Painted British flags festooned The White Cliffs of Dover, a blue and white A-frame with a bright red door. The bar and tables and chairs were of coarse-grained wood; the lighting was subdued. The place was crowded but quiet, filled with murmuring conversations.
“Ellen, this isn’t where I’d have taken you,” Guy said apologetically. “It’s pretty masculine here, sort of male-clubby.”
“I like it,” Ellen declared, thinking that Stephanie would judge it low class, would sneer at the homely interior, the roughly dressed customers.
Stephanie had called the office that morning; they had spoken briefly, Ellen pleading the press of work (which was true) and a deadline on a report (which was not true). Conscience-stricken at her betrayal of fidelity to Stephanie, she was certain that she would give herself away, certain that Stephanie would somehow hear the guilt in her voice and know that she had spent the night giving comfort and intimacy to another woman.
“It’s a regular British pub,” Guy said. “Most of the patrons have their own mugs, see?” Above the bar, on a long double rack, hung dozens of beer mugs, all sizes and styles, some plain, some pewter, some glistening painted porcelain. “Nice custom, isn’t it? We’d never take our customers here, but everybody in the office loves the place. And they’ve sort of adopted us. This table’s always reserved at lunch. And one of the dart boards.”
Guy was on one side of her, Gail on the other. The round table, large enough for eight, was close to the bar and next to the game area. Behind them the billiard table was deserted. To taunts from the bartender, a paunchy man in khaki pants and a pea jacket intermittently hurled bullet-like darts at one of two black and white sectioned dart boards.
“It was nice of you to ask me here.” Ellen had raised her voice to include everyone at the table. She suspected this invitation had been a ploy of Guy’s—she could hardly refuse an offer to join all the managers for lunch. “You’ve been very kind to me,” she said. “Very good about…everything.”
“We try harder,” Duane Fletcher said. “The quality goes in before the name goes on.”
Forewarned about Duane Fletcher, Ellen chuckled.
“You may not believe this,” Gretchen Phillips said, smiling affectionately at Duane Fletcher, “but Duane’s name is actually Granny Goose.”
“No, he’s the Aqua Velva man,” Harley Burton said heartily. “There’s something about an Aqua Velva man.”
“A little dab’ll do ya.” Gail Freeman directed a playful punch at Duane Fletcher.
“Please don’t squeeze the Charmin,” Duane Fletcher squealed amid the laughter, avoiding Gail Freeman’s feint.
A leather-aproned waiter brought a tray of heavy glass beer mugs foamed well above the rim. “It’s Miller time,” Fred Grayson said, to more laughter.
Guy Adams raised his mug and said with exaggerated irony, “To a better Modern Office.”
“To the late unlamented,” Gail Freeman offered. “Everything you never wanted in a boss, and less.” Duane Fletcher clinked mugs with Gail.
Harley Burton said cheerfully, “Bet he’s already general manager of hell.”
“All that lard should burn forever,” Gretchen Phillips said.
Laughing helplessly, Ellen took refuge in her beer mug, the smell pleasantly acrid, the coolness wet and sharp.
“Another toast,” Gail Freeman said. “To whoever did it.”
Movement at the table stopped. Ellen realized numbly that she could be sitting with a murderer. The person who had been in the office with her yesterday, who had plunged a blade into Fergus Parker’s heart. She looked from Guy Adams to Gretchen Phillips to Fred Grayson, to Harley Burton, to Duane Fletcher, watching their stares freeze on Gail Freeman. His gaze traversed his companions coolly, and he continued in a soft voice, “I hope the cops give up soon and get back to more urgent concerns, like giving tickets.”
Duane Fletcher said, “I’m Chiquita Banana and I’m here to say that bananas have to ripen in a certain way.”
Ellen burst into laughter. Accompanying loud laughter from around the table broke the tension.
“Guy sweetie?” Gretchen Phillips’ smile was coaxing. “Why don’t you give me one of Harley’s cigarettes? Preferably without a lecture. Then let’s win more of his money.”
“Not today.” Harley Burton’s tone was abrupt. “Don’t much feel like playing today.”
“Nor me,” Guy Adams said, his face sobering.
“Terrific,” Gretchen Phillips said imperturbably. “Best time to take you both on.”
“You don’t need any advantage,” Harley Burton growled.
“Guy sweetie? A cigarette please?”
“Sure, Gretchen.” Guy extracted a cigarette from his inside blazer pocket, lit it, and with a charming smile tucked it between Gretchen Phillips’ lips. She patted his cheek. Ellen watched them with pleasure, admiring their grace and beauty.
Gail got up and went over to the bar to pick up the darts. Fred Grayson said to Ellen, “We put up a dollar a game. Total points takes the money.”
Ellen watched Gail draw each dart back behind his ear, launch it in a swift graceful arc. Harley Burton was next, hurling his in a single powerful motion, rattling the dart board against the wall. Coming back to the table, he tossed a dollar down with a snort of disgust.
“Try accuracy instead of velocity,” Fred Grayson taunted.
“It’s both,” Harley Burton grunted. He said to Ellen, “Played baseball in college, hell of a fastball. Only pitch I had, could fire that damn ball through a needle in those days.”
“I believe you,” Ellen murmured, gazing at his bulging arms and chest.
Their food arrived, shaved roast beef on two halves of a thick sourdough roll. Guy spread his sandwich with horseradish so pungent the odor made Ellen’s eyes water. Gail cut his sandwich into eighths, then bit fastidiously into one of his mini-snacks. Ellen ate her sandwich with enjoyment, listening to shop talk, some of it already familiar terminology.
“Tell me,” she asked, her eyes fixed on the center of the table, her question directed to no one in particular, “the people in Philadelphia—doesn’t it matter to them what goes on out here? What kind of man Fergus Parker was?”
“The eastern people,” Harley Burton answered, “they come out once, twice a year for a few days. We send ’em back wined, dined, entertained.”
“And unenlightened,” Gretchen Phillips added, taking a bite from her sandwich.
Fred Grayson had scowled at the candor of his fellow managers. But he said, “Numbers. All they ever want is the numbers. How we did against Apex. What our market share is, how we plan to improve it.”
Guy Adams’ face was somber. “All the direction and energy went out of the company when my uncle died. All the moral force. Bookkeepers, accountants.” His voice was bitter. “A caretaker management for a once great company. A company that’s become a still-life.”
Fred Grayson got up. Before each toss of a dart he swung his arm back and forth in a vigorous pendulum, then sighted along it as if over the sights of a rifle. Each dart traveled in a swift straight trajectory, crowding around the bullseye area.
“Not bad, Fred.” Gretchen Phillips retrieved the darts and walked quickly to the line. She released her darts quickly, in an economy of motion, each soft toss winging straight into the bullseye.
“Tough,” muttered Harley Burton. “Women’s equality is one thing. Damn superiority’s something else.”
Guy asked Ellen, “Would you like to try?”
“I’ll leave it to you athletes,” Ellen said, smiling at Gretchen Phillips.
“Me too.” Duane Fletcher drained his beer mug. “Let it be Lowenbrau for Duane. Good to the last drop. The champagne of bottled beers. Put a little weekend in your—”
“Stuff it, Duane,” Fred Grayson said through a bite of his sandwich.
Guy took his place behind the line. In a blur of movement Ellen did not completely follow, a dart flew straight and true and thudded just inside the bullseye. Gretchen Phillips applauded. Ellen watched him, her eyes following the seam of shirt that outlined his shoulders; the planes of his back down to his hips; his long legs. He was extraordinarily attractive, for a man.
Guy finished his darts, the others thrown not nearly so accurately as the first, and tossed his dollar down onto the table. With a grin and a wink at Ellen, Gretchen Phillips picked up all the money. Gail pulled the darts out of the board for another game. They continued to play as they finished lunch, Gail barely outpointing Gretchen Phillips in the next contest.
“Sorry boys,” Gretchen Phillips said, “I have to get back. Got to call East before they all leave.”
Scraping his chair back to get up, Gail said, “Back to the not-so-tender mercies of Detective Delafield.”
Ellen started guiltily; she had been remembering Kate Delafield, her thoughts intimate and lingering. She said, half-humorously, “She’s very good at her job.”
Six pairs of eyes looked at her. Disconcerted, she leaned over and picked up her purse.