up a little and looked at his drink.

“Not too long after we got married, we had some wiring done at our new house,” he said. “She fucked the electrician.”

I nodded.

“She needed sex, and she needed variety,” Van Meer said. “She was fucking me while she was married to that art professor. She was fucking Bradshaw when she was married to me.”

“Busy,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Looking for Mr. Right?” I said.

“Mr. Feels Good,” Van Meer said. “As far as I could tell, she fucked plumbers and limo drivers and delivery men, and for all I know doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs.”

“One man would never