by Emma Lathen
John would admit that it was odd, but he was not looking forward to another interview. He had already been present at too many. George was splendidly ignoring the screaming headlines about Sprague and Dartmouth. The Sloan PR department could do just so much. Let the Dartmouth PR department carry some of the load. It would make a nice departure from their usual round of complacent PR releases about the million disappointed applicants who stood behind each admitted Dartmouth freshman.
More or less idly he asked, “Gabe was up at Dartmouth at Homecoming wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” said George thinking hard. “Yes he was. Left right after the football game, I understand. Hertz told the police he checked out at 6:30 PM on Saturday.
When they reached the Sloan, George decided to stop at John’s office to see if Miss Corsa had tracked down the also elusive Father Martin. There, comfortable as few people managed to be in Miss Corsa’s domain, was Lucy.
“Lucy,” said John with amused suspicion. “I’m delighted to see you. But what are you doing here?”
He did not miss the conspiratorial glanced passed across his desk. Clearly a very good understanding continued between Lucy and Miss Corsa. This was a credit to both of them, but John saw in this praiseworthy alliance a threat to his well-being, in the form of social obligations or worse.
“I dropped in to talk about what you want me to do about Sprague’s funeral,” Lucy said. “Then I got fascinated by these calls Miss Corsa is making to locate Father Martin.”
George regarded interest in clerics, together with concern about a highly publicized funeral, as feminine frivolity. He looked inquiringly at Miss Corsa. Composedly she reported that she had not found Martin.
George made an indeterminate noise.
“I can see you are busy,” his wife said, gathering up her furs to leave. This time she carefully did not glance at Miss Corsa or John. “Too busy to tell me what you want me to do about the funeral?”
George fell right into the trap, and in some detail favored her with a well-organized summary of the mysterious connections been Patterson, Baxter, Gabe, Knightley, country places in New Hampshire, and the Sprague murder. “So we are busy trying to get in touch with Target,” he concluded, hinting at an afternoon with Miss Corsa and Miss Evans dropping everything else to pursue the hunt. He then glanced at his watch.
“I see dear,” said Lucy sweetly. Including all of them in a brilliant smile she said, “Well I won’t make you take me to lunch then. John, do drop in for drinks tonight,” and she swept out.
Was Miss Corsa regarding her bosses with undisguised disapproval?
“Hmm,” said Thatcher. Just as he suspected, Lucy knew more than she was telling. It turned out she knew exactly where Gabe was, at the Waldorf Astoria grand ballroom, helping supervise the Junior League rehearsal for the fall fashion show for the benefit of the Manhattan Home for Little Wanderers.
Lucy had long since left the Junior League behind her. But, there was not much along Little Wanderer lines that escaped her. There had been the usual disappointment with the proceeds from last year’s benefit, the usual quarrels, the usual resignations, and the unusual decision to deliver the Junior League into Target’s professional hands. So far everything showed marked improvement. It remained to be seen if Target could do anything with a fall fashion show that insisted on using member models.
“Mrs. Lancer.” The scrawny young woman, her arms full of carelessly heaped designer gowns, was awed. Lucy searched her capacious memory, dredged up on of the Asbury stepdaughters who had married and turned fashionable. “Hello Amanda,” she said crisply. “I thought I’d drop by to see how things are coming.”
Amanda launched into a recital of hardship and duress. After looking around, Lucy said, “Why that’s Mr. Uhlein,” and was off, but not before Amanda continued about the selfless devotion required by the Junior League. Lucy forcefully made her way across the ballroom floor, undeflected by crowds of disheveled young men and scurrying young matrons. On the improvised stage at the bandstand a woman with athletic contours pivoted in a mustard green pans suit designed for another figure.
Foursquare in the middle of the floor stood a middle aged woman, watching angrily and occasionally pushing a hand through untidy hair. Then, in accents boroughs removed from the Junior League, she shouted up to the stage: “Mrs. Morse. You gotta wiggle a little dearie. You’re stiff.”
At a small ringside table, Gabe sat with a companion. Rising as Lucy approached he breathed pleasure at seeing her and introduced Mrs. Knightley. Marian’s tawny silk suit, Lucy noticed instantly, compared favorably to the creations being sported by the young ladies rushing around. And she knew how to wear clothes.
Lucy joined them. “I was passing and stopped on impulse,” she said with a twinkle.
She saw no need to add that the impulse was the wicked instinct to discomfit George. Fortunately neither Gabe nor Marian was disposed to look too closely at this; their eyes strayed back to the stage and Helene still busy hectoring Mrs. Morse. And it had been a long time since anyone had challenged Lucy’s right of entry to such functions as this.
“Look honey,” Helen was pleading. “Can’t you loosen up? I know. Why don’t you pretend …”
“Helene,” Gabe barked. “I’m sure Mrs. Morse is trying.”
He bounded out to Helene’s side and was engulfed by a bevy of highly articulate women. Marian smiled. “Helene is one of our function coordinators. But she usually works with professionals. It was easy enough to line up the clothes but the models aren’t her kind.”
Gabe was back, beaming impersonally in all directions. But in an undertone he said, “Marian, the next time I get talked into handling anything at all where amateurs insist in interfering, shoot me.”
“All right. I will.”
This was inspiration enough for Lucy. When peace returned to the bandstand, and Mrs. Morse was succeeded by Mrs. Olliphant with Oriental pants and a forced smile, Lucy swiftly outlined ambitions for the Friends of the Aged Mariner.
Gabe brightened. “Certainly. Let’s see. A banquet? A ball? A fashion show — on no, not that.”
Marian told Lucy that Target would be happy to forward literature on the various ways that worthy causes could raise money. This was not of course what Lucy had in mind.
Mendaciously she launched into a recital concerning a late afternoon committee meeting and members hostile to professional fundraising. This she judged accurately would be enough to set off Gabe.
“Surprising in this day and age to find that sort of resistance,” he deplored, keeping an eye on Helene, who had turned from Mrs. Olliphant to a weary looking band leader. “Still it exists. Marian and I really should stay to see this final run-through.”
So as she had hoped she could remain with Gabe and Marian for the next hour or so and then accompany them back to Target. She was congratulating herself on her tactics when she felt, rather than saw, Marian’s gaze. Was there wariness in the air?
Not on Gabe’s part at least. Between trips out to Helene, a conference about the arrival of 400,000 scented plastic roses, and consultations with Mrs. Buell, Junior League Program Chairman, who was getting ever closer to tears, he rattled off ways the Friends of the Ancient Mariner could raise money.
“Of course,” he insinuated, “a long term program, with follow-ups, will certainly get you more for each dollar invested. In our experience …”
Lucy firmly cut him off and said that the Friends were going to first take the plunge with a limited agenda. She was enjoying herself, and this would do the Friends no harm, but, she realized, extracting information, incriminating or otherwise, from this pair was not going to be easy. Gabe’s loquacity was as carefully controlled as Marian’s silence.
“All right,” Helene commanded. “One last run-through. Now yellow suit. Give it a little swing. And Olliphant, cut the grin.”
“She doesn’t have the Junior League touch,” Gabe lamented. “On Hadassah she is unbeatable.”
Af
ter preliminary cries, shouts, and shushings, the overhead lights dimmed, flattering pink spotlights glowed, and the give piece band played “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.” The dress rehearsal was in full swing.
To Lucy it was just like hundreds of similar affairs. But Gabe was intense as he peered at the parade; Marian was jotting down precise notes.
“Beautiful,” Gabe shouted at intervals, scooping up Marian’s notes and hurrying towards Helene, who looked like thunder itself.
Marian lit a cigarette. “Has anything come up about Elliot?” she asked quietly. “Gabe told me that your husband and you were up at Dartmouth when …”
She did not need to continue. Obviously the murder of a young boy had no place in this world of harmless vanities and self-indulgence. Lucy came to a swift conclusion. Marian had formidable reserve and might not be at all trustworthy, but in no way was negligible.
“As far as I know,” Lucy said, “nothing has come up about Patterson. And as for this appalling tragedy of the murder there seems to be only suspicion.”
Marian looked up. “But the police let everyone leave Dartmouth. That must mean something.”
Lucy thought back to the endless discussions at Dartmouth and afterward. “It may but I think that the police are as much at sea as the rest of us.”
For a moment neither woman spoke. Bubbles of laughter and clarinets, of suggestions and commands, danced around them. Lucy examined her emerald ring and then continued, “From what George says, everybody feels that the key may be the list of names Elliot left behind. One of the men has disappeared, but some sort of lead has turned up.”
A frown shadowed Marian’s smooth brow, “Oh?”
“I remember,” said Lucy who was in the enviable position of lying, of knowing that her companion knew she lied, and of still being able to continue. “I remember because we bought one of his watercolors.”
“Alec Baxter,” Marian added. Was it resignation or defeat?
Lucy nodded. “Apparently they think he might be staying with friends in New Hampshire.”
This time there was no doubt. Marian was jolted. “Friends in New Hampshire? Oh for heaven’s sake.”
Gabe, reappearing, misinterpreted this. “I know, Marian, I know. But I told Helen that they really don’t want a smooth professional show. They like the homemade look.”
Both women looked at him with exasperated incomprehension.
“Gabe, we’ve been talking about Elliot and the murder of that boy up at Dartmouth,” said Marian with a half-smile.
Gabe’s face fell into heavy solemnity. “Terrible thing. We’re sending flowers of course. A gesture of respect.”
With an edge Marian said, “Now it is Alec Baxter.”
“Who? Oh that artist.”
“That’s right,” she said steadily, that artist friend of Steve’s and mine.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Now,” Marian continued, “somebody thinks that Alec may have been staying up at our New Hampshire cottage last weekend when Sprague was murdered. You can see what they must be thinking. We did have a guest Saturday night. If it had been Alec, or somebody else, why, the police might start wondering.”
“Saturday night?” Gabe asked hollowly.
She was implacable. “Saturday night, Gabe. At our cottage. At Saxe, just 27 miles from Dartmouth. Where Sprague was murdered.”
She was certainly leading her witness. And with success. “Why should they think it was Baxter? What difference … oh, all right. I’ll tell them I spent the weekend with you. That I went straight to your place from Dartmouth.”
“Oh really?” said Lucy, politely losing interest. “Look I think they’re ready to begin.”
The second half of the Junior League Fall Fashion sow was unmarred by anything worse than a severe case of hysterics which proved conclusively that Mrs. Morse could, after all, loosen up.
On the trip from the Waldorf-Astoria to Target, Lucy could sense Gabe’s uneasiness. This was understandable. It had been generally assumed that when he left Dartmouth before Sprague’s murder, he had returned directly to New York.
Now it appeared that he had been conveniently close to the campus or had he? He was certainly finding it hard to keep from sending small worried looks towards Marian. She on the other hand was gripped by a more positive emotion. After a brief uninformative admission that she and her husband entertained Baxter for weekends, as part of a social schedule that featured guests during most weekends, she had talked resolutely about the Friends.
With some glee Lucy envisaged George and John over drinks with a rich haul of data and speculation. The best, she discovered as they entered the Target waiting room was yet to come.
“Oh Mr. Uhlein. It’s so exciting. I was just looking for the Barteau estimates and found this. Just look.”
A shiny faced girl brandished a piece of paper at Gabe, Marian and Lucy impartially.
“Noreen,” Marian snapped.
“Oh but Mrs. Knightley, it’s a copy of a letter by Mr. Patterson. I’ll bet the police will want to know. I’ll bet the reporters will want to talk to me. I’ll bet…”
Gabe plucked the flimsy paper from her hand and unabashedly Lucy and Marian looked over his should, even though he read aloud:
“To Father Paul Etienne. The Brothers of Silence? That’s a monastery,” Lucy exclaimed.
Gabe plowed on.
Dear Reverend Father:
I am very happy to recommend that you consider for your late vocation program my longtime friend, Alec Baxter. He has for many years impressed me with the spiritual content of his life. Now that he has resolved his doubts, I know that his commitment to dedication, contemplation, and religious service will be an inspiration to us all.
Alec Baxter’s search for personal self-realization in the world has always been marked by a strong probity, purity of body and mind, and serious purpose. His moral depths have grown steadily. I am fully confident that he is, in all respects, ready and eager to embrace the religious vocation and serve God as a member of your order.
Yours sincerely,
Elliot Patterson
“Sweet Jesus,” proclaimed Gabe.
Marian’s dark eyes sparkled with an undecipherable emotion.
“So you see, the man we entertained last weekend couldn’t have been Alec. Alec has become a Brother of Silence. And Elliot, she choked slightly, Elliot helped him do it.”
Chapter 19
Candidates for Degrees
When Ralph had paused at the newsstand to anathematize the methods of Target which could lose its two principals for unspecified periods, he forgot that the same standards currently prevailed at his brokerage.
His secretary hailed his return with relief. According to her most of Manhattan was demanding his services. “And I didn’t know where you were or when you’d be back,” she reproached him.
“Couldn’t your turn some of them off on to Jake?”
“Yes, but Mr. Consett insisted that he had to speak to you personally.”
“Consett?” Ralph frowned, waiting for bells to ring.
“Yes. He called three times.” She did not provide any further ID. “And Mrs. Patterson was very persistent too. She left a number where she can be reached until 4 PM.”
Now the bill did ring. Dimly Ralph recalled a figure from his trip to Rye, a harassed man whose temper was rapidly shredding into fragments. The brother-in-law, that was it. Shivers of premonition ran down his back.
“Get me Consett first,” he ordered.
When the connection was made Bill Consett came on the line in a rush. “Armitage? I’ve been trying to get you for hours. You remember me don’t you? Patterson’s brother-in-law. Sally isn’t with you is she?”
“Not yet. She’s been calling the office while I was out.”
“Darn it. I was afraid of that. I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing. I found out by accident that’s she’s listing the house for sale. Sally’s gone crazy, I tell you.”
�
��Great,” Ralph said. “Thanks for the warning.”
But this was not Consett’s goal. “Now wait a minute,” he sputtered. You’ve got to try and talk some sense into her. I know it isn’t easy, but she’s just gone off the rails. Especially since this Sprague kid got murdered.”
“Upset is she?”
“Well what do you think? She’s had the police practically camping on her doorstep. Even Sally can’t pass off murder as one of those things Elliot and she don’t discuss with outsiders.”
Brusquely Ralph cut off further lamentation by promising to do what he could. Sally, he told himself, was not the only one going to pieces under the mounting pressure. Consett sounded as if he couldn’t take much more either. It was probably all a tempest in a teapot. Sally simply wanted to get away from the house and who could blame her? The police and the press between them were no doubt making it uninhabitable. And the woman had three children to think of.
This carefully reasoned calm was shattered when he returned Sally’s call. And not by Sally but the way the phone was answered. A brisk voice identified one of New York’s largest stockbrokers and volunteered the information that Mrs. Patterson was closeted with a partner. Would he wait just one moment, please?
After that it was no surprise to learn that Sally wanted to see him instantly. In fact she was planning to grab a taxi and be with him in a matter of minutes.
Now no one spends a lifetime in insurance without learning about distraught women, women who have lost their husbands, women whose homes have been reduced to charred ruins, women waiting anxiously at hospitals. One of the lessons painfully acquired is that women on the brink of hysteria will reach down for some vestigial remnant of self-control in certain environments. The office milieu, alas, was not one of them.
Ralph was darned if he was going to meet Sally in private. He wanted her on her best behavior. Almost automatically he produced a tale of a midtown appointment and suggested they meet for drinks at the Biltmore.
