by Emma Lathen
“Mrs. Akers?” the woman asked with a flashing smile. “I wonder if your husband is available. I’d like to talk to both of you, about some business matters. My name is Mrs. Young. I hope you’ll call me Iris.”
CHAPTER 18
SEASON WITH CARE
“VERN!” DODIE yodeled. She was irritated to hear herself sound flustered. Mrs. Young, at any rate, bestowed on her a reassuring smile, then gazed about politely.
“Vern!” Dodie repeated, going to the door. “Somebody here to see you!”
Now she sounded like an Okie, she scolded herself. With an effort, she steadied her voice. “Vern, there’s a Mrs. Young . . .”
He was wiping his hands on a towel when he came through the doorway. Except for a fractional rise of his graying eyebrows, he was unmoved by their visitor, Dodie was pleased to see.
“Vern,” she said calmly, “Mrs. Young here wants to talk to us about business.”
“We’re not buying anything,” he said without hesitation.
Was there a flicker of anger across that lovely face? Perhaps not, but Dodie was cheered by her husband. And she let Mrs. Young do her own explaining.
“No, I’m not selling anything,” Iris said. “I want to talk to you about Chicken Tonight.”
Vern looked at her quizzically. Then, after a glance at Dodie, he replied, “You’d better come in and sit down. Want a cup of coffee?”
In a way, Iris Young was incongruous in the large Chicken Tonight kitchen, but to Dodie her crisp self-possession and her polished appearance mirrored the glittering efficiency of the machinery.
Mrs. Young settled at the table, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and waited impatiently. Opposite her, Vern assumed the look of wary blankness that had seen him through twenty successful years in the service. Clearly, Dodie was the only one present afflicted by absurd fancifulness.
“I understand that you represent the organized franchisees of Chicken Tonight,” Iris Young began. “So I decided that we should talk—”
Vern raised a big hand and, without hostility or heat, said, “Just a minute! First you’d better tell me what your interest in Chicken Tonight is. And tell me exactly why we should talk.”
Iris Young bent her attention on stubbing out a half-smoked cigarette. Her downcast eyes belied a voice that was creamily confident. “I represent a group of minority stockholders of Chicken Tonight. Actually, it’s more than that. My husband was one of the founders of Chicken Tonight, and he is probably the most important executive in the company.”
Akers was disingenuous. “I don’t remember any Youngs, lady. And I’ve been dealing with the company for over two years now.”
How flat and unforthcoming Vern could sound. More as a note of hospitality than anything else, Dodie softened the blunt edges of his remark. “I think I remember a Mr. Young, Vern. They wrote him up in Chicken Feed. Ted Young, wasn’t it?”
Her good intentions did not succeed. Certainly Mrs. Young showed no gratitude. There was slightly heightened color in her face when she replied, “Yes, it is Ted Young. And my husband has done most of the work inside the organization. For years, he’s handled all the financial details of the company, including the real-estate developments. And he’s in charge of the selling campaigns. Most of the advertising ideas are cleared through him. He doesn’t deal directly with the individual kitchens, but he’s really been in charge—behind the scenes. That’s been very important, even if it doesn’t get all the publicity!”
She paused, expecting some sort of response from Vern. Well, Dodie thought, she doesn’t know Vern. He sat, stolid and waiting.
A shade more rapidly, Iris Young went on. “As I said, we ourselves own a considerable block of Chicken Tonight stock. And with the cooperation of some others—including the owners of the franchises . . .”
Again she did not want to spell out her message. Again, the pause failed to elicit help. Finally, with a minute shrug, she said baldly, “What we have in mind is a change of management.”
“You mean, get rid of Mr. Hedstrom?” Dodie asked forthrightly. She had decided that the elegant Mrs. Young was not the general’s lady. Far from it. And, like her husband, she liked to get things clear in her own mind without a wrapping of verbiage.
“Mr. Hedstrom!” said Iris Young venemously. “That’s exactly what I mean. Until we get rid of Frank Hedstrom, we’re all going to be in danger of losing everything we own, everything we’ve worked so hard for. What has Frank Hedstrom done for Chicken Tonight! I’ll tell you—almost nothing. He’s been sitting back, taking the credit, but it isn’t Frank Hedstrom who’s done the work. No, he’s just been taking the money that other people—like you and the other franchisees, like my husband—make for him. And what’s he doing to Chicken Tonight now? He’s ruining it. And he’s going to ruin us too. All he cares about is saving his own skin. He can’t afford to worry about anything else. How can we hope to rebuild Chicken Tonight, under a man who’s up to his neck in murder! You’ve read the papers, haven’t you? Well, everybody else has, too. Our only hope is to get rid of Frank Hedstrom!”
The passionate words rang oddly in the functional kitchen. Helplessly, Dodie stared at Iris Young. But Vern Akers might have been listening to a sermon, for all the response he showed.
“If we get rid of Frank Hedstrom,” Iris went on, “we may be able to save ourselves. But Ted and I don’t have enough leverage through the stockholders, because Hedstrom saw to that. But you franchisees—you can push through a change. You’ve got him where you want him. What’s Frank Hedstrom done for you? He’s taken your money. He’s destroyed your business. What you should do is insist that he resign!”
“And put your husband in his place?” Vern made Dodie jump by asking.
Iris Young bit her lip at his tone. “Ted is the backbone of Chicken Tonight. He’s done all the work. He’s your only hope. You stick with Frank Hedstrom, and you’re going to be out on your ear.”
“Just asking,” said Vern mildly. Dodie wondered if he too registered the coarsening of Mrs. Young as she was caught up by her own words. If Vern did not, Mrs. Young herself did. Drawing a deep breath, she again produced that flashing smile and slowed her pace.
“Look, Mr. Akers—do you mind if I call you Vern? Vern, let’s start from the beginning. You can’t deny Chicken Tonight is in terrible trouble. Just how much business have you been doing? I don’t have to guess—I know. Not much. And why? Because of Frank Hedstrom, that’s why. And Frank Hedstrom isn’t going to get out of trouble soon, believe me. For all we know, the worst is yet to come. What does that mean for you and me? It means we’ve got to save our own necks.”
Vern listened carefully as she continued. He entered no objections and offered no criticism. So she thought she was convincing him, Dodie realized. Iris Young was confident that her fluency was sweeping Vern and Dodie along with her.
How could she know better?
“. . . so you organized franchisees should demand a change in management. I know Ted thinks Chicken Tonight should be worrying more about the individual operations. He always has. You don’t know him yet, Vern, but Ted has always been the best friend you franchisees have at Chicken Tonight . . .”
“I see,” said Vern.
How could this beautiful creature know that Vern was analyzing what she said, following, not quickly but surely, each argument? Dodie knew the Mrs. Youngs of the world put a lot of stock in cries of comprehension, in nods, even in contradiction.
Wooden immobility was beyond them.
How long she would have pleaded her case, and how much more she would have said about Hedstrom, they were never to learn. With a flurry, Sue Akers burst through the back door, pink-cheeked from a nippy wind.
“Hi, everybody—Oh, I’m sorry!”
In the midst of introductions, Iris Young was quick to sense that her moment was gone. With fluid grace she rose.
“I’m so glad to have caught you, Vern and Dodie. I hope you’ll give a lot of thought to what we’ve been ta
lking about. It’s really important, to all of us. And I hope you’ll talk to the others as well. I’ll be in touch with you in a few days. . . .”
She was gone in a moment. The impression lingered on.
“What did Her Royal Highness want?” Sue asked with the cruelty of youth.
“I’m not quite sure,” Dodie retorted.
They both looked at Vern.
“Something’s wrong,” he said slowly. “On top of everything else, this woman trying to put the skids under Mr. Hedstrom. All that garbage about how her husband really runs Chicken Tonight. You know, this is beginning to have a real funny smell.”
While he spoke, Dodie and Sue were beginning to make preparations, bravely, for the evening rush that would not come.
Vern brought a hand down on the table. “You know, I’m beginning to be glad that I’ll be talking to Mr. Hedstrom himself.”
“You are?” his wife asked sincerely. If there was one thing that Vern did not like, it was the kind of confrontation he faced with Hedstrom.
“You’re damned right I am,” he said robustly. “No, I’m not crazy about haggling over money! Or even griping about who’s to blame. Hell, we’re all in this together—no matter what Gatto says! But you know, I want to get the measure of Hedstrom himself. Because, sure as hell, there’s something about him that’s causing a lot of people a lot of trouble.”
His womenfolk exchanged meaningful looks. This, those looks said, sounds more like Vern.
As she swung her convertible back to the city, Iris Young was reviewing the past hour. Her talk with Vern Akers had not gone exactly as planned.
“Fool!” That’s what Vern Akers was—a fool. Too much of a fool to see she was offering him the only chance he had.
“What’s the matter with him? Is he blind?” This time she actually spoke aloud. She knew how much money the franchisees were losing; Ted’s desk was piled high with pleas and threats, with letters and reports about defaulted loans, plummeting sales and back pay. And every publicity blast was hurting, not helping. Clyde Sweeney’s corpse, practically lying at Frank Hedstrom’s feet, wasn’t going to help Chicken Tonight—not by any stretch of the imagination. Iris knew this; Vern Akers knew it; the world knew it.
He should have jumped at any opportunity to bail himself out. But when Iris Young offered him one, what did that fool Akers do? He sat there, gaping. And his little wife.
“You mean Mr. Hedstrom?”
Iris could hear that flat, unfriendly voice. Her lip curled. Sure she meant Mr. Hedstrom. She still did.
She pressed down on the accelerator and passed a truck.
Now what?
She reviewed the possibilities. Clearly, she had to make another approach to the franchisees. But somehow, after the Akerses, she really didn’t want to venture into another Chicken Tonight to try to talk sense to a harried man and his depressing wife. She had Ted’s list of the important local franchisees in her purse at the moment—but she’d go to them later. Every damned one, if she had to. But later.
There must be something more immediate she could do.
Iris’ life and temperament had not left her so honest with herself as Dodie Akers was. As she sped back to New York it never occurred to her that she was driving erratically and dangerously.
Nor did it occur to her that she was playing a dangerous game in other ways.
On the contrary, everything was clear, crystal clear, in Iris’ mind. Frank Hedstrom had to go. It was now or never—and if she had anything to do with it, it was going to be now.
Vexed, she groped for a cigarette.
Approaching the franchisees had seemed like a brilliant idea. Now she saw that it would be like trying to herd sheep.
Suddenly Iris Young knew what she should have done, and what she was going to do. To hell with sheep! She’d take care of them in the future. She was going where the power was—the power that could be exercised with a snap of the fingers.
Iris was so pleased with her insight that she even hummed a sprightly tune.
She was on her way to see Tom Robichaux.
No one had ever accused Tom Robichaux of keeping his troubles to himself. Before Iris Young was out of the office, he was reaching for the phone.
“You won’t believe it,” he confided. “Spent the damnedest half hour I’ve ever had.”
Thatcher reviewed some of Robichaux’s half hours and waited hopefully. But Robichaux knew a good story when he had one by the tail. John was not going to get a blast of indignation. He was going to get a dramatic reading.
“Guess who just breezed in here?” Robichaux began theatrically, the ace all too obviously up his sleeve.
“General de Gaulle?” Thatcher suggested, throwing the timing off.
“General—Oh, come on, John! Would I be bothering you with some politician? No, you’ll never guess. Mrs. Young. You remember, Ted Young’s wife.”
Thatcher remembered all too well, in view of his most recent exposure to Ted Young’s wife.
“That must have been fun for you,” he observed with malice.
Robichaux made a noise Thatcher took to be protest.
“No, I’m absolutely sincere about that, Tom. I was privileged to watch the lady having a tearing bout of hysterics—and I deeply regretted your absence.”
“Cold water,” said Robichaux, a man who knew. “The only good thing for hysterics.”
“Unfortunately,” Thatcher reminded him, “the only water readily available was the Chesapeake Bay.”
“John!” said Robichaux sternly, calling him to order.
Thatcher grinned to himself and prepared to listen. He was, after all, going to have an opportunity to hear this notable womanizer on the subject of Iris Young. Better late than never.
Surprisingly enough, Robichaux was terse.
“She’s crazy,” he said authoritatively.
Thatcher’s ears pricked up. By rights, Robichaux should have been expansive.
“I take it you mean that Mrs. Young didn’t drop by to see you because of your fatal charm,” Thatcher said.
“She dropped by,” Robichaux rejoined grimly, “to talk business with me.”
“Oh ho!” said Thatcher, interested. “The plot is thickening. What business does Mrs. Young have, Tom?”
Robichaux was blunt. “The woman’s a damned fool. Sat there fluttering her eyelashes at me, talking the silliest damned nonsense I ever heard. I could hardly get rid of her . . .”
“Ye-es?” said Thatcher invitingly.
“She’s hatched this lunatic scheme,” Robichaux explained. “Seems to think I can fire Hedstrom—”
Thatcher could follow the line of reasoning easily. “And have Ted Young move in as president of Chicken Tonight. Right? You don’t really surprise me. She was approaching that position when last I saw her. I confess I took it to be an excess of feminine sensibility—but perhaps I was wrong.”
“Woman’s crazy,” Robichaux rumbled.
“I wonder,” said Thatcher thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?” Robichaux exploded. “Hedstrom is Chicken Tonight’s only chance. This woman doesn’t understand which way is up.”
“No, Tom. I grant you Mrs. Young has a brutally simple way of looking at business. But forget about her—as a woman and a personality.”
“I’d be glad to,” Robichaux said.
“Look at it this way. Here’s an attempt to change Chicken Tonight’s management by getting rid of Frank Hedstrom. In view of what’s been happening, I’d like to know just how serious this attempt is.”
Light dawned and Robichaux gasped. “You mean . . .?”
“Yes, I do,” said Thatcher firmly. “And I’d be even more interested to know just how far . . . er, anybody . . . would go to get rid of Frank Hedstrom.”
CHAPTER 19
KNEAD THE DOUGH
NOT EVERYONE might like it, but Frank Hedstrom was still very much the man in charge at the headquarters of Chicken Tonight.
Arriving at his of
fice shortly after noon on Monday, he nevertheless put in more than a full working day before leaving for home, undeterred by police interruptions, the clamor of the press, and even his wife’s fears that the children might have heard about Clyde Sweeney’s murder.
Tuesday morning he scheduled more marathon activity. But his plans were altered by telephone calls that he received and telephone calls he made.
One of them produced John Thatcher.
“They should be here in ten minutes,” Hedstrom explained as he gestured Thatcher to a chair.
“You said over the phone that they were representatives of your franchise operators,” said Thatcher, disposing of his topcoat and briefcase. “I don’t understand what the sudden rush is about.”
“Neither do I. They were due here for a meeting next Friday. Then they called up first thing this morning and insisted on coming up right away.” Hedstrom shrugged a silent comment on the inexplicability of human nature. “By the way, it’s Mr. and Mrs. Akers. You remember, the couple we met in Willoughby, New Jersey.”
Thatcher nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember. They knew Clyde Sweeney. Does this have something to do with his murder?”
“They didn’t say. But the murder was in the papers Sunday. And yesterday too, for that matter. I don’t think they would have waited so long to call. This is probably something else.”
“And you thought I would be interested?”
A sudden grin lit Hedstrom’s face. “Well, after all,” he said apologetically, “it is your twelve million dollars.”
And with that remark, everything became clear to Thatcher. Ever since entering the suite, he had been bothered by the atmosphere. There was no frenzied hysteria, no sense of impending doom. The secretaries and administrative assistants were, if anything, calmer than in the salad days of Chicken Tonight. As for the president himself, Frank Hedstrom sat behind his desk with the confident authority of a poker player holding a royal flush. All of which would have puzzled the spectator who knew only that the chief officers of this company had barely emerged from a mass poisoning in time to become embroiled in a murder.
