Shallow Graves

“That’s a good one, sir. That’s very good.” He said, “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
    Meg glanced up the stairs. A small face was looking through the newel posts at the landing.
    “Sam, come on down here.”
    Her son jumped down the stairs.
    He walked right up to Pellam and stuck out his hand. “How do you do?”
    Megan felt a burst of pride.
    Pellam smiled—maybe at the formality and at the firm shake. Meg knew that childless men and women tended to think of kids as, more or less, pets. Meg had worked hard with her son. He was polite and direct. Meg said, “Meet my son, Sam. Sam, this is Mr. Pellam.”
    Keith said, “Come on upstairs. Sam, we’ll postpone your homework long enough so you can show Mr. Pellam your room.”
    “Yeah!” the boy said in a high voice.
    The male contingent of the dinner party vanished upstairs.
    Meg walked into the kitchen and poured glasses of Pellam’s wine for the three of them. She sipped hers and stared at the Winnebago. Should she join them or not?
    No, something told her to stay here.
    Ten minutes later the creak of footsteps had worked its way back to the top of the stairs. Pellam’s camper was next on the tour itinerary. Sam started to burst out the door but Keith made sure he was wearing his jacket. Meg offered wine to the men. Pellam took his, nodded at her with a smile. Keith glanced at the glass but shook his head. “I’ll have some later.” He was a hard liquor drinker mostly. Scotch.
    “Mom, I showed Mr. Pellam the computer, then my burglar alarm and my metal detector. . . .”
    Pellam said, “He made it himself. I was impressed.”
    Sam said, “Dad helped.”
    “But not much,” Keith said.
    They all moved toward the door. Keith said to Meg, “We’re getting a Winnebago tour.”
    She said, “Dinner’s ready.”
    “Honey,” he said patiently, “it’s a Winnebago.” And a glance at Sam’s face told her a delayed dinner was worth it.
    As they walked onto the porch Sam asked, “Hey, Mr. Pellam, do you like bombs?”
    “I’ve worked on a few.”
    “Huh?”
    “Movies.”
    Meg laughed.
    Sam continued, breathlessly enthusiastic. “Sometime maybe I could show you these practice bombs. Like from airplanes! They’re at this junkyard. They’re really neat. Mom won’t let me buy one but . . . wow, that’s so neat. Can I sit in the driver’s seat?”
    “You can even honk the horn,” Pellam told him.
    “Cool.”
    AT THE DINNER table, Pellam looked out over the spread of osso bucco, mashed sweet potatoes, green bean salad, broccoli. How’d she made all this in the two hours since she’d intercepted him downtown?
    Sam was in bed, Keith was serving and Pellam kept looking around him. He felt as if he’d never seen a house before.
    Keith adjusted his tie and lifted his wineglass. “To my wonderful wife and her superb dinner.”
    The conversation meandered. Washington politics, Los Angeles smog. Pellam asked Keith what he did.
    “I own a little company that makes over-the-counter products. Cough syrup, aspirin, things like that.”
    “He’s too modest,” Meg said. “Keith keeps tap dancing on Bristol-Myers’ face. It’s an uphill battle but he’s getting there slowly.”
    “It’s tough for us small boys. But I like the challenge. That’s what’s great about growing a business. The competition.”
    “You a corporation?”
    “Uh-huh. You have to be, with all the personal injury suits now. My single biggest overhead expense after salaries is insurance.”
    “You have a partner?”
    Silence. Meg stirred. Pellam had asked something awkward. Keith said, “Dale Meyerhoff. We worked together at a pharmaceutical company near Poughkeepsie. He died last year.”
    “Died? Oh, I’m sorry.”
    “Car accident,” Meg offered.
    Keith said, “It was quite a shock.”
    Pellam realized that they’d dealt with the loss a long time ago but they were uneasy now for him —probably worried that the reference would remind him of Marty. He said, “So you do everything, hm?”
    Keith said, “I had a lot of learning to do. Dale—my partner—was sales and finance. Me, I’m just a chemist basically. A scientist. A nerd, you know.”
    “Studio I used to work for did a film about a chemist one time.”
    “Really?” Keith smiled. “Usually you just see movies about cops and monsters and private eyes.”
    “I guess it wasn’t really a chemist. It was called The Surrey Alchemist. We made it in England. It had very limited