by Lee Harris
“Chloroform,” Ariana said thoughtfully. “Someone could have held a rag over her face, standing behind her maybe, with his arms around her.”
“That’s one way it could be done. Nice and clean. No blood, no bullet, no stab wounds. And when you’re ten miles away from the crime scene, you drop the rag in someone’s garbage that’s to be collected the next morning.”
“Was there any jewelry on either body? Anything to identify them?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Your father’s ring finger showed signs of a ring, probably a wedding ring.”
“He wore one, yes. But Mom did too, a thin diamond band that was either white gold or platinum. And she had a diamond engagement ring that she always wore too. She had very thin fingers. Maybe the rings didn’t leave a mark.”
“And were easy to remove,” I suggested.
We talked for a while longer and then Ariana said she wanted to get back to the motel. Her flight would leave early and she had arranged for a taxi to pick her up. I admired her self-reliance, especially at such a time. She promised she would call if she had enough time on Wednesday between going to the bank and getting out to O’Hare airport for the return trip.
In the meantime, I said, I would contact the company her mother worked for in White Plains and see what they could tell me about her.
As she picked up her bag to leave with Jack, Ariana called, “Say good-bye to Eddie for me.”
I talked to Elsie that evening, telling her that I might be taking a trip and could she—?
“Of course, Chris,” she said, not letting me finish my request. “You know I look forward to your being busy so I get my quality time with Eddie.”
“What would I do without you?” I said.
“You’d have a much more boring life—and so would I.”
It was true. These detours from the norm filled my life both intellectually and substantively. What I was now involved in was tantalizing; besides the homicides, there was a bereaved daughter who needed answers and didn’t know where to look. I hoped the list of former residences and the will would set us on a successful path.
Jack called from New York after lunch on Tuesday to say he knew how to locate phone books on the Internet and we could do some looking tonight. I was glad he said “we.” I don’t use the computer for much myself, although I have learned how to send and receive e-mail. I was surprised at the number of people I knew who already kept in touch that way. In fact, when I know that Jack will be busy in meetings, I e-mail him instead of calling. Since I count my pennies, I’m always happy to save the cost of a call to New York.
Earlier that morning I had called the White Plains number and reached someone who knew Rosette Parker, the name the deceased used at work and at the bank.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker is no longer with us,” the woman said crisply.
“I know that,” I responded. “Are you aware that she died about a month ago?”
There was silence for several seconds. “Would you repeat that?” the woman asked.
I said it again.
“Rosette died?”
“Yes. In May.”
“That’s why she stopped coming to work. We didn’t know what to think.” The somewhat officious voice softened. “She was always so conscientious, we couldn’t understand why she would suddenly not show up. We called her home number but it just rang and rang.”
I arranged to drive up and explain what happened. As I was already dressed and ready to go, I alerted Elsie and then I dashed.
I had to sign in and show ID in the building, and then I took the elevator to the third and top floor. Elizabeth Olson, with whom I had spoken, happened to be walking past the reception area as I asked for her, and she led me to her bright, windowed office where I sat in a comfortable chair.
She reiterated her surprise when Rosette had simply stopped coming to work, mentioning clients Rosette had been working with who couldn’t believe she had abandoned them.
“She was murdered,” I said when I got a chance to speak.
“No!”
I told her briefly how I became involved in the situation, and I watched her face register shock. Then I said, “There are some strange things in Rosette’s life that no one is able to explain at this time. I’d just like to know what you knew about her, such as if she had any friends here in the office.”
“No, she didn’t have friends. She didn’t go out for dinner with the others when they got together. She didn’t socialize with any of us. Nothing against her, you understand. She intimated she was needed at home, and when she finished her work, she took off.”
“So no one here knows her very well.”
“But we all liked her. And her clients adored her. I could give you a list of the people she was doing projects for if you think that will help.”
“I’d appreciate that. And I wonder if you have the things that were in her office.”
“We do. We assumed she’d come back and claim them at some point. Come with me.”
I followed her once again, this time to a supply room filled with tall shelves of pads, pencils, pens, diskettes, and all the other paraphernalia of a modern office. In a corner was a locked safe, and Elizabeth Olson opened it and pulled out a cardboard box marked ROSETTE.
“These are all the things that belonged to her. Why don’t you have a look? You can sit at a table in the coffee room and take as much time as you want.”
She carried the box for me, and I made myself comfortable at a Formica table. I declined coffee, afraid I might inadvertently spill some on the contents of the box. Then I began to go through it.
If I had expected to find an agenda with scribbled appointments and notes about personal things, I would have been disappointed. What I did find was a good-looking desk set with a matching silver pen and pencil, but nothing was engraved on the nameplate. Elizabeth Olson told me that the pads and pencils Rosette used were removed because they belonged to the company. That left very little. A box of Kleenex was the largest item in the box. A bottle of black ink indicated that Rosette owned a fountain pen, although it was not there. The most interesting item in the box was a heavy brown file folder marked PERSONAL in thick black ink. Inside were pages of notes in pencil and ink, along with a few sheets apparently printed from a computer, and the sheets were sorted into groups and paper-clipped together. Each group had a cover page with a name and company on it.
What she had done was make notes and comments to herself that she could use to ingratiate herself with the clients. In several cases there was a wife’s or husband’s name, a birth date, a favorite restaurant or food. One client wanted sushi for lunch; another favored pasta.
When I finished looking through the meager contents of the box, I asked Elizabeth if I might take this folder with me, and she said that would be fine. They had already photocopied it. She suggested I take the pen and pencil set as well. I had the feeling she didn’t want the company involved in a murder investigation, and if they had nothing of Rosette’s, they would be spared. I inserted the folder in an envelope she offered me. Then she scrounged up a plastic bag for the desk set and sent me on my way.
In late afternoon, Ariana called to say she had arrived safely and was packing a larger bag. She intended to be at the bank tomorrow morning when it opened and would go to the airport from there. If all worked as planned, she would be in Oakwood tomorrow evening.
I spent the afternoon calling the people in the file. In every case the person I contacted was shocked and saddened to hear what had happened to Rosette. Eulogies poured out of them. She was such a fine person, such an original and artistic thinker. She was so easy to get along with. Who could have done such a thing?
Not one of them would speculate on the last question. It certainly had nothing to do with business. In that, of course, I was in complete agreement.
On Wednesday morning Ariana called from O’Hare airport to say she had just spoken to the lawyer. “She’ll see me tomorrow morning, Chris. Will you come too
?”
“Sure. What’s her name?”
“Beverly Weingarten. Her office is in lower Manhattan. ” She told me the address. “Do you know how to get there?”
“Absolutely.”
“I made it for eleven. I wasn’t sure how long it would take us to get into the city.”
“Very good. We’ll have an easy trip.”
I had asked the lawyer’s name so I could call my friend Arnold Gold, who also has a law office in lower Manhattan, and ask if he had ever heard of her. A lot of people practice law in the city, so it was a long shot, but I called him after I hung up with Ariana.
“Yes,” he said briskly when his secretary put me through.
“It’s Chris, Arnold. And you’ll never guess what I’m investigating.”
“Hey, do you walk into a room and someone gets shot?”
“Not quite. I have a question to ask you.”
“Do I get to decline to answer?”
“Only if you want to. Do you know a lawyer named Beverly Weingarten?”
“As a matter of fact, I do, but not well. She does estate work, not up my alley. I met her at some shindig or other a couple of years ago, and we exchanged cards. A month or so later she sent me a client, someone who had used her services once and now had the kind of trouble she didn’t take on. I’ve returned the favor a few times.”
“Tell me what you know about her.”
“The clients I’ve sent to her have been quite happy. I saw something in a law journal not long ago about a case she handled for a couple of feuding heirs. Sounded complicated and sounded like she did a good job. You and Jack writing a will?”
“We did that. I’m looking for the killer of a couple who lived here in Oakwood. There’s a daughter and a lot of complications. Beverly Weingarten wrote the will for the victims. I’m going to her office tomorrow morning with the daughter.”
“Well, I’m free for lunch. Give me a jingle if you’re available any reasonable time after noon.”
“I will indeed.”
11
I picked Ariana up at the motel after breakfast and we drove into the city. It was a beautiful spring day, the leaves glossy in that burst of spring newness that I love in the northeast. I gave Ariana a guided tour on the way to New York, which consisted mostly of a catalogue of highway numbers. Driving in lower Manhattan is difficult as it’s an area that has more than its share of one-way streets, all running in the opposite direction of your desired goal. However, we found a garage, walked two blocks, and arrived at Beverly Weingarten’s building.
Although downtown New York has many buildings dating back over a hundred years, this was a new one, probably built on the spot where an old one had once stood. The elevators were high-speed and divided into local and express. We rode up swiftly, stopped smoothly, and walked less than ten feet to the Weingarten et al. office. After a very short wait, the receptionist led us into a large, sunny office lined with the usual bookshelves. Out a window I could see the East River and Brooklyn. After introductions and handshakes, we got down to business.
From Chicago yesterday Ariana had spoken to the lawyer and explained who she was and why she did not want to be identified by the police. Ms. Weingarten had agreed to work around the problem as far as the law would allow.
“After talking to Ariana, I called Oakwood, and the police faxed me sketches of the two deceased and copies of the autopsies,” she said. “I can identify both faces from memory and from the photos they left with me.”
I was impressed that the Brinkers had had such foresight.
“At some point you will have to identify yourself to the local police up there, Ariana, and then identify your parents, probably from photos and sketches. If you have any possessions of theirs, like clothing or toothbrushes, that will help make the identification solid. In the meantime, I accept you as their daughter.” She pushed a small snapshot of Ariana across the desk. “They prepared me for a meeting like this.”
“I see.” Ariana was looking unsteady at this point.
“You won’t be able to access their bank accounts yet as there aren’t any death certificates. They’ll be available after the identification is certified.”
“I don’t need money,” Ariana said, not for the first time.
“I don’t know your parents’ whole story but I know they were concerned that someone from their past might try to injure them, or worse.”
“That’s true.”
“And I know it was their unshakable desire that you inherit all their worldly belongings. I have a list here but I’ll hold it until the identification is made.”
“May I ask when you last spoke to them?” I said.
“I would guess a year ago. They came in here two years ago to have their wills written, and they called about a year later, just to say they were at the same address and they were still alive and well.”
“Did you have my address?” Ariana asked.
“Yes, I did. That’s why I asked you over the phone yesterday where you lived. It wasn’t a perfect way to determine who you were, but it was a good way to weed out a bungling imposter.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know any more than I do about this person who was after my parents.”
“I know almost nothing,” the lawyer said. She unbuttoned her dark gray suit jacket to uncover a white silk shirt. She was in her forties, I estimated, with dark hair, wearing a wedding band and diamond ring on her left hand and a watch partly exposed by her shirtsleeve.
“I guess we were hoping you could point us in a fruitful direction,” Ariana said.
“Which means?” The dark eyebrows rose.
“Chris and I want to find out who killed my parents.”
“I would leave that to the police, Ariana. I’m afraid I have no direction at all for you. But I have an envelope. It may tell you all you need to know.” She removed a brown six-by-nine envelope from her file folder. The envelope had several strands of wire around it, and when she laid it on the center of the desk, I saw what appeared to be sealing wax along the flap.
Ariana’s eyes widened. “What’s that?”
“I have no idea. Your parents brought it in on the day they came to sign their wills. They asked if I would keep it until you arrived to tell me they had died. These wires can be opened only once. After that, they break. You can see they added wax that they left their fingerprints in. No one could duplicate the wrapping. You’re the only person I can give this to and you’ll have to sign for it.”
“OK.”
Weingarten pushed a receipt across the desk and Ariana signed it. “You sign, too,” the lawyer said to me. “You’re a witness.”
I signed and pushed it back. The lawyer handed Ariana the package. “It’s yours,” Beverly Weingarten said. “I hope it answers your questions.”
“Do I have to open it now?” Ariana asked.
“You don’t ever have to open it, although I would advise you to do so.”
“Then we’re finished here?”
“We are. I’d like to see you again after you go to the police. Once there’s a death certificate, we can begin probate. You’re the executrix. I assume you know that.”
Ariana shrugged. “Thank you,” she said, rising and offering her hand across the table. She tucked the envelope in her large bag and hung the bag on her shoulder. We were ready to go.
Arnold was still available for lunch and he gave me instructions on how to walk to his office. We set off and I related the origin of my friendship with him to Ariana as we went. I had looked into a forty-year-old homicide soon after I had been released from my vows and left St. Stephen’s Convent. In 1950, at the time of the murder, Arnold had been a young legal aid lawyer representing a mentally retarded defendant. In the course of my investigation, I met him and we became fast friends. Now I do occasional part-time work for him. He pays me more than I’m worth, but it’s always a pleasure to do something different and have an independent income.
“So you started o
n a really old case,” Ariana said as we neared the familiar old building Arnold’s office is housed in.
“That was it. And since then I’ve been involved in so many investigations that I think I’ve lost count. But this one is different,” I added, hearing myself say precisely what I had said so many times before. “No one’s ever called me and told me a murder was about to happen.” I pushed open the door and held it for her.
We rode up in a slow, noisy elevator from a bygone era. When we reached Arnold’s office, he was haranguing his secretary gently and looked ready to leave with us or without us. We hugged, I made introductions, and we rode down to the main floor in the elevator that was still waiting for us.
Lunch with Arnold is always a good time. First I tell him about Eddie, then Jack. Then he tells me about Harriet, his wife of many decades, and finally a little something about a case he’s been working on that he finds unusual or ridiculous or is memorable in some other way. We went through all this in abbreviated fashion today with no mention of a current case. Then he turned to Ariana and offered condolences.
“But I can tell you, your questions about your parents’ murders are in the best hands. Chris has a unique way of looking at things and she edges in where the police are shoehorned out.”
Ariana smiled at the metaphor. “The answers may be in the envelope Ms. Weingarten gave me.” She dug it out of her bag and laid it on the table. “My parents left this for me. They may have answered all my questions without my needing to lift a finger.”
“Then I would advise you to read the contents before you buy expensive airline tickets to far-off places to look for long-lost relatives.”
“I will do that, probably when I get back this afternoon.”
“In the meantime, let’s eat, drink, and be thoughtful.”
Which is what we did. Arnold didn’t prod Ariana and she occasionally joined the conversation with a comment or personal anecdote of her own. At two, when we were sipping coffee, he glanced at his watch and called for the check. I have learned there’s no winning a battle for the check when I’m with Arnold.
