Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,95

breakfast we’ve been promising ourselves.’

We parked the Buick on Main Street, and sat in the window of Mary’s Café drinking coffee and eating blueberry muffins.

Delafield was somewhat topsy-turvy. What was known as Delafield Town was all the new development near the interstate highway, including the retail parks and the agricultural machinery factory, while the city of Delafield was a delightful old-world village set alongside Lake Nagawicka. Nagawicka, we were reliably informed by the café owner, meant ‘there is sand’ in the language of the local Native Americans, the Ojibwe Indians, although we couldn’t actually see any sand on the lake shore.

‘More coffee?’ asked Mary, coming out from behind her counter and holding up a black Thermos pot.

‘Thank you,’ said Caroline, pushing our mugs towards her.

‘Have you heard of someone called Rolf Schumann?’ I asked Mary as she poured the steaming liquid.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Everyone round here knows the Schumanns.’

‘I understand he’s president of Delafield Industries,’ I said.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘At least he was. It’s such a shame.’

‘What’s a shame?’ asked Caroline.

‘About his condition,’ Mary said.

‘What about his condition?’ I asked.

Mary looked round as if checking no one else was listening. There was only the three of us in the café. ‘You know,’ she said, shaking her head from side to side. ‘He’s not all there.’

‘How do you mean?’ I said. Mary was embarrassed. I was surprised, and I helped her out. ‘Is the problem to do with his injuries?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘That’s right. Due to his injuries.’

‘Do you know if he’s still in hospital?’ I asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe so.’ She looked around again and then continued in a hushed tone. ‘He’s in Shingo.’

‘Shingo?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Shingo. You know, the mental hospital.’ She said the last two words in little more than a whisper.

‘Where exactly is Shingo?’ I asked her, in the same manner.

‘In Milwaukee, on Masterton Avenue.’

‘Do the Schumanns live in Milwaukee?’ I asked, more normally.

‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘They live here. Up on Lake Drive.’

We took our leave of Mary and her muffins, not because I had gained enough information, I hadn’t, but because I felt that she was just as likely to tell the Schumanns about us, and our questions, as she was willing to tell us about them. Discretion, I thought, was not one of her strong points.

The city of Delafield, the village, had numerous shops full of stuff that one has no good use for but one just has to have anyway. We visited each in turn and marvelled at the decorative glass and china, the novelty sculptures, the storage boxes of every size, shape and decoration, the home-made greeting cards and the rest. There was a lovely shop with racks of old-fashioned-looking signs, one with fancy notebooks and another with legend-embroidered cushions for every conceivable occasion, and more. There were toys for boys, and toys for girls, and lots of toys for their parents too. Delafield was a stocking-filler’s paradise. Not that it was cheap. Caroline’s credit card took quite a battering as she bought far too much to get easily into her suitcase for the flight home. Presents, she explained, for her family, although we both knew that she wanted it all for herself.

Everywhere we went, I managed to bring the Schumanns into the conversation. In the embroidered cushion store the lady appeared to be almost in tears over them.

‘Such nice people,’ she said. ‘Very generous. They have done so much for the local community. Mrs Schumann is always coming in here. She’s bought no end of my cushions. It’s so sad.’

‘About Mr Schumann’s injuries?’ I prompted.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And all those other people killed in England. They all lived round here, you know. We used to see them all the time.’

‘Terrible,’ I said, sympathizing.

‘And we’re all dreadfully worried about the future,’ she went on.

‘About what exactly?’ I asked her.

‘About the factory,’ she said.

‘What about it?’ I prompted again.

‘It’s not doing so well,’ she said. ‘They laid off a third of the workers last November. Devastating it was, just before the holidays and all. Something about the Chinese selling tractors for half the price that we could make them for here. There’s talk in the town of the whole plant closing. My husband works there, and my son. I don’t know what we’ll do in these parts if they close down.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘And then that disaster happens in England and poor Mr Schumann and the others