Going Out in Style

by Gloria Dank

  MacGregor pondered this and said no. Everything was as usual.

  “Who else besides yourself has a key to the house?”

  Just the family, said Mrs. MacGregor. Mrs. Whitaker and her two children.

  “Did anyone come into the house yesterday afternoon or evening that you know of—anyone at all?”

  MacGregor was firm on this topic. No one, she said. No one at all. She and Mrs. Whitaker were the only ones in the house, as far as she knew, and Mrs. Whitaker had spent most of the afternoon upstairs in her room.

  “Would you be sure to hear if someone came in the front door—as you did around six-fifteen?”

  MacGregor replied that she couldn’t be sure exactly. If she was in the laundry room or working hard in the kitchen (at this point Great-aunt Etta gave a muffled snort), she might not hear. It was a long way from the kitchen to the front door. If she was washing dishes, for instance, she might not hear.

  “One more question, Mrs. MacGregor. When you left, you locked the door from the outside?”

  MacGregor gave him a particularly unfriendly look. “Of course I did. I always lock the door. What’s the use of having a key otherwise?”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. MacGregor. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Janovy’s interview with Etta Pinsky was short and very much to the point. She told him that she had been at home all last night. She lived in an apartment about fifteen minutes away. She was Bella’s maternal aunt and in the sixty-eight years since Bella had been born they had gotten along just fine. She was, she informed him, seventy-nine years old, and would be eighty very soon. If he thought that at her age she was capable of jumping around and strangling people to death, particularly her well-loved niece, then he was, she said flatly, out of his mind.

  Detective Janovy felt all at once that he was nine years old again and his favorite aunt had caught him in the process of systematically destroying his brother’s toys. He barely had time to say a meek “Yes, ma’am,” before Great-aunt Etta told him she had a loaf of bread to see to, and sent him packing.

  He went out into the front hallway and stood looking thoughtfully around him. The hallway was big and square, with a spectacular grand staircase opposite the front door. There were archways on the other two sides of the square, one leading to the living room, the other to the dining room. Between the staircase and the archway to the living room was the front hall closet. Janovy crossed over to it and opened the door. The closet was small and narrow. It smelled faintly musty. He poked around between the coats. No room for anyone to hide in here.

  The outlines of the murder were becoming a little clearer now. The murderer had come into the house around six-fifteen, hidden somewhere in or near this hallway, and waited until Bella Whitaker came sweeping down the red velvet carpet of the staircase. Then the murderer had come up behind her and killed her. Janovy looked around again. Where had that person hidden for over an hour?

  Not in the closet, certainly. Either in the living room or the dining room, near the archways leading to the front hall. Either of them would allow the murderer to come up quickly and silently behind someone headed toward the door. Or …

  Janovy walked around behind the staircase. There was a space there, between the stairs and the floor, a space just about the height of a man, a reasonably sized, dark hiding place.…

  He stood behind the stairs for a long time, feeling his skin prickle. This was it, he was sure of it. This was where someone had stood last night and waited.

  He walked around the staircase. If someone stood still in the shadows, he or she could not easily be seen. Mrs. MacGregor, coming in from the dining room, must have passed right by the murderer on her way to the coat closet.

  Shame, thought Janovy. It’s a shame she didn’t see anything. If she had only turned her head …

  He went back into the kitchen and asked her about it. Mrs. MacGregor propped her elbow on her mop and replied in a nasty tone that she had told him all she knew. No, she hadn’t seen anything or anyone in the hallway when she left. No, she hadn’t looked at or under the stairs. She had better things to do with her time than go nosing about where it wasn’t any of her business.

  She said the last bit in a way that made it clear she thought that he should have better things to do as well. Janovy thanked her and left.

  2

  Bernard and Maya were standing over Snooky’s bed watching him as he slept.

  “He looks like a child when he’s asleep,” Maya said fondly. “Like a child.”

  “Everyone looks like a child when they’re asleep, Maya. Don’t get sentimental. He was in shock, you say?”

  “Yes. All white and trembly. He does have feelings, you know, however rudimentary they may be.”

  Bernard looked thoughtfully down at the slumbering Snooky. “You gave him some brandy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not the good stuff, I hope?”

  “Yes, Bernard. The good stuff. Let’s go downstairs, shall we? I’m about to start screaming at you and that might wake him up.”

  They went down to the second floor and into Bernard’s study. He sat down behind his massive desk and Maya perched on the edge of his chair. He put an arm comfortingly around her waist.

  Bernard, like his wife, was a writer; he wrote children’s books about mice, rats and sentient sheep. His most popular creation so far was a maternal ewe with eyeglasses and a gentle, kindly expression. Her name was Mrs. Woolly. She was old and kind and long-winded, and tended to get in and out of various difficulties.

  Now Bernard took a page from his typewriter and crumpled it in disgust. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

  “Bernard, how would I know? Anyway, how could they? It was just last night.”

  There was a silence. Maya put an arm around her husband’s shoulders and said miserably, “Murder, Bernard.”

  “Yes.”

  “Murder … and Snooky.”

  “Yes. Have you noticed how, whenever your brother comes to visit, the long arm of the law invariably follows?”

  “Yes. I’ve noticed that.” Maya absently fixed his collar.

  Bernard looked at his wife’s drawn, anxious face. “Have they considered suicide?” he asked gently.

  “Suicide?” She gave a questioning look. “No. I don’t know. Why should they?”

  “I just thought the woman might have killed herself in order to get out of the date with Snooky.”

  “Bernard, I don’t think I have to tell you that’s not very funny.”

  “It’s not out of the realm of possibility, though, is it? Wasn’t there that woman who left the country rather than date him?”

  “Bernard, please. She didn’t leave the country. She had an emergency business meeting in Tokyo. They went out after she got back. Snooky still talks about her.”

  “How about this girl in California who packed up and left in the middle of the night?”

  “It wasn’t the middle of the night. Snooky was away, that was all. And she’s an exception, you know that as well as I do. Snooky’s usually very successful with women. He’s very good-looking and there’s something about him that makes women want to mother him.”

  “I know someone who likes to mother him,” Bernard said sadly.

  “Well, I’m not going to defend myself. He’s my little brother and our mother died a long time ago.”

  Bernard had lost interest in Snooky. He was gazing out the window with a contemplative, faraway look in his eyes. “Murder,” he said softly.

  * * *

  Ridgewood was a small town and, as in most communities large and small, news traveled rapidly. Bella Whitaker, while one of the town’s leading citizens, a position she had enjoyed immensely right up until her untimely death, would have been dismayed to find that the general reaction was one of amused speculation on how much money she had had.

  “Of course the children get it all,” said Jessie Lowell, a plump faded woman in her forties who ran the local daycare center. “
All that money!”

  Her friend, Gretchen Schneider, smiled at her with affection. “I really do believe you’re enjoying this, Jessie. It’s a whole ghoulish side of you that I never knew about.”

  “Well, Gretch, of course a death is never pleasant, and I suppose I should feel terrible, but really, it’s not as if I knew any of them except for Albert … I mean, I know them to say hello to because they live in town, and I’ve met Mrs. Whitaker once or twice—you remember, she donated some very nice pieces of pottery to the rummage sale last year … some nice pottery, and some old clothing that was still in wonderful shape, to tell you the truth, if it were mine I would never have given it away.…” She wandered on in this vein for a while. Jessie Lowell had a tendency to wander, although if recalled to the point she could think on one thing at a time quite lucidly.

  “Well, I must say I feel terrible for Albert. He sounded so upset when he called this morning,” Gretchen said finally in a firm tone, cutting through her friend’s pleasant reminiscences concerning a fine alabaster vase that someone had given to the rummage sale.

  “Oh, yes, poor Albert, poor poor Albert, it’s so terrible for him. It gives me the shivers to think that I drove by there last night. I often take the long way home from work, because it’s prettier, you know, and even though it was pitch dark I took it anyway last night, because I had some things on my mind and needed time to think. I’m having the worst time with some of my children, you can’t imagine, of course I’ve told you all about Nathan, but yesterday Tiffany clamped on to one of the tables and wouldn’t let go when her mother came to pick her up, I was afraid we’d have to sedate her or something awful like that—”

  “You drove by the Whitaker house last night?”

  “Why, yes, Gretch, I thought I told you. Oh, that’s right, you were out too, weren’t you? Well, I drove by and—”

  “Did you see anything?” Gretchen asked sharply.

  “Oh, no, no, of course I didn’t. I mean, it was dark, really dark. The porch light was on, but it was all out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t see anything. Anyway, my mind was elsewhere, like I’m telling you. Tiffany is just getting worse and worse, and she’s been so much on my mind lately, I’m really feeling quite worn out about it.…”

  Jessie warbled on happily in this fashion for a while. Finally Gretchen said, “I suppose the police will be here soon.”

  Jessie paused and looked at her doubtfully. The police? Why? Why in the world would they come here?

  “Well, you see, dear, I was out with Albert last night. We always go out on Fridays, you know. He told me this morning the police would be over to check on his whereabouts.”

  Jessie thought this was ridiculous. His whereabouts, indeed! Why, Albert Whitaker was such a nice man, such an intelligent and nice man, and now he was rich, too—oh, just think of it! Just think of it!

  Gretchen looked at her friend’s plump face, all red with excitement, with its cheerful pug features and shining eyes. She felt a surge of affection. “You’d like all that money, wouldn’t you, Jessie?”

  “Well, of course,” Jessie said eagerly. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, come on now, Gretch. Don’t be silly. Of course you would.” Jessie looked at her friend reproachfully.

  The two women were old college friends who had shared the same house since Jessie Lowell’s divorce ten years earlier. Jessie was short, plump and expansive; her friend was tall, thin and confined. Gretchen had small pointed features and a sallow face. Her thin dark hair was cut short in a severe shingle. She moved jerkily and without grace.

  “Oh, no I wouldn’t. Money is a trap.”

  “Oh, that’s just a truism. Money is freedom. You’ve never been divorced, you don’t know what it’s like to be suddenly left with nothing. Nothing! Why, I think Lenny would have been happy, positively happy, to see me starve on the streets.…”

  She was off again. Gretchen sighed to herself. She usually enjoyed her friend’s volubility, but not when it turned ugly, as it invariably did when Jessie discussed her ex-husband.

  “Look at the time,” she interrupted. “My goodness, it’s late! What should we do for lunch today? It’s so cold out and I don’t feel like cooking. How about if we treat ourselves to lunch at the Golden Eagle?”

  Jessie thought that was a wonderful idea. The Golden Eagle! Why, it had been months since she had been there. And perhaps they would hear more about the police investigation and the murder and everything … oh, yes, that was a wonderful idea!

  * * *

  Detective Janovy knocked on the door of the small house which was third from the corner on Maple Avenue. It was painted a robin’s-egg blue with yellow shutters and looked, he thought, rather incongruous among its staid neighbors with their facades of white, cream, and gray. The door was opened by a small towheaded child of around four or five who gazed at him out of angelic blue-green eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is your mother home?”

  “Yeah.” The boy turned, yelled “MOM!” in earsplitting tones, then shut the door in Janovy’s face.

  The door was opened a few minutes later by a young woman with a frazzled-looking expression. She was talking furiously, but not to Janovy. “Now, Harold, I’ve told you a million times, you can’t just close the door on a visitor—Harold?… Harold, are you listening?… oh, that boy, I can’t do a thing with—oh, hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “Susan Whitaker?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Janovy, of the Ridgewood police. May I come in?”

  “Oh—oh, of course. Please. This way.”

  She led him into the living room, which Janovy noted was cramped but comfortable. The furniture looked a little worn (doubtless, thought Janovy, from the angelic Harold jumping up and down on it), and the floor was cluttered with toys and books and even what appeared to be articles of Harold’s clothing (Janovy could see one shoe lying forlornly in the corner). The atmosphere was homey and comfortable. Susan Whitaker cleared a plastic train, a purple laser gun, and a miniature robot off one of the sofas and motioned for him to sit.

  “He’s been particularly difficult today,” she said, settling in a chair. “Since we heard about my poor mother’s death. It would be a shock anyway, of course, but he and my mother were very good friends.”

  “I’m sorry to have to disturb you now.”

  “That’s all right. I understand you have a job to do.”

  Janovy sat looking at her in frank appreciation. Susan Whitaker was in her early thirties. She had a round, cheerful face, dark gray eyes, and curly red-gold hair drawn back and held in place with a rubber band. Her skin was pink and freckled and she exuded an air of exuberant well-being. She was slightly plump, and was wearing a rust-colored running suit. She grew slightly nervous under his gaze, and began to twist a tendril of curly hair round and round in her fingers.

  Janovy said, “What do you do for a living, Miss Whitaker? I assume your name is still Whitaker, is that right?”

  “Oh, yes. After the divorce, I took back my old name. I didn’t want anything of my husband’s, believe me.”

  “And where do you work?”

  “I’m a journalist for the local paper—you know, the Ridgewood Star. I write a column on child care—some people who have met Harold think that I’m not really qualified to tell other parents how to raise their children—and I do a little reporting, whatever’s around. Nothing too exciting. I’m afraid my mother’s death will be the big news around here for a while.”

  “What was your relationship with her?”

  “My mother? Oh, well, not too good, really. I mean, I left home years ago to get married—I was way too young, but I was desperate to get out. Then, after the divorce, I moved back here with Harold. I don’t know why … I’m close to my brother and I guess I wanted to be near him. And Harold always adored his grandmother.”

  “You were desperate to get out of the house?”
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  “Yes, well … my mother was a marvelous person, you know, full of life and all that, but she was a little domineering, if you know what I mean. Look at poor Albert, he’s nearly forty years old and he still lives at home. Why do you think that is? It’s because my mother liked it that way.”

  “She liked it that way?”

  “Oh, yes. My father died a long time ago, and I think my mother liked to pretend she was still married—to Albert. It’s terrible, but there it is. She liked having a man around the house, she said so all the time. Albert’s been seeing some woman he teaches with for years now—they go out together once a week like clockwork—really, it’s sort of pathetic. Just sneaking around behind my mother’s back. Albert’s the firstborn and I think my mother would have had a fit if he decided to get married. And he’s so nice, he never even realized he was being—well, being used.” She fell into a reverie, still absently twisting a lock of golden hair. Then she came out of it with a start.

  “Oh, well, I shouldn’t be telling you all this, should I? After all, you’re the police.”

  “What about your relationship with your mother, Miss Whitaker?”

  “Me? We didn’t get along too well, I’m afraid. Recently I’ve gotten engaged again—to someone Mother didn’t approve of at all. Not that that makes any difference to me. She hated my first husband, too.”

  “Your fiancé’s name?”

  “George Drexler.” She gave him the address.

  “Please tell me about last night, Miss Whitaker.”

  She gave him a sudden sweet smile, and her features, more symmetrical and ordered than her brother’s, suddenly looked like his. She had none of his vagueness, but they had the same intelligent dark gray eyes. “Oh, my. My alibi. Well, thank goodness I have one. You’ll have to take my word for it that I didn’t know ahead of time I’d need it. But I guess I pretty much have an alibi every night, since Dora comes over all the time. That’s my friend, Dora Kelly. She lives at three-twelve Old York Road—you know, near the fire station. I called her last night and she came over with her baby around—oh, around seven o’clock, and stayed until a little after ten. Before that, Harold and I had dinner here together, and after Dora left I went to sleep. Harold goes to sleep much earlier, around eight-thirty.”