Where City’s Movers And Shakers Get Away From It All
I read Louise’s predictable cutsie-wootsie lead -Even the Energizer Bunny has to recharge its batteries once in a while -and then turned to the jump page to see if they’d run a photo of Rollie Stumpf. Boy did they. It was a huge, three-column shot of him standing in front of his mantel full of trophies. He was flashing a forced jack-o-lantern smile. I could just see Gwen on the day of the shoot standing behind Weedy screeching, “Smile bigger, Rollie! Smile bigger!”
“I bet he’s not smiling this morning,” I whispered to myself.
I scanned the story for the part about Rollie’s den. He got several paragraphs, right after Worldstar Hydraulics CEO Vernon P. Welty. There was this self-effacing quote by Rollie:
“Sometimes I can’t believe it’s mine,” said Stumpf, the son of a steelworker who today runs one of Hannawa’s most prestigious insurance agencies. “It’s bigger than the entire house I grew up in.”
And this rather sad quote from Gwen, which I’m sure she spent a week of rehearsal getting just right:
“My husband is the busiest man in the world, so he doesn’t get to spend as much time in here as he’d like,” said Stumpf’s wife of 48 years, Gwendolyn Moffitt-Stumpf. “But I’ve made sure he absolutely loves the few precious moments he does get.”
After breakfast I took James for his walk. It was one of those July days you dream all winter about but hate when they finally arrive. It was only nine o’clock but the temperature was already pushing eighty. When we got back to my bungalow, James went straight to his rug for a nap. I took a shower and put on the worst tee shirt and jeans I could find.
I had big plans for this particular Sunday. My backyard is a disaster. It has been since Lawrence and I bought it over forty years ago. The lawn has more dandelions than grass blades and the flowerbeds are solid clay. For years I’ve been dreaming of turning it into one of those beautiful English gardens you drool over in the magazines. In my mind I can picture the cobblestone walkways and serpentine beds of perennials. I can picture a comfy teakwood bench beneath a vine-covered trellis. I see roses. I see zinnias, and marigolds, and bright yellow mums. I can hear my imaginary garden, too. A trickling fountain. Tinkling wind chimes. The buzzing wings of hummingbirds. I figured today was as good as any to start.
The first thing I did was get my kloppers from the garage and go to work on the dead limbs hanging from my pin oak. When that was finished, I scrubbed out the crud in my bird bath. When that was finished, I de-thistled my day lilies. When that was finished I made myself another mug of tea and curled up on my new glider. Gardening is always easier between your ears than on your hands and knees.
While I was busy deciding where my future herb garden should go, the phone rang. And rang and rang. “Damn it,” I growled at the unknown caller, “can’t you see I’m not here?”
The ringing continued. I gave in and trotted inside. It was Detective Grant.
“I figured I’d better tell you before you saw it on the news,” he began. “Rollie Stumpf overdosed on drugs this morning.”
“Good gravy! Is he dead?”
“Not yet.”
“Please don’t tell me it was intentional.”
“He left a note.”
“Good gravy! Where was he? And where was Gwen?”
“Gwen was in the kitchen. Rollie was in his den.”
“Good gravy! Don’t tell me that.”