The Groaning Board

newspapers. You’re acting like you haven’t seen them.”
    “What newspapers? I’ve seen the Journal and the Times.“
    Smith took her hand away from the
mouthpiece and spoke into it. “She hasn’t seen them yet. Here, talk to each
other.” She thrust the phone at Wetzon and reached for the stack of tabloids on
her desk.
    Perplexed, Wetzon took the phone.
“Bill? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Then she thought, it’s Silvestri.
Something’s happened to Silvestri. Panic began to creep into her bones.
    “Leslie,” Bill said. “I’m so sorry
this happened.” He sounded awful. „...but we’ll deal with it together.”
    “Please,” Wetzon said. “Did someone
get hurt? Shot? Die? I’m sorry. Smith is flapping some papers at me... hold
on...”
    Smith was doing just that. “Read
this,” she insisted, sticking the Daily News under Wetzon’s nose. She pointed
to A. J. Benza’s column. Wetzon focused and began to read. “Just because —”
Her eyes shot ahead. “Oh, no.”
    “Leslie?”
    She sat down at her desk; a wave of
nausea swept over her. “Bill. I’ll call you back.” She began to read.
     
    Just because your wife has been in an
Alzheimer’s fugue for eight years doesn’t mean you can’t go out and have some
fun once in a while. Of course we hate to judge anyone over the temptations of
a summer’s day, but our spies spotted criminal defender Bill Vee-der in Central
Park the other day rolling around in the grass with the Legslie (get it?)
blonde who danced up a storm in the Combinations revival eighteen months
ago.
     
    Wetzon hid her face in her hands.
“Take it away,” she said.
    “There’s more from my namesake in the Post,“ Smith said.
    “Read it to me.”
    “ ‘Bashful (who are we kidding?)
Billy Veeder, that very sexy, very married high-profile mouthpiece, has been
quietly squiring around town a new lady who looks a lot like the diminutive
former Broadway dancer we used to know before she struck it rich on Wall
Street. Guesses anyone? ’“
    “She didn’t really say ‘guesses
anyone’?”
    “She did.” Although Smith’s words and
manner were solicitous, she seemed to be enjoying the drama altogether too
much.
    When her private line rang, Wetzon
begged Smith to answer it, which Smith did, her eyes limpid. She handed the
phone to Wetzon. “It’s Bill.”
    “Bill...”
    “I’ve got to be in court in an hour.”
    “I feel like a bimbo.”
    “I’m sorry. We can’t let this make a
difference. It’s just something that happened. I want to see you tonight.”
    “I’d rather go home and hide.”
    “You can’t do that.”
    “Oh, no?”
    “I’ll call you at home later.”
    “Sure,” she said. She hung up the
phone. “I didn’t think this far ahead.”
    “It’ll be okay. It’ll blow over. You
have to look at the whole picture.”
    “Yeah, I’m a cheap, trashy B movie.”
    “Do you have my shopping bag?”
    “What shopping bag?”
    “The one from last night.”
    “Jesus, Smith, don’t you have it?”
    Smith answered with a nervous smile
and a shake of her head. “I can’t find it. I thought I had it with me, but I
didn’t have it when I got home.”
    Wetzon started laughing. “Oh, God,
life with you is a trip.”
    “Humpf,” Smith said, running her
fingers through her dark curls. “No one will ever know it was ours.”
    “Ours? Well, I dearly hope not. Did
you take any messages for me? I take it you checked my voice mail, didn’t you?
    Smith grinned. “Nothing important
really. Oh, there was a call from your doctor. I wrote it down for you.”
    “My doctor? Oh, you mean Dr. Jennifer
Bowers?”
    “No, a... wait.” She bent and dug
around in her wastebasket.
    “You threw one of my messages away
with all of yours? You are absolutely outrageous. What am I going to do with
you?” But she was laughing again and somehow Smith had driven away her
distress, at least for a time.
    “Here it is,” Smith said
triumphantly. “I told you he was a doctor. His name is Dr. Orson Furgason.”

Chapter Fifty

     
     
     
    Wetzon
folded the pink message slip into accordion pleats. “Dr. Orson Furgason is the headmaster of
the Colton School, which our Ellen attends and where Sheila Gelber taught
English.”
    “Why would he be calling you, sugar?”
    “I spoke to him about Sheila Gelber
and left my card. I sort of implied that we were working for their insurance
company trying to avoid bad publicity or a lawsuit.”
    “Don’t tell me he