“Saul, I’m seeing this woman tomorrow at three,” Wolfe said. “I realize this is absurdly short notice, and I’ll certainly understand if you decline, but I’d like before our meeting to know a number of things about her.”
“Fire away.” Saul didn’t pull out a notebook because he doesn’t use one; he keeps everything filed away upstairs, which seems to work just fine.
Wolfe finished his coffee and pushed the cup away. “Mrs. MacLaren is coming here tomorrow because she says she knows who murdered Harriet Haverhill and wants to hire me to unveil him. This reeks of flummery, perhaps a puerile attempt to implicate her former husband, for whom I gather she holds no warm regard. But the woman has piqued my curiosity.
“What I want to learn is something of the circumstances of their divorce. Were the proceedings initiated by her husband, as your comments about the woman from Palm Springs would seem to suggest? What are the custody arrangements? What kind of settlement did she receive? For instance, does she maintain any kind of equity in his publishing empire? And does she have a residual bitterness toward Mr. MacLaren? Now, if you find this kind of investigation as distasteful as I do,” he said, making a face, “perhaps you’ll want to decline.”
Saul shook his head. “I’ve gotten into lots seamier stuff than this. I could just about give you the answers to some of your questions right now, but they’d be at least partly speculation, and that’s not what you want. I should have something by tomorrow at this time. I’ll check in with Archie,” he said, thanking us for the coffee and rising to go.
I saw him to the door, made a crack about how I bluffed him out of the biggest pot in our last poker game, and went back to the office, which Wolfe had vacated. My watch read eleven-fifty, meaning, this being Sunday, that he had gone to the kitchen to strategize next week’s meals with Fritz. That left me to straighten up the office for our afternoon visitors.
THIRTEEN
Compared to Wolfe’s rigid schedule during the week, Sunday in the brownstone is downright free-wheeling. Sometimes he goes to the plant rooms to putter, sometimes not. And the meals are pretty much catch-as-catch-can after breakfast. This day, partly because guests were coming at two, Wolfe ate early in the kitchen with Fritz—the two of them boldly experimented by adding pompano and scallops to their New Orleans bouillabaisse recipe and pronounced the operation a success. That was more meal than I felt like, so I made a pastrami-on-rye sandwich that I had with a glass of milk in the office while reading the accounts of Saturday’s Mets-Dodgers game at Shea, a sixteen-inning dandy won by the Mets on an inside-the-park home run.
Starting about one-thirty, I caught myself looking at my wrist every three or four minutes, so I went upstairs and got busy with such matters as deciding which suits to take to the cleaners tomorrow. I was back at my desk scrubbing the typewriter keys with a little brush at five after two when the doorbell rang.
Seen through the one-way glass in the front door, they didn’t seem like brother and sister. David Haverhill appeared older than his forty-four years. He was tall and lanky, probably an inch over six feet, with hair the color of a grocery sack. It fell on the right side of a long, angular face that looked like it didn’t know how to smile. And I’m sure a smile was the farthest thing from his mind right now. He came in pale and stayed pale.
It was easy to pick out Carolyn—David was clutching her arm possessively. She was tall, too, and blond, her hair just a shade lighter than platinum. She wore it skinned back tightly and tied in a bun—without doubt my least-favorite style—and her well-arranged, blue-eyed, ivory-skinned face had a self-assured look. Ten to one it was her usual expression.
I’m happy to report that Donna Palmer bore no discernible resemblance to her brother. She might have been five-four—in her heels. She probably put “dark brown” on her driver’s license, although I would have called her hair black, and she wore it shoulder-length, framing an oval face with green eyes, a slightly turned-up nose, and a mouth that looked like it knew how to smile, even though now wasn’t the time. And if Lon hadn’t told me she was thirty-nine, I would have pegged her at seven years younger.
“Mr. and Mrs. Haverhill, Mrs. Palmer? Please come in,” I said, swinging open the door and standing aside. He scowled, Donna frowned, and Carolyn stayed with her assured look, chin tilted up. But none of them said a word as they walked into the front hall, where I caught a hint of Madame Rochas on Donna. I also got a good look at her figure, which was fuller and more to my liking than Carolyn’s. I guided Donna to the red leather chair, motioning the couple to the yellow ones, then went around behind the big desk to push the buzzer. “Mr. Wolfe will be right in. May I get any of you something to drink?”
“Thank you, no,” David grunted as if speaking for all of them. I’d bet he’d already had a couple.
I looked at the two women, my face asking the same question. They both shook their heads, Donna giving me an almost-smile and Carolyn keeping it poised and unshakable.
I headed for my desk just as Wolfe entered, detoured around the guests, got behind his own desk, and sat. “Mrs. Palmer, Mr. and Mrs. Haverhill,” he began formally, dipping his head a fraction of an inch to each of them. “I appreciate your making the time to see me. Now, if—”
“Well, we don’t appreciate being here,” David said. His voice was pitched just below a shout. “It’s because Carl twisted our arms—that’s the only reason we came. Well, maybe not the only reason,” he corrected himself, with a glance at his wife, who nodded serenely. “We also want to know why you’re running around telling the whole world our stepmother was murdered. It’s a sad enough time for us without having her memory defiled by all this murder talk!” He was halfway out of his chair during the tirade, and he sank back when he finished, brushing his wispy hair off his forehead and thrusting his jaw forward. When he was mad, his nose twitched.
Wolfe considered him for several seconds, then turned to the women. “Does either of you wish to make a statement before I begin?”
“I agree with David,” Donna said in a voice that was both soft and strong as she crossed one nicely formed calf over the other and smoothed the skirt of her blue dress. “It’s tragic what happened to Harriet, and to have this murder gossip on top of it ... I know you’re a friend of the Gazette, but I just don’t understand this.”
Wolfe turned to Carolyn, who gave him a shadow of a smile. “I have some thoughts, but I’d prefer to hear what you have to say first,” she said in a husky tone. This one is interesting, skinned-back hair and all, I said to myself. I began to see why Harriet and Lily had been impressed with her.
Wolfe leaned back, his eyes going from Donna to her brother and then to Carolyn. “As I’m sure you all are aware, Harriet Haverhill was here last Wednesday, along with Mr. Dean. She—”
“It was because of that stupid ad of yours in the Times,” David hissed.
“If I may continue.” Wolfe narrowed his eyes. “Yes, it was my advertisement that brought her here. And I had sufficient time with her to convince me that this was in no way a suicidal person.”
“Oh, great,” David said, leaning forward again as if he were getting ready to spring. “Ten minutes with her, and you’re the world’s greatest expert on Harriet Haverhill.”
“I make no claims to expertise regarding Mrs. Haverhill.” Wolfe was getting annoyed. “But I do put to use what powers of observation I possess. Are you completely satisfied that your stepmother killed herself?”
“Completely. And so are the police,” David declared flatly.
Wolfe turned to Donna. “I pose the same question to you.”
She hesitated, shifting in her chair. “Well, she was awfully upset Friday when we talked. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harriet so disturbed.”
“What were the circumstances of your meeting?”
“She had phoned me the day before—Thursday. I’d just gotten back from a vacation abroad—in fact, I was still unpacking when the call came. She said she needed to talk to me, that it wa
s extremely important, that it involved the future of the Gazette. She asked me, really almost begged me, to come down from Boston as fast as I could. I told her I’d take the shuttle Friday morning. I was still jet-lagged, but I was in her office just before nine the next day.”
“You knew why she wanted to see you?”
“I—yes, I had a pretty good idea.”
“How could you, as you had been in Europe for several weeks?”
Her green eyes flicked toward her brother, then back to Wolfe. “David had called me at my hotel in Florence and told me that Ian MacLaren was making a serious bid for the paper. He thought I ought to know.”
“How did you feel about Mr. MacLaren as a prospective proprietor of the Gazette?”
Donna lifted her slim shoulders, then let them fall. “Honestly, I didn’t have strong feelings one way or the other. This may sound callous, but I don’t have any particular loyalty to the paper. I’ve never really been a part of it. Oh, I know I have a substantial financial interest, but as far as any kind of an emotional tie, no. Maybe it’s because my father has been dead for so long, or because I’ve lived away from New York for so many years now.”
“And your feelings toward your stepmother?”
Another shrug. “I’ve never disliked Harriet, but I’ve also never felt terribly close to her. She was . . . someone who happened to marry my father.”
“In your estimation, had she done a good job of running the newspaper?”
“Yes-s-s, I suppose so,” Donna said, wrinkling her forehead. “The Gazette is certainly well-respected, from what I see and hear.”
Wolfe drained the beer from his glass and poured the second bottle. “Were you unhappy that she never gave your brother an opportunity to be in charge?”
David started to cut in, but Donna showed him a palm. “Unhappy? Maybe, although I think ‘puzzled’ would better describe it. Harriet was well into her seventies, and I kept thinking she’d want to step down. But she seemed determined to hold on.”
“Had you ever talked to her about retiring?”
“Oh, the subject came up once or twice through the years, but she always insisted that she felt fine and thrived on hard work.”
“What about your conversation with her on Friday?”
“A rough one,” Donna said, nibbling at her lipstick. “She told me right at the start that MacLaren was making a hard run at the other shareholders and asked if he’d approached me.”
“Had he?”
“No, although David had told me I could expect to hear from MacLaren almost immediately on my return from Europe. Anyway, Harriet begged me to sell my shares to her for the trust she was planning. She asked me at the very least not to sell to MacLaren. She was known for her temper, but I’ve never seen her as furious as she was Friday.”
“What did you tell her?” Wolfe prodded.
Donna paused for a deep breath. She didn’t look at her brother. “I said that if MacLaren really was going to offer me the price per share that David had told me about, I’d sell to him. Mr. Wolfe, I had been thinking for a long time about selling my Gazette holding anyway. I’m looking to expand my business in Boston, and frankly, I need the cash.”
“Had you considered selling to your brother?” Wolfe asked, gesturing toward David with a hand.
“It never came up,” she answered smoothly, “probably because together we own only a little over a third of the stock, and it wasn’t likely that he would have been able to get enough of the rest for a majority. In all honesty, I was ready to go where I could get the most money.”
“How did Mrs. Haverhill react to your answer?”
“She was furious. She tried to use the family-loyalty angle, but I told her I wasn’t buying it. I said that was hypocritical of her, especially considering that she had effectively blocked David’s chances of being either publisher or chairman. Then she told me my father would have wanted the paper kept out of MacLaren’s hands at all costs. My answer was that it was presumptuous of her to tell me what my father would have wanted. I am quite capable of figuring that out for myself. Basically, that’s how our meeting ended.”
“Did you see her again?”
Donna shook her head and studied the carpet.
Wolfe tried to pour beer, found the bottle empty, and set it down. “Mrs. Palmer, where were you Friday evening between six and—”
“Hold on!” David Haverhill shrilled. He was out of his chair again. “We said we’d come here, but we didn’t say we’d sit for an inquisition, which is what this is beginning to sound like. Donna, you don’t have to answer any more questions. This man has overstepped his bounds. He—”
This time it was Carolyn’s turn to cut in. “David, it’s all right,” she said, laying a hand on his arm and talking to him as a mother would to a child. “We don’t have anything to hide. After all, we were together almost all of that time.”
“Of course we don’t have anything to hide,” he whined, shaking off her arm, “but it’s the idea that we’re being treated like suspects when there hasn’t even been a crime, for God’s sake.”
“Mrs. Palmer, please continue,” Wolfe said coldly, fixing Haverhill with his three-star glare.
“From midafternoon until Harriet was . . . discovered, I was in the small conference room on the twelfth floor.”
“Was someone with you all of that time?”
“No. I don’t have an office in the Gazette Building, of course; I come to New York so infrequently. When I am here, I usually set up shop in any available conference room. I had a lot of paperwork from my business to catch up on, so I brought it with me from Boston. I was alone from, oh . . . about three-fifteen or so until around six-thirty, when David and Carolyn came in to talk. We were still there when the word came . . .”
“And no one saw you for more than three hours, until your brother and your sister-in-law joined you?”
“That’s not quite true. I was making a lot of phone calls related to my business—I’m in public relations— but I did leave the conference room at least twice to ask one of the secretaries to photocopy some papers for me.”
“What did you talk to these two about?”
“A little about my trip, but mostly about my meeting with Harriet, and David’s, too. But I suppose you want to ask him about that yourself.”
“I do indeed.” Wolfe turned to David, who had been casting increasingly greedy glances at the bottles on the serving cart. “Mr. Haverhill, am I correct that you met with your stepmother shortly before noon that day?”
“Yes.” You’d have to pry his mouth open to get more than that. It was obvious he wasn’t going to volunteer anything.
“And the essence of your conversation?”
He crossed his arms and tilted his head to one side, probably thinking that pose made him look like a tough customer. “If you’re so damn smart, I think you can pretty well guess that, can’t you?”
“I’d prefer to hear it from you, sir.”
David looked from Donna to Carolyn to me. He wasn’t seeing us, he was merely giving his eyes a change from Wolfe. “All right,” he sighed. “She asked me, almost before I had a chance to sit down, if I would sell my shares to that damn trust of hers. I told her thanks, but no thanks. She yelled something like ‘So you’re going to sell out to MacLaren,’ and I said that’s exactly what I planned to do.
“We went back and forth for a few minutes, and she pulled the same thing on me that she had on Donna— saying I owed it to the family name to make sure the paper stayed out of MacLaren’s clutches, or words to that effect. She was vicious, making a lot of uncalled-for remarks about—unnecessary remarks,” he concluded lamely. “But I wouldn’t budge, and at that point she called me a traitor to the family. That set me off, and from then on it was mainly a shouting match, which ended with me walking out of her office. I don’t have to take that kind of talk from her—or anyone.” He sank back into his chair as if this second, longer diatribe had exhausted him.
Wo
lfe made a rumbling noise in his throat, but it could have been because he was out of beer. “Mr. Haverhill, how would you describe your relations with your stepmother?”
“We . . . got along. I wasn’t overly fond of her, and she certainly didn’t care that much for me. But I like to think we behaved professionally toward each other.”
“Is it fair to say you resented her?”
David seemed to deflate at the question. He rested his elbows on bony knees and swallowed a couple of times. “Yes, that’s fair,” he said as his wife leaned over to touch his shoulder. “Of course I resented her—the stepmother, the oldest child, all of that. Sounds like something out of Grimm’s fairy tales, doesn’t it? Anyway, I realized years ago that as long as she had anything to say about the operation of the Gazette, I’d never get to the top.”
“Did you think you might have if you sold your interest to Mr. MacLaren?”
“As a payback, you mean? Oh, no, no,” David responded vehemently. “I didn’t mean to suggest that. I knew MacLaren would bring his own people in to run the paper—he always does. Either way, there was no hope for me, but at least with MacLaren I would stand to make a substantially larger profit than if I sold my shares to the trust.”
“I’ll ask the same question I posed to your sister,” Wolfe said. “How did you feel about Mr. MacLaren being owner of the Gazette?”
“A lot of the things that have been said and written about MacLaren have been exaggerated, and in many cases terribly unfair,” David said. Maybe he’d rehearsed this part. “His papers really aren’t that bad. He could bring some new liveliness to the New York newspaper scene.”
Wolfe flinched. “When did he first approach you about buying your shares?”
“He called me and we had lunch two weeks ago. He asked if I’d be willing to sell, and after I found out what he was prepared to pay, I told him he could count on my shares.”
Death on Deadline Page 11
