Father's Day Murder

by Lee Harris

  I had never been inside before. Beyond the doors was a short flight of stairs that led up to the enormous lobby. Fred Beller had said I should sit in the waiting area to the left. There were a number of people sitting there, reading or just watching the people walking by. I found an empty chair and took it. I had no idea what Beller looked like since he hadn’t been photographed, and I didn’t relish going up to strangers and asking them who they were.

  It was a few minutes after twelve when I got there, and as I sat, I looked around at the huge chandelier, the people coming and going. No one around me had made a move when I came in and sat down, so I assumed he wasn’t there. On the low balcony, a few steps above the foyer, people sat at tables enjoying drinks and lunch. None of them seemed very interested in me.

  Finally a middle-aged couple came from the Lexington side, stopped under the chandelier, and looked in my direction. The woman was wearing a colorful summer dress and the man wore a short-sleeved knit shirt with tan pants. I stood so they would see me.

  The man smiled, waved, and started over. “Christine Bennett?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Beller.”

  “Sorry we’re late. This is my wife Marge.”

  I shook her hand.

  “I’ve got a table for us in Peacock Alley. Marge’ll join us later.”

  We all walked back toward the restaurant and elevators, and Fred took a light jacket out of one of his wife’s shopping bags before she left us. She was carrying several from stores where it was easy to spend money.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow, so this is our last chance to pick things up. Here we are.”

  We turned to the restaurant and were seated quickly. Fred Beller was the third tall man I had met in the group. He was slimmer than either Dr. Horowitz or David Koch, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and had an open friendly face. He offered me a drink but I refused. When I left here, I would be driving home. He ordered Scotch on the rocks with a twist for himself, mentioning a single malt brand that I had heard of, Glenfiddich. The waiter brought a small bottle of water and Beller poured a very small amount into the glass.

  I looked at the menu next to my place and felt palpitations at the prices. This was only lunch, after all. A dinner at these prices would be expensive.

  “I guess my daughter told you I was here,” Fred Beller said.

  “If that’s who answered the phone. I gather Dr. Horowitz knew you were here.”

  “Yes, I talked to him earlier in the week. He didn’t think it was necessary to mention to you that I was in New York.”

  So they had spoken last night. “Did he mention it to the police?”

  He contemplated a moment before saying, “I don’t think so.”

  “Were you at the restaurant last Sunday night where Arthur Wien was murdered?”

  “I? No. What would make you think—”

  “I’m just asking. It seemed a relevant question.”

  “I haven’t seen any of those people for a long time.”

  “Except Dr. Horowitz.”

  “Mort and I are in touch from time to time. What brought you into this very unhappy situation?”

  I told him.

  “I hope you’re successful. The police don’t seem to be at this point.”

  “If I learn anything important, I’ll turn it over to them. Could you tell me how you felt about Arthur Wien?”

  “Arthur was a very successful man who earned what he achieved. I haven’t had a conversation with him for years. Like everyone else in the group, he would have given the shirt off his back for any of us. I didn’t like him very much.”

  “That’s an odd sequence of statements.”

  “It puts into a paragraph what I might otherwise spend an hour explaining.”

  “Is there anyone else in the group you don’t like?”

  “I always thought George Fried—who’s dead—was a suffocating bore. I never cared for Bruce very much. I guess I don’t sound like a good friend.”

  “You were a large group of men. It would be hard for one of you to find all of them equally attractive.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

  The waiter came for our order. I asked for a salad and Fred Beller asked for a sandwich.

  “Could you tell me why you felt about Arthur Wien the way you did?”

  “We didn’t hit it off. I loved basketball and he hated it. When we were in high school I think we had the hots for the same girl.”

  “Who got her?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I think I did for a while, but she lost interest before I did.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “I never cared very much whether Artie was angry.”

  “Did he ever try to borrow money from you?”

  “That’s an odd question.”

  “Did he?”

  “No, he didn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever lent anyone more than five dollars so it wouldn’t make much difference.”

  “Did he ever ask you for any other kind of favor?”

  “Why would he? We weren’t close friends.” He looked at me. “I know. I’m being evasive. No, he never asked me for money or for any other kind of favor.”

  “You knew about this reunion, didn’t you?”

  “They always send me the notice.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I think Bernie Reskin usually arranges these things. There’s a nice guy.”

  “Why did you pick last weekend to come to New York?”

  “Very simple. My son gave me the trip as a Father’s Day present.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “Yes, he does. And he said he’d rather have me come here than him go to Minnesota. He sent the plane tickets and made the reservation at the Waldorf and got us tickets for a couple of shows.”

  “That’s a wonderful present.”

  “He’s a wonderful son.”

  I was starting to think that this was one coincidence that was fully explained by what I had been told, that there was nothing mysterious or evil behind Fred Beller’s motive for coming east.

  “Are you retired?” I asked.

  “Semi. I don’t go to an office every day any more.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I was a pharmacist for a long time, but I sold my store about fifteen years ago and I do other things now. I work for someone else part-time just because I can’t quite stop. And I dabble in the market.”

  Our lunches came as I was wondering if there was anything else I should bother asking. Both dishes were very elegantly presented, almost too pretty to dig into.

  But we did and just at that moment Mrs. Beller showed up. “My, that all looks so good I’m tempted to have something myself.” She sat on the other side of her husband. “But I won’t.”

  “Marge isn’t a lunch eater,” her husband explained. “Want a drink, honey?”

  “Maybe something cold like lemonade.”

  He signaled the waiter and ordered for his wife. She looked very fresh and cool, as though she had just washed in cold water. Her hair was blond, short, and curly and she wore large silver earrings with a pale blue stone.

  “Did you know Arthur Wien, Mrs. Beller?” I asked.

  “I met him a long time ago. Fred and I were in New York once, it must have been twenty years ago or more, and I met some of the men. They were all very nice. I was impressed with Arthur Wien because I had read his books. Didn’t we have him sign one for us, Fred?”

  “We did.”

  “So, you know, I was looking forward to meeting him. To me he was a celebrity.”

  “Was he married at the time?”

  “Mm, maybe not. I don’t think he had a wife with him.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He was very nice to me. Of course, I told him I had read his books. But he was friendly. I liked him.” She smiled. Her lemonade was set in front of her and she sipped it.

/>   “Have you met any of the other men in the group?”

  “Some. We were just talking to—” She stopped and looked at her husband.

  “Just tell the truth,” he said. “Chris knows we’ve seen Mort.”

  “Well, we got together with the Horowitzes the other night.”

  “Did Arthur Wien ever visit you in Minnesota?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer. I waited.

  “Artie never visited us at home,” her husband said finally. “We took a trip to California a few years ago and ran into him there. He was very expansive, insisted on showing us around, taking us out, introducing us to his friends. In a weak moment I said, ‘Come and see us anytime, Artie.’ After that, he actually called and said he was going to be in Minneapolis to do a book signing and he wanted to see us. But it didn’t work out.”

  “He came and you didn’t see him?”

  “It just didn’t work out,” Fred Beller said. “He wasn’t there very long and he had a TV appearance besides the signing; we just didn’t manage to get together.” His tone of voice indicated he had said as much as he was going to.

  “What made you move to Minnesota?” I asked him.

  “I met Marge. She was from Minneapolis, and I went out there and fell in love with the place. I was already in love with her so it wasn’t hard.”

  She was smiling. “My folks had a nice house with a big backyard and this city kid here couldn’t believe we didn’t live in the middle of a public park.”

  “Have you ever seen where your husband lived as a boy?”

  “We don’t come to New York much and I don’t think Fred wants to go back, do you, Fred?”

  “I left the Bronx because I didn’t like it. I don’t think it’s improved with age.”

  I decided not to mention that I was taking a guided tour tomorrow. “This is a wonderful lunch,” I said to relieve the tension.

  “So is mine,” my host agreed. “I’m glad you made this appointment with us or we might not have had a chance to eat here.”

  I took the envelope of Father’s Day photographs out of my bag and put them on the table. “Have you seen these?” I asked.

  “The reunion pictures? No, I haven’t. May I?”

  “Please.”

  He put his fork down and started through the pictures, looking at each one with interest. As he finished, he passed them along to his wife. “Mort looks good,” he said at one point. “This is Artie right here, honey. Is that his wife?” he asked me.

  “I believe so.”

  “Guess he still likes them young.”

  I waited till both of them had gone through the pack and returned them to me. Then I said, “I would love to have one of you, Mr. Beller, or one of the two of you. Just to complete the set.”

  Before he could say anything, his wife reached for her bag, which she had stowed under the table. “I have one I can give you.” She slipped the photo out of a plastic holder and gave it to me, handing it in front of her husband. I wondered whether he was tempted to grab it and keep it from me, but he didn’t. “It’s fairly recent,” Marge said.

  “Thank you very much.” I put it in the envelope with the others. “Dr. Horowitz asked me to look into the murder of Arthur Wien. I’ve had some experience investigating murders, and his daughter and granddaughter were very concerned that the police felt he was the main suspect.”

  “Is there any evidence?” Beller asked.

  “I don’t know. It was my impression that because he found the body, he seemed the likeliest suspect. I’m sure they’re doing forensic work on the body and whatever they picked up at the crime scene. What I’m doing is talking to the Morris Avenue Boys to see what they think about Arthur Wien, about each other, about what might have happened in the last fifty years that could have made one of the group a killer. What do you think?”

  “I think Artie was a womanizer. He married in his twenties and was looking around at other women in his thirties. Is that a motive for murder? Maybe you should ask his first wife.”

  It was something I intended to do. “He was murdered in a men’s room, so it’s a little less likely that a woman did it, but I agree, she might have a motive, although if she did it, it took her a long time.”

  “Maybe hatred ripens with time.”

  “Maybe it does. Was there anyone else who might have had a grudge?”

  “I’m sure there were plenty of people, but murder is very extreme. Most of us work out our displeasures in other ways.”

  “Besides Dr. Horowitz, did you keep in touch with any other members of the group?”

  “Not really. I was always interested to hear how they were doing but not enough interested to pick up a phone or write a letter.”

  I thought that about covered it. I drank my coffee, declined dessert, and wished them a good trip back home. Then I returned to the Koches’ apartment house to retrieve my car. When I went to pay the bill, I was told Mr. Koch had taken care of it.

  7

  Eddie had not yet woken up when I got home so I had a little time to sit and talk to Jack, who was ready for a break. I told him about my two interviews and the lunch, complete with all my uneasy feelings. Mrs. Beller had never answered my question about whether Arthur Wien had visited them at their home. It was her husband who had picked up for her and said it had never happened, but I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. Nor could I see what difference it made, but it was a question that Mrs. Beller obviously wasn’t allowed to answer.

  Then there was Mrs. Koch’s intriguing statement that there was a rumor that Arthur Wien had had an affair with the wife of one of his friends. How does one know there was an affair without knowing with whom it took place? I wasn’t sure. But I now believed I would have to talk to the first Mrs. Wien. I would ask David Koch tomorrow for her name and address.

  “So you’re going to the Bronx tomorrow,” Jack said when I had finished. “What do you expect to get out of that?”

  “Maybe nothing, but I’d like to see this magical place that Horowitz and Koch loved so much and that Fred Beller hated.”

  “Just a lot of brick and concrete,” Jack said. “And probably a lot more graffiti than fifty years ago. One neighborhood looks pretty much like another. You get any feelings from these guys?”

  “Lots of feelings. Horowitz knew that Fred Beller was in town and he didn’t tell me. The two couples got together during the week. Beller didn’t answer some questions very forthrightly. Koch was—I don’t know—maybe less than candid.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re investigating a homicide. When did everyone tell you the truth before this?”

  “I guess never. But Jack, I made a real coup at lunch. I think Fred Beller sensed what I was doing but he couldn’t stop his wife. I asked for a picture of him or both of them, and she gave me one.”

  “What good is that?”

  “I want to find out if he was in the restaurant last Sunday night. If he was, he probably didn’t make the reservation under his real name. I want to get back there with this picture and see if the maitre d’ recognizes them.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “He said he wasn’t there but what would you expect him to say?”

  “By the way, you got some phone calls while you were out.” He went to the kitchen and got a couple of message slips. “Someone named Kaplan?”

  “Bruce Kaplan, yes, he’s the one who served time for embezzling.”

  “The other one’s a Judy Meyer.”

  “That’s the wife of the violinist. Good. Things are moving.” I read the messages but they just said I should call back. Before I did, I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. There were no little cries or other sounds from upstairs so I went to the phone and called Bruce Kaplan first.

  “Miss Bennett, yes, I hear you’re looking into the murder of our friend. How can I help you?”

  For my number one suspect, it was the friendliest overture so far. “I’d like to get together with you and talk to you about Arth
ur Wien and the rest of your friends who were at the reunion.”

  “Fine. Name your time.”

  I thought for a moment. I was meeting David Koch at noon and we were driving up to the Bronx, not a very long drive from what I remembered of the geography of New York. I thought I would be back in mid-Manhattan no later than two. The Kaplans lived in Westchester County, as I did, not a long drive from either Manhattan or Oakwood. I wasn’t sure what Mrs. Meyer had in mind so I asked if I could get back to him. Then I called the other number.

  “Ms. Bennett,” Mrs. Meyer said, “I know you left a message for my husband but he’s resting. Can I talk to you instead?”

  I told her what I wanted, an interview with him. Tomorrow afternoon was a possibility.

  “I think we can manage that. Two to three?”

  “I’ll be there as close to two as I can make it.” Their address was on the West Side of Manhattan, near Riverside Drive.

  “We’ll be here all afternoon.”

  I got back to Bruce Kaplan and arranged to see him tomorrow evening. That meant that by Sunday night I would have spoken to all but two members of the group, the teacher and the researcher. The researcher worked in Manhattan and I would try to set something up for Monday. As I was thinking of that, I heard my little one, and I left my investigative persona in the kitchen and went upstairs.

  Having a small child around, I have learned in the last year and a half, is not just time consuming; it’s also mind consuming. Eddie gets into things. He also wants attention, specifically mine. I read to him and we play games together. I have also gotten together with other women in the neighborhood who have children about his age so that the little ones can play while the mothers talk and supervise. The women I’ve met are a very positive addition to my life. They’re bright and thoughtful, they’re involved in town affairs, and they make good conversation. One of them works part-time, one doesn’t work at all, and a third is able to work out of her home on a contract basis, something I do for Arnold Gold, my lawyer friend in New York, when he has the work and I have the time.

  So Eddie gets to hang out at this early age with his contemporaries, and my life is richer and pleasanter because of it. But when we are one on one, my attention is at least ninety percent on him.