“Bluebeard did the killing, Roger.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean. What’s for dinner?”
“Why don’t we ask the Shusters over.”
“To celebrate?”
“They needn’t know the reason for it, but yes, to celebrate.” Mary might not appreciate their relief at her innocence.
“Why don’t we ask Griselda Novak too? She and I can talk sports.”
“We’ll ask Greg Whelan too.”
It was a festive evening. Roger kept it simple—spaghetti, garlic bread, a huge bowl of salad, and Chianti for those who wanted wine, ice water for Roger, ever abstemious.
“You’re such a Puritan, Roger,” Marjorie Shuster said, her lips red with Chianti.
“Am I? The truth is, I don’t tolerate alcohol well.”
The real reason was that he did not like to muddle his mind, however convivial wine was. To the nondrinker, the effect of alcohol on others is far more obvious than it is to them. Voices rise, laughter comes more easily—but that, as both Belloc and Chesterton said, is the point of drinking. Roger could appreciate that, without the need to verify it in his own case. Besides, he was the principal host and wanted to be on the qui vive for his guests. Griselda too had ice water with her meal, having decided between that and milk.
“I don’t want to corrupt minors,” Roger said.
“When I had dinner with Fred Neville, we shared a bottle of wine.”
There was an uneasy silence, with Mary looking uncomfortable.
“God rest his soul,” Roger said.
“Amen.”
That difficult moment was soon behind them. Poor Phil had no luck in getting Griselda to talk about the upcoming Lady Irish home game the following night.
“Is it nationally televised?”
Griselda nodded. “Naomi McTear stayed on for this game. On assignment.”
Another awkward moment.
Phil said, “When do the television crews arrive?”
“Oh, she comes days before. In order to prepare. That means she will have been here over a week.”
“How so?” Roger asked.
“She came in on Friday for the Sunday game before Fred…” Asif aware that her remarks caused Mary discomfort, Griselda let her voice drift away. She said to Roger, “Your class today was great.”
“Now, now. You don’t have to sing for your supper.”
Griselda told the others, “He analyzed some sonnets of Maurice Francis Egan. They hadn’t seemed much to me when I first read them.”
“Those were poems Fred especially liked.”
“He loved poetry.”
Marjorie professed to be astounded. “Fred?”
“He wrote it too,” said Phil.
Phil pushed back and clapped his head. “Good Lord, I forgot all about that.”
The others stared at him. He rose and went off to his room. When he came back he held a folded sheet of paper.
“Jimmy Stewart and I found this in the fax machine in his apartment. Apparently he had sent it to himself from the office.”
Mary asked to see it and began to read it, her lips moving.
“Read it aloud,” Roger suggested. And she did.
Isadore of Seville loved etymology,
Loved to analyse the source of words,
Or invented them without apology,
Visigoths and others with their herds
Exchanged their tongues for Latin, more or less,
Mixing barbarian dialects with it.
Ancient authors always had the wit,
Received, then polished, with which they could express
Young thoughts in language old.
Soon the wine was watered, the language bastardized,
Harsh sounds, with meanings harsh with northern cold,
Upset the tongue that Virgil standardized.
Subject to invasion like the empire,
True Latin, having risen, fell.
Eventually in Seville our Isadore
Reverently misread the words in his provincial cell.
“Let me see it,” Roger said, and Mary passed the poem to him.
“My Nathaniel wrote poetry,” Marjorie said. “I must say it was far more intelligible than that.”
“The poem is perfectly intelligible,” said Mary.
“I’m with you, Marjorie,” Phil said.
Griselda began again on Maurice Francis Egan’s poetry but Roger was brooding over the page. His concentration silenced the others. He looked at Mary.
“You realize this is a love letter,” he said to her.
“To whom?” Marjorie asked, and Mary just glanced at her mother.
“What do you mean, Roger?” Mary asked.
Roger handed the poem to her. “Read the first letters of the lines.” Mary did so and as she did she fairly glowed. “For heaven’s sake.”
“Well, what is it?” Marjorie asked, and was echoed by Phil.
Mary handed the poem to her mother, who frowned over it for some minutes, then said, “I don’t get it.”
“Read the first letters of the lines. From top to bottom.”
Marjorie did as she was instructed. “I.L.O.V.E.M.A.R.Y.S.H.U.S.T.E.R. Well!”
“That’s beautiful,” Griselda said.
“And it was written just days before he died. It is dated, you see.”
“That is nice,” Marjorie said, somewhat grudgingly. “Very nice.”
“So you see, Mother, I was not making it up.”
“Did I say you made it up?”
Griselda wanted to see the poem. She traced her finger down the page, silently pronouncing the opening letters. She then surrendered it to Mary. “You must keep it always.”
But then Greg Whelan asked to see it. When he had read the poem for himself, he said to Mary, “I’ll want a copy for the archives.”
“That is a copy,” Phil said. “The original is being held as possible evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Oh, Mother.”
Phil drove the Shusters and Griselda home, leaving Roger and Greg to talk. Greg had had his share of the wine and soon waxed sentimental.
“That poem certainly proves which of his two fiancées Fred loved.”
“Only a man in love would use such an old trick.”
“It must be hard to do.”
“You and I will never know, Greg.”
“Maybe, like Socrates, you will turn to writing poetry in your old age.”
“Only if, like Socrates, I am condemned to death.”
“How is the investigation into Neville’s death going?”
“Why don’t we wait for Phil before taking up that topic?”
When Phil returned he said, “Well, I broke down.”
“The car?”
“No, no. I told the Shusters that Jimmy Stewart had been told Mary had visited Fred during the days he was missing but that this had been disproved.”
Phil told Greg the story of Santander. “He said it was Fred’s girl but when shown a photograph of Mary Shuster said she wasn’t the woman.”
“So who was?” Greg asked.
But all three of them were thinking the same thing, despite the profession of love that Fred had made in his last poem.
Part Three
Can You Forgive Her?
1
THOSE PERSONALLY CONCERNED with a death said not to be due to natural causes must see it as the single most important event, the cynosure of every prurient eye, the topic of every whispering and doubtless malevolent lip. Of course this is not so, but the Nevilles, as the significance of what the police told them about their son’s death sank in, knew a sadness deeper than grief. Had Fred destroyed himself? Detective Jimmy Stewart was noncommittal.
“Have you any reason to think he would have done that?”
“None.” Mrs. Neville was the default speaker for the couple. “He loved his job, he loved being here at Notre Dame.”
“And he
was engaged to Naomi McTear.”
Mrs. Neville looked away. “Yes.”
“So you must know her rather well.”
“Oh, not at all. Once she came by our place in Phoenix, when she was passing through, to introduce herself and tell us about her and Fred.”
“Is that how you learned of the engagement?”
“This was shortly afterward, apparently.”
“Those are lovely rings,” Stewart said.
Mrs. Neville held out her hands as if for inspection.
“What is that diamond?”
“My engagement ring.” She cast a loving glance at her husband, who seemed mildly sedated.
“But I thought Fred gave your engagement ring to Naomi.”
“My engagement ring? Certainly not. My rings will go with me to the grave.”
“Hmmm.”
“Why would you think such a thing?”
“I must have misunderstood.”
“Is that what she said?” Mr. Neville asked.
“As I say, I must have misunderstood.”
“Surely Fred couldn’t have told her that.”
Stewart asked if they would like to go through their son’s apartment.
“I thought it was sealed off.”
“I can let you in.”
But Mr. Neville shook his head. “Not yet.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“Until we know what happened to Fred.”
It is always cruel when parents lose a child, but when the parents are elderly and the child an adult, it is in its way more difficult rather than less. The Nevilles were clearly in the last act of their lives, knew that and accepted it, and could not have dreamt that Fred would die before them. Suicide seemed more and more unlikely, and Stewart wished he could assure the Nevilles that it was impossible that their son had taken his own life. He hoped to be able to give them that assurance today. Roger Knight had asked the obvious question.
“Did you find the poison in the apartment?”
“Only in the cup from which he had been drinking.”
Stewart had arranged to meet the Knights at Fred’s apartment after this call on the Nevilles. He was allowed to continue working on Fred Neville’s death only because of the department’s concern to keep the matter as much under wraps as possible. The fact that Phil was working with him, courtesy of the university, justified assigning only Stewart to the case, and that lessened the drain on departmental resources. Even so, the media people, who had lavishly covered the funeral, largely because of the presence of coaches and players, and then subsided, had now, in the person of Laura Reith, shown renewed interest.
“What’s up?” she had asked, sailing into Stewart’s office in battle dress. She affected denims, men’s shirts, and what might have been combat boots. Emerging from this proletarian apparel that all but concealed her gender was the loveliest face seen around police headquarters. Auburn hair, a complexion of natural tan, and pouty lips that seemed perpetually pursed to be kissed.
“I am,” Stewart said, rising from his chair.
Laura sat in a chair and threw her denimed legs out before him, making an easy exit difficult.
“Why are you still following up on the Neville death?”
“Routine.”
“Sure. You and Philip Knight are just staving off boredom. Was it suicide?”
“No, he gagged while reading the local paper.”
Laura laughed. She was a reporter for the local television station that was a rival of the one owned by the local paper.
“I want an interview with Naomi McTear. Has she left town?”
“Some people work for a living.”
“Well, I’m going to follow up on it. Nice story. Notre Dame sports information person, cable television sideline commentator. Sounds like conflict of interest. She seemed even prettier in person.”
“Did she?”
Had Laura any inkling what a knockout she herself was? Stewart was certain she did. The way she dressed was meant to neutralize that but until and unless she wore a mask no one could fail to be struck by her.
“Oh, come on.”
“The prettiest girls go into journalism nowadays.”
Laura thought about it, as if the remark did not concern herself. She nodded. “If not pretty then pert and perky.”
“Hannah Storm.”
“Who’s the one who does tennis?”
Laura looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re dodging me, aren’t you?”
“In what sense?”
“Ho, ho. Did Fred Neville commit suicide?”
“It’s possible.”
“So is a smart detective. Is it plausible?”
“Ask a smart detective.”
“I just did.”
“I don’t think so. In an hour, I’ll know for pretty sure.”
“It’s still an open question?”
“What’s a closed question?”
“What it sounds like. What will decide the matter?”
If he went on talking to Laura like this he would be late to let the Knights into Fred’s apartment. “Look, I’ll get back to you.”
“Or vice versa.”
2
SCOTT FRYE REGARDED HIS employment at Hoosier Residences as a disguise and took some pleasure in playing the role of obsequious menial behind the lobby desk, deferential to the residents, taking secret pleasure in the thought that they took him at face value. How could they guess that his head was filled with scenarios of the screenplays he intended to write? Nathanael West had been a room clerk. Mike Nichols had gone into almost monastic seclusion after he and Elaine May stopped making their hilarious dialogues, tapes of which Scott had all but memorized. After years of hibernation during which he seemed to have spent most of his time in bed, alone, Nichols emerged as the director of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? And the rest was history. So too Scott thought of himself as germinating at HR, awaiting the spring when he would awake from his apparent slumber and be revealed as his true self. Meanwhile he had to deal with the invariably bitchy Naomi McTear. He had made the mistake of expressing his condolences when she passed his desk on her way out.
“Do I know you?”
“Only in my official capacity.”
“Do you know me?”
“Ditto.”
Q.E.D. apparently. Scott retained his fixed professional smile after having been put so decisively in his place. Could her manner be due to profound grief? He doubted it, he knew not why. For all her daring decolletage, the milk of human kindness was not a phrase that leapt to mind in dealing with Naomi McTear. The staff called her McTerror.
The cable network owned four suites in the building and Naomi was a frequent presence, more so during the past year, and the reason was Fred Neville. He had spent the night with her a couple times but in recent months the couple had seemingly decided on being more discreet and Fred was seldom seen on the premises. When Scott had told Anthony about this early on he invited the impression that assignations at HR were an established thing with the couple. Anthony had been eager to hear more and how could a future world-renowned screenwriter fail to provide a prurient story line? Anthony had eaten it up.
“What he like?” Scott asked. “I mean at work.”
“Fred? He’s good.”
“He your boss?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Aha. So he had fed Anthony a few more imaginary bones to gnaw on.
Scott went out back for a smoke and while he was shivering and trying to pretend he was enjoying his cigarette the door opened and one of the cleaning ladies came outside dragging two large plastic bags. This was one of the youngsters who still thought of her employment as glamorous. Scott stepped forward, glanced at her name tag, and said, “I’ll take those, Heather.”
“Oh, thank you.” She in turn glanced at his name tag. “Mr. Scott.” A bit of a downer that, but then the cleaning ladies did not frequent the front desk.
“Where is this stuf
f from?”
“It’s on the bags.”
And so it was, the number of the suite stenciled onto the plastic bags. Scott hadn’t known of this practice. But then a desk clerk did not frequent the office of resident maintenance. Heather was shivering. “Go on inside, I’ll take care of these.”
Scott took the bags toward the Dumpster at the back of the parking lot, hearing the door close behind him, indicating that Heather had gone inside. The sack in his right hand bore the number of the suite that had been used by Naomi McTear. Scott propped it against the back bumper of his car and took the other to the Dumpster and threw it in. On the way back, he popped his trunk, and dumped the other sack inside. By such random and irrational deeds the course of history is altered. In words somewhat to that effect, Scott returned to his desk.
It had been an impulsive deed, one done without forethought or plan, just done. He gave as little thought to it afterward as before, and so it was that for some days the black plastic sack of detritus from the suite of Naomi McTear lay forgotten in the trunk of Scott Frye’s car.
3
MARY SHUSTER CARRIED with her the poem in which Fred Neville had, in coded form, declared his love for her, carried it as Pascal had carried his Memorial sewn into the lining of his coat, as Descartes had carried with him the account of the dreams on the basis of which he had given philosophy a new and fateful turn. The poem itself made little sense to her and she could believe that Fred had written it only to convey the message of the opening letters of its lines.
The trauma of Fred’s death, the wake and funeral, the awful news that he had died of poisoning, were slowly giving way to emptiness. She had never felt so lonely in her life. The telephone on her desk rang but it was never Fred on the line. There would never again be a call from Fred. And when the afternoon lengthened and lights were turned on against the winter dusk the time came when she would have gone off to see Fred at the Joyce Center.
Snow was falling softly when she emerged from the building, drifting dreamily in the soft glow of the lamps along the campus walkways. Mary set off across the campus, walking with her head back to allow the snowflakes to moisten her face. Her tears merged with the melted snow. She went through a little quadrant of residence halls and then around the great bulk of the library, proceeding on a diagonal, past O’Shaughnessy into the main mall and continuing to the law school. She crossed the oval and went along the walk that passed the Morris Inn and Alumni Center. The parking lot in front of the bookstore was, as always, full, the cars losing their shapes under the accumulation of snow. And then she was passing Cedar Grove Cemetery. She stopped, looked ahead and then behind, and then permitted herself to weep convulsively as she had not yet done, lamenting her lost future.
Irish Coffee Page 8
