“How’s married life so far?” Carr drove the Land-Rover along the left-hand side of Harry Thuku Road.

Half a block from the Hotel Norfolk, on the left, just before the rotary, Fletch noticed a police station/jail.

After a moment, Fletch answered, “There’s a difference between men and women.”

“Yes,” Carr said. “There is. Shall I sing you a few million songs about that? Never mind. You may have only one life to live.” He shifted down.

“Okay. You know Barbara and I had a disagreement.”

Of the men who walked along the road, many were with children.

A few raindrops appeared on the windshield.

“Hope Barbara’s having a nice day by the pool,” Fletch said.

“Never begrudge Africa its rain,” Carr said. “We’ll go a bit out of our way to have lunch at the fishing lodge on Lake Turkana, which is nothing to write home about. But, before that, you can swim in their pool, which is.”

“Which is what?”

“Something to write home about.”

“How can a swimming pool be something to write home about?”

“You’ll want a swim by the time we get there,” Carr was smiling to himself.

Fletch noticed a dog-eared paperback on Carr’s dashboard. Murder by Rote. By Josie Fletcher. Fletch picked it up. “You read my mother?”

“Her biggest fan. Have you read that one?”

Fletch was thumbing through the book. “How can I tell?”

“She must be a very sensible woman, your mother.”

“Sensible?” Adjectives sometimes used to describe his mother always amazed Fletch. Sensible. Observant. Clever about clocks set wrong and dogs that don’t bark. Practical. Wise. Logical. Adjectives used by her few fans. “Yes, she might notice if her house were on fire. But she’d probably finish writing her chapter before doing anything about it.”

Carr shifted in his seat. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Last Saturday. The day I was married.”

“Still, I gather, a woman, without much education, she’s supported herself, and you, at a hard profession …”

“I appreciate it.” Fletch tossed the book back onto the dashboard. “We had a good conversation. I really pinned her down about my father. My hearing from him forced the issue.”

“Oh?” Carr cleared his throat. “What did she say about him?”

“She said she loved him. His disappearance left her in a state of permanent shock. She’s been trying to solve mysteries ever since.”

“Maybe the quality of a writer is determined by the universality of the mystery he’s trying to solve.”

Leaning against his door, right arm over the chair back, Fletch stared at Carr.

“A pilot has lots of time to think,” Carr said, as if excusing himself. “Literally, his head is in the clouds. Why does human life take the forms it does? Families, friends … What are these institutions humans keep creating, destroying, and re-creating for ourselves? Religions, nations, families, businesses, clubs … What are they for? Given the uniqueness of life, how can one person purposely take the life of another, for any reason?”

“My mother supports herself by writing detective stories,” Fletch said. “There’s nothing mysterious about it.”

They were stuck in traffic.

“What are we?” Carr mused.

Fletch said, “We are all mysteries waiting to be solved.”

“Now you’ve got the beat.” Carr beat out a little rhythm with his fingers on the steering wheel. “One has to think something.” The traffic began to move. “Odd, though, that your mother never told you much about your father. She must be articulate.”

“She really hasn’t known all these years whether he’s dead or alive.”

“She had him declared dead?”

“She had to, to get on with her own life.”

“Therefore you thought he was dead.”

“Kids believe what they’re told. When the courts say, ‘Your daddy is dead,’ the kid says, ‘Okay. My daddy is dead. What’s for lunch?’”

“What was for lunch?”

“Usually the question, ‘How do you spell hors d’oeuvres?’ My mother never could spell hors d’oeuvres. It’s a wonder she kept serving ‘em up in her books.”

“All this is more of a suprise to you than I thought.”

“You don’t get used to not having a father. Then again, you do.”

“Then someone comes along and says, ‘Here’s Papa!’”

“Where is Papa?”

Carr swung out to pass. “Walter Fletcher has screwed up.”

“She also told me she never told me much about Walter because Walter wasn’t there to defend himself.”

Carr breathed a whistle through his teeth. “Nice lady.”

“Sometimes, any news is better than no news.”

“I’m not so sure.” Carr turned left onto the airport road. “Barbara’s not missing much of a trip. Too murky really to see the green hills of Africa. Still, she’s getting her rest by the sunless pool. And your company is pleasant. I guess you’re the one person in the world I don’t have to worry about stealing Murder by Rote before I finish it.”