The Popsicle Tree Read Free

had dinner, watched some TV, and went to bed early, partly because Jonathan, while we were reminiscing about the trip, mentioned the very attentive—and very handsome—flight attendant on our return flight, suggested we might play a new game he called The Horny Passenger and The Accommodating Flight Attendant. Talk about the Friendly Skies…!
    *
    One of the first things I did when I got to the office Tuesday morning—after attending to my coffee/newspaper/crossword puzzle routine—was to look in the phone book for the address of one Dean Arbuckle. Since he’d been off the day before, I hoped he’d be at work, but wanted to be sure before I drove over to Cramer’s. I took a chance and dialed the number. A woman answered.
    “Is Mr. Arbuckle in?” I asked, hoping that he wasn’t—if he was, I’d just hang up.
    In the background I could hear children arguing. There was a moment’s pause while the woman covered the mouthpiece and said something to the children, then came back on. “No, he’s at work. Can I help you with something?”
    “No, thank you. I’ll try to reach him there. Good-bye,” and I hung up before she could ask anything else.
    On a whim, I consulted the phone book again and wrote down the address, then looked for the number and address of Judi Cramer. There was no Judi Cramer listed, though there were two “J. Cramers. I wrote them both down. Since I didn’t know whether Judi worked every day, I didn’t try calling either number—if a woman answered I wouldn’t know if it was her or a “J. Cramer’s” wife without asking, and I didn’t want to have it be her and then have to try to explain why I was calling.
    Instead, I decided to take a drive out past Dean Arbuckle’s house, to see if there might be any immediately visible evidence indicating a lifestyle above what I might assume to be a normal used-car salesman’s means—whatever in hell that might be.
    He lived, I saw from looking at the city map I keep in my desk, on the north side of town, near the river. It was a nice day for a drive, and I took my time.
    The Arbuckles lived on a quiet residential street of neatly kept homes. The house I was looking for was much like its neighbors: fake shutters flanking the windows, a twin-dormer roof, and a red-brick sidewalk to the front door. As I drove slowly past, I looked down the driveway to the neat two-car garage at the rear of the house, with a basketball hoop over the open double retractable door. The one side of the garage was empty. In the other I caught a glimpse of the grill and front end of what looked to be an expensive and obviously new sports car. I drove around the block and came back, approaching the house from the other direction. Sure enough, that’s what it was. A convertible, yet!
    Well, it appeared that Dean Arbuckle must be an awfully good salesman to afford a wife, a couple of kids, a nice house, and two cars. (I assumed he drove to work, which meant he had the second car with him. I wondered how new it was.)
    On my way back to the office, I drove through The Central and down the alley behind Cramer Motors. Four cars were parked directly behind the office building; one, a late-model Cadillac—Cramer’s, probably—a last-year’s model Chevy, an older station wagon, and a Volkswagen around three to five years old. I wondered if Cramer knew Arbuckle had a nice new car in his garage. I tended to doubt it.
    *
    That evening, as we sat watching the evening news before dinner, Jonathan, who had beat me home again—his friend Kyle at work apparently had a girlfriend living near us—said, “Would you mind if I asked Carlene down for coffee and cake after dinner? I don’t know if she has any friends around here, and I think you’d really like meeting her.”
    I set my Manhattan on the coffee table and smiled at him. “And Kelly?” I added. Sometimes I could read him like a book.
    He looked a little like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Uh, well, yeah,