by Emma Lathen
Conrad liked to go native in Florida, so a violent Hawaiian shirt and a fraying straw hat lent color to his vehemence.
“Good for you, Dad,” said Doug Ecker. His major concession to the tropics was a deep tan. In well-cut slacks and a polo shirt, he lounged in the deck chair, looking trim and healthy enough to warm a mother’s heart.
But Alice Ecker, having schooled herself to avoid sentimentality, reverted to the Winstead Insurance Group.
“Well, I should hope so!” she exclaimed. “Christmas is the time for families to get together.”
Earlier in their married life, she had sometimes found it impossible to lever Conrad out of the shop. Now the December visit to Doug and Gloria had become a high point of his year.
And with Doug looking so well this time, Alice felt particularly pleased. Despite palm trees, sparkling water, and a temperature in the eighties, she was humming a Christmas carol when she bustled off to help Gloria in the kitchen.
Conspiratorial silence descended on the patio, while father and son waited until the coast cleared. Then their eyes met.
“Of course, once it turned out to be arson, Winstead had no choice,” Doug commented, watching for reaction.
“Sure,” said Conrad snappily. “But it’s going to be another damn nuisance and Tina’s still knee-deep in reconstructing the records. Winstead will want to go over every policy, down to the last panel truck in Texas. And if they don’t grab the excuse to raise our rates, I don’t know insurance companies.”
Doug Ecker was privileged to press a little further than most people. “And this stuff about cooperating with state and local authorities doesn’t bother you?”
Conrad snorted. “Why should it? We’ve got nothing to hide. There’s no sane reason for anybody at Ecker to have set that fire.”
This was said so defiantly that Doug Ecker stiffened.
“We can’t be absolutely sure of that, can we, Dad?” he suggested.
Stirring uneasily, Conrad said, “All right, all right. But that’s no reason to let an insurance company push me around. They come when I say so—not them.”
Doug had already tried exploring this topic in telephone calls that neither Alice nor Gloria knew about. So he moved on.
“Let’s talk about the ASI merger,” he began cautiously. “It sounded great at first, but lately it’s looking like a jinx. Tell me how you’re feeling about it now.”
Family calls to the Eckers in Florida were supposed to be scrupulously nonstressful. Nevertheless, like static, small crackles of concern had been accompanying the small talk recently. And his investments in a string of miniature golf courses did not keep Doug Ecker too busy to read the New York papers.
To his surprise, Conrad did not accept the invitation to air his opinions.
“Jinx or not, I think the merger’s probably off,” said his father indifferently. “We’re just treading water these days. I suppose it’s only to be expected.”
Since Doug knew how much the initial decision had cost Conrad, he frowned.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Doug,” Conrad said hastily. “This glitch doesn’t change the fundamentals. Our best bet is still a merger. If it isn’t ASI, it will be someone else. Ecker’s in fine shape, so it will be a great buy for whoever turns up. And believe me, it’s going to be a good deal for us, too.”
With the feeling that they were at cross-purposes, Doug was about to explain how unnecessary all this reassurance was. He was forestalled.
“What are you two talking about?” cried Alice gaily, advancing with a tray. Behind her, Gloria carried a large pitcher.
Conrad and his only son had forged a smooth working partnership.
“I was just telling Dad how early we have to pick up Doug Junior.”
“Can’t see why these kids don’t pick planes that arrive at a decent hour,” Conrad grumbled.
“Economy fares,” said Gloria in defense of her young.
“And you of all people should appreciate that, Conrad,” said Alice tartly. Then, looking from husband to son, she added, “And what are you two grinning about?”
Alan Frayne was on the phone to another one of Alice’s grandchildren.
“. . . so your grandpa got on his high horse and said we were all going to take our usual Christmas break. That’s why I could come up to Stowe.”
“Neat,” said Frayne’s twelve-year-old son.
“The skiing’s great,” said Frayne.
That was neat, too.
Like many men before him, Frayne had discovered that divorce suited him. There was, for example, a very attractive lady friend enjoying Stowe with him. And while he occasionally regretted the lost comforts of domesticity, he did very well without Broadway openings, chi-chi restaurants, and every good cause in eastern Connecticut. Now that the original unhappiness of Conrad and Alice had faded into acceptance, Frayne’s separation from Betty could be described as a success—except where the children were concerned. Despite many long-distance calls and school vacations, he never knew what to expect.
“He’s just going through a phase,” said Betty when she came on the line for a few civilized words. “How are you, Alan?”
He replied, then asked about Betty and the new family. This exhausted what they had to say to each other, but holidays demand more.
“Mom and Dad went down to Florida to be with Doug,” said Betty, who often forgot that Alan was in closer touch than she was. “And Aunt Virginia just called. Bob and Tina are out with her for Christmas. She says everybody’s having a lovely time. I’m so glad all of you could get away from Bridgeport.”
In the spirit of the season, Frayne did not respond that getting away from Bridgeport had always ranked a little too high on Betty’s wish list.
Bob Laverdiere was trying to exercise similar restraint.
“If only you weren’t so far away,” said Virginia Ecker Laverdiere plaintively. “I’d like to see my grandchildren growing up.”
A deep sigh measured every mile between the Ecker Company and Lake Shore Drive, in Chicago. The condominium overlooking Lake Michigan was a suitable successor to the handsome suburban home in which Bob had been raised. The senior Mrs. Laverdiere, who enjoyed excellent health and a very respectable income, had furnished it to her heart’s desire. When she tired of shopping, she played cutthroat bridge and traveled, logging thousands of miles each year, including many trips to Bridgeport, where she had every opportunity to spoil her grandchildren. Most of the time she was as brisk as her brother Conrad. But Christmas, Easter, and some birthdays reminded her that she was A Widow.
In these heavily decorated surroundings, Bob felt like a bull in a china shop. Shifting uncomfortably, he mumbled something.
“What was that, dear?”
“I said,” he repeated with an attempt at a smile, “that considering how you twisted Conrad’s arm to give me a chance there, it’s pretty late to discover how far Bridgeport is.”
Hurt, she reproached him: “Why, Bob, you make it sound as if I drove you away.”
Tina, shepherding two snow-suited toddlers into the room for approval, saw that it was desirable to shoo them and their father out as quickly as possible.
“Santa Claus at Marshall Field’s,” she said brightly. “But no candy! I don’t want anybody’s appetite spoiled for dinner tonight.”
Two angel heads nodded, and Bob shot her a look of heartfelt gratitude. Then, grabbing his daughter with one hand and his son with the other, he fled.
Tina had not overheard the exchange between him and his mother, but Virginia’s saintly expression told all.
“Have you finished wrapping all your gifts?” Tina asked, introducing a diversion. “I did ours before we left home, so I could help you if you’d like.”
But it was not to be that easy.
“Bob’s tired, isn’t he?” said Mrs. Laverdiere, gazing pensively at the Christmas tree in the corner.
“He’s been working hard,” said Tina, amused despite herself. She understo
od her mother-in-law better than Bob did. As a result, she knew his decision to shield Virginia from the unpleasantnesses back east would be put to the test.
“For that matter, you’re not looking your best either, Tina.”
When Tina did not reply, Virginia Laverdiere straightened.
“Is everything all right between the two of you?” she demanded sharply.
“Everything’s fine,” said Tina, with all the sincerity she could summon.
Openly unconvinced, Virginia studied her before saying, “Then it must be the business. Is it this foolish idea of Conrad’s to sell out?”
Tina felt quite unable to describe the changing currents at Ecker to a woman who could not balance a checkbook.
“The merger is making everything complicated—for all of us,” she said vaguely.
“Conrad!” Virginia sniffed. “And Alice, too! All they can think about is Douglas, Douglas, Douglas. Oh, of course I’m sick about the heart attack, too. It’s a terrible thing, for somebody so young. But it isn’t as if Doug is the only one who could take over. You know I’m tempted to give Conrad a piece of my mind. After all, Mike did help him get his start.”
No good deed goes unpunished. By repaying his debt generously, Conrad had increased the Laverdiere family prosperity and sowed ineradicable seeds of envy. Virginia, whose innocence about money was legendary, knew she was well off. But Conrad—and Alice and Douglas and Betty—were rich.
“And it isn’t as if Betty ever lifted a finger to help her father or her mother. Not like Bob has,” she complained. “When she divorced Alan—not that I ever liked him—I warned Alice . . .”
The shortcomings of our relatives are an inexhaustible subject, so Tina relaxed prematurely. She was caught off guard when Virginia, like a homing pigeon, lit on Bob again.
“. . . but at least this will give Bob his chance to show them all,” Virginia was saying with complacency.
Tina blinked at this unlikely knowledgeability.
“What do you mean?” she inquired.
“Bob explained it all to me,” Virginia boasted. “Obviously, if these people take over Ecker, they’ll have to put him in charge. After all, who could they find as good as he is? And that way he’ll get to show Conrad—and Alan Frayne, for that matter—and all the rest of them, what he can do. You know, I’ve never thought they appreciated Bob’s value. No, it’s always Douglas this, and Douglas that . . .”
Tina was tempted to ask exactly when Bob had made his disclosure. But doing so would suggest disloyalty or, even worse, jealousy of his mother.
Without bothering to listen to what Virginia was saying, she concentrated on how Virginia looked. The elaborate toilette was as elegant as ever. Virginia’s eyes were bright with zest as she excoriated her nearest and dearest. There were no visible signs of ravage, pain, or anxiety.
Tina sagged with sudden relief. For one insane moment she had wondered if Bob was bottling up other confidences that could only be poured into an all-forgiving ear.
Chapter 16
BLACK TUESDAY
Christmas travel is a two-way street. While the management of the Ecker Company had been packing its bags for a long weekend, others were hastening from afar to enjoy the holiday at home. Among them was the only man whose name had not yet been crossed off the police list of those entering the Javits basement during the trade show.
The detective dispatched to the Long Island City offices of Xavier Trucking was not hopeful. He had already spent twelve interminable days on unproductive interviews. He had talked to security guards and maintenance men, to exhibitors and buyers, to electricians and PR men. Bruno Sclafani had simply proved harder to reach.
Nor was Sclafani please by the interruption to his first day back on the job.
“This will just take a minute,” Detective Heidt promised.
“Then let’s get on with it,” grumbled Bruno. “I’ve got a schedule to meet.”
“Your time slip for December tenth puts you at Javits sometime in the early afternoon. Do you remember that?”
Bruno nodded impatiently. “Sure, it was my last day before taking off. There was a big show there.”
“Good, now I’d like to get that time a little firmer if you can manage it.”
From a rear pocket, Bruno produced a much-thumbed logbook. Thereafter he conducted a monologue with himself.
“. . . holdup at the tunnel before my first delivery on the East Side . . . Markham Novelties at twelve forty-five . . . loading dock at Apollo Passementeries blocked—God, why don’t they do something about these out-of-towners?—finally dropped off at one thirty-five . . . Javits two twenty-five . . . That’s when I managed to get the signature in the middle of all that action. I must have parked around two-ten. Afterward, in my cab, I put my flimsies in order before crossing over to Jersey. It would have been five or ten minutes before three when I left.”
With the fluency that comes from frequent repetition, the detective outlined the geography of the basement with particular reference to the scene of the murder.
“How far were you parked from there?” he continued.
“The spots around all the freight elevators were filled. I could have been around a hundred and fifty feet from that one.”
Naturally, Heidt thought to himself. If there was a witness present at the right time, he would be too far away to see anything.
Nonetheless he plodded on. “Now, we’re interested in anyone getting into or out of that elevator. Try to recreate the scene in your mind and—”
“Oh, him,” Bruno said casually.
The detective tensed.
“Him?”
“Sure. I heard the elevator doors close, and when I looked up, there was this guy running away. He beat it right across the floor to the stairs and skedaddled up them.”
This was no time to startle a sitting bird. Trying to match Sclafani’s nonchalance, the detective said, “I realize you could only get a general impression. You were a long way off, so—”
Once again Bruno interrupted.
“I was a long way from the elevator,” he corrected, “but I was only two slots from the stairs and there’s a light over them. I saw him plain as day.”
“Then suppose you describe him.”
But Bruno’s stellar performance seemed to have peaked.
“What’s to describe? He was just a normal guy. Middle height, middle weight. Wasn’t really dark or really blond.”
All policemen are experienced at trying to put flesh on bare bones of this kind. After arduous efforts, Bruno declared that the man could not have been much over forty.
“Not with that kind of sprint. He ran pretty good for a desk type.”
“What makes you say he was a desk type?”
For the first time Bruno was forced to ponder his own words. “Must have been those round glasses,” he finally decided.
At the end of another five minutes, Heidt was sweating and Bruno was openly rebellious.
“That’s it. The guy was one of hundreds like that. I can’t remember any more about him.” Bruno shrugged irritably. “Not unless you count the barbecue apron.”
Resisting the impulse to throttle his witness, Heidt said very slowly, “You’re telling me he was wearing an apron?”
“Yeah, it flapped when he ran, just like a woman’s skirt.”
“And what else did you notice about it?”
Suddenly a clothes critic, Bruno cocked his head. “Well, at least it didn’t have any of those rinky-dink jokes on it. It was solid, like a shop apron, except for the picture of a grill—that was in white.”
“Do you remember the color?”
This provoked a spasm of annoyance.
“For Chrissake! I told you it was a shop apron, didn’t I? Haven’t you ever seen one? It was blue denim, of course.”
When he finally exited from Xavier Trucking, Heidt congratulated himself on getting out of there without having laid a finger on Bruno Sclafani.
“You say this
guy hasn’t seen any television or newspapers?” Inspector Giorni asked unbelievingly.
“That’s right. He’s some kind of cold-weather-survival specialist with the Army Reserve. They do their hitch in the winter, instead of the summer like the rest of us. He’s been trekking through the Rockies, building snow igloos. That’s why I didn’t show him any pictures.”
A witness absolutely unsullied by media coverage is a minor miracle and treated with due respect.
“You were right. As soon as Laverdiere’s back home, we’ll have an identification parade.”
By Monday night the District Attorney’s office was a major player in the conference at police headquarters.
“Sclafani picked out Laverdiere without batting an eye,” Giorni reported. “He says he’s sure and the apron pins it down.”
“Then that’s it,” the prosecutor said triumphantly. “We’ve got everything we need—means, motive, and opportunity.”
“Now wait a minute,” Giorni’s captain cautioned. “A lot of this can be explained away.”
The lawyer snorted. “So Laverdiere claims that he was never in the basement and this trucker is mistaken. You call that an explanation? What else can he say when we produce an eyewitness who never even heard about the murder?”
Now that Giorni was clued in on the department’s position, he felt free to make his own comment.
“We don’t really know we’ve got a motive.”
“Like hell we don’t. Laverdiere had some kind of scam going at Ecker that he tried to cover by burning down the records office. But Hunnicut cottoned on to his little game and kept yapping about it. Then Laverdiere shut him up.”
“But it would be nice to know what that scam was,” Giorni said temperately. “The insurance people are going to be extra tough about the Ecker audit. If we wait a week or so, we’ll have something solid.”
“A week!” This protest emerged as an involuntary squeak. The prosecutor readjusted his voice to a lower pitch. “Do you know the kind of heat we’re taking? We’ll have the financial stuff in time for the trial. All we have to do now is arraign the guy and the pressure will be off.”
