“When was all that?”
“A year ago last month. Or a lifetime ago. Take your pick. Doctor Bill operated on Mother again last March. And then she died on the third of this month.” She frowned. “Only eleven days ago, Tray! But it seems much longer ago. And it was, of course. They kept her so doped, trying to build her up at the same time, for the operation. She was so tiny and shrunken. She looked seventy years old. You’d never have known her. And she was so… damn brave. I’m sorry. Excuse me. What the hell good is bravery in her situation?”
“Was there any chance?”
“Not the faintest. Bill explained it to Tom and me. I had to give permission. He said he thought it might help her to do another radical, take out more of the bowel, cut some nerve trunks to ease the pain. He wasn’t kidding me. I know he didn’t give her much chance of surviving it. But… he liked Mom. And she might have lasted for another two months, even more, before it killed her.”
I sat and made casual talk for a little while, watching her at work. She asked me to come to the party Tuesday evening. I said I might if I didn’t have to leave town before then. She said that if Tom wasn’t tied up, the three of them were going to drive down to Casey Key next Sunday, and she would look for that information about the Likely Lady.
I found the Boughmer house at 90 Rose Street without difficulty, but it was twenty after four when I walked up the porch steps and rang the bell. The blinds were closed against the afternoon heat. A broad doughy woman appeared out of the gloom and looked out at me through the screen. She wore a cotton print with a large floral design. She had brass-gold hair so rigidly coiffed it looked as if it had been forged from a single piece of metal.
“Well?”
“My name is McGee, Mrs. Boughmer. I called about talking to your daughter on that insurance matter?”
“You’re not very businesslike about arriving on time. You don’t look like a business person to me. Do you have any identification?”
I had found three of the old cards and moved them into the front of the wallet before I got out of my car. Engraved, fancy, chocolate on buff. D. Travis McGee. Field Director. Associated Adjusters, Inc. And a complex Miami address, two phone numbers, and a cable address.
She opened the door just far enough for me to slip the card through. She studied it, ran the ball of her thumb over the lettering, opened the door, and gave it back to me.
“In here, please, Mr. McGee. You might try the wing chair. It’s very comfortable. My late husband said it was the best chair he ever sat in. I will go see about my daughter.”
She went away. It was a small room with enough furniture and knickknacks in it for two large rooms. The broad blades of a ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, humming and whispering. I counted lamps. Nine. Four floor and five table. Tables. Seven. Two big, four small, one very small.
She came marching back in, straight as a drill sergeant. A younger woman followed her. I stood up and was introduced to Helen Boughmer. Thirty-three, maybe. Tall. Bad posture. Fussy, frilly, green silk blouse. Pale pleated skirt. Sallow skin. Very thin arms and legs fastened to a curious figure. It was broad but thin. Wide across the shoulders, wide across the pelvis. But with imperceptible breasts and a fanny that looked as if it had been flattened by a blow with a one-by-ten plank. Pointed nose. Mouse hair, so fine the fan kept stirring it. Glasses with gold metal frames, distorting lenses. Nervous mannerisms with hands and mouth. Self-effacing. She sat tentatively on the couch, facing me. Mom sat at the other end of the couch.
“Miss Boughmer, I’m sorry to bother you when you’re not feeling well. But this is a final report on some insurance carried by Doctor Stewart Sherman.”
“What policy? I knew all his policies. I was with him over five years. I made all the payments.”