Right on the Money

by Emma Lathen

  For his pains, he received a sharp jab.

  “You sound just like my mother-in-law,” said Tina. When Thatcher’s jaw dropped, she relented slightly. “Bob’s mother’s got a complicated idea of the Ecker Company. But actually, Mr. Thatcher, the future’s always been very simple. It was going to be Junior—or nothing. We just expected Doug to last longer.”

  “Poor, poor Doug,” crooned Bob, popping up again. He had, Thatcher noticed, progressed from champagne to Scotch. “You know, you’ve got to feel damned sorry for poor Doug. Of all the lousy luck! Stuck down there in the swamp, miles and miles away from Ecker, where he really belongs. And where he’s a somebody. Oh, sure, he’s got money enough for all the toys he wants. But what good is that? He’s awful damned young to get stuck on the shelf, twiddling his thumbs.”

  Tina the wife swung into action.

  “Forget about poor Doug,” she directed crisply. “We’d better do something about you, Bob. Otherwise you’ll be flat on your back before Junior takes a bow.”

  Tactfully, Thatcher left the Laverdieres to their own devices and began circulating. On the principle that brief remarks and musical interludes always entail too much sitting, he made it a practice to keep moving until the last minute. Nimble footwork took him past clumps of stationary guests and many other husband-and-wife teams. As chance would have it, Tom Robichaux’s Henrietta was occupied elsewhere.

  “. . . but she’s overjoyed at the crowd,” Tom reported. “And, John, she particularly wanted me to thank you for coming.”

  Thatcher, who would not recognize Henrietta if she fell into his arms, yielded to temptation.

  “I’m delighted,” he said. “And are you enjoying yourself as well, Tom?”

  Robichaux’s internal struggle boded ill for his continued conjugal felicity, but he was always a gentleman. “A very delightful evening,” he said, daring Thatcher to do his damnedest, “and a worthwhile event.”

  The Ecker table, when Thatcher stopped by to chat, featured marriages made in heaven. Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Ecker were such proud parents that it was impossible to contemplate other facets of their union.

  “The kid wouldn’t let us come backstage,” Doug boasted to Thatcher, “Says he’s got stage fright.”

  “Horse—” Conrad began, before crumbling, “—feathers.”

  Wedged between his wife and his daughter-in-law, he was a far cry from the holy terror last seen. He was, however, in noticeably fine fettle. And Douglas Ecker certainly bore no resemblance to the lost soul of Bob Laverdiere’s vaporings.

  Even the singleton at the table beamed with confidence.

  “Oh, Junior always claims he’s nervous,” Alan Frayne began affectionately.

  “But once he’s on stage—wow!” Conrad jumped in.

  Junior’s triumphs had become a family ritual.

  “Did I tell you that Betty sent the most beautiful flowers again?” said Gloria to Alice Ecker.

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” Alice exclaimed.

  “Sis never forgets,” Doug chimed in.

  Approbation of thoughtfulness from California hummed around the table, and as far as Thatcher could see, Alan Frayne joined in.

  However, happy families are no place for outsiders. Thatcher was ready when a minatory tinkle sounded through the ballroom.

  “I’d better see where they’ve seated me,” he murmured.

  The Eckers, he was convinced, never missed him.

  Thatcher’s table, when he located it, offered a mixed bag. There were Francis and Mrs. Devane, devout Quakers as well as Robichaux partners. The Devanes rendered unto Caesar when they had to, but they preferred to discuss gardening. The other philanthropist awaiting him was Hugh Waymark. Waymark never left the bond market far behind, but Mrs. Waymark over-rode him with a running critique of all the dishes served.

  “. . . a pinch of cardamom—I think. But I can’t be absolutely sure.”

  On the whole, Thatcher was not unhappy to have the formal program begin.

  An hour later, he was on his feet, cheering lustily. This was not solely attributable to the madness of crowds, although the din around him was contagious.

  “. . . as authoritative as Christopher Hogwood!”

  “And the lento! Have you ever heard such a lento?”

  “. . . wonderful new talent right here in America. Why keep importing Russians?”

  Thatcher, who made no pretense at being one of the cognoscenti, simply clapped. While the finer points of the performance were, no doubt, wasted on him, he had responded to the bravura that Juilliard’s students brought to their task—and to their endearing intentness. Their Carmen Suite might not be the most polished to which he had ever been subjected, but the aspiring artists were far more pleasing to look upon than their jaded Philharmonic cousins. In fairness to the musicians’ union, it had to be added that gleaming hair and glowing complexions made the ensemble more attractive than their audience, too.

  But, although beguiling, the performers were not perfect. Like their elders, they succumbed to calls for an encore.

  It was, whispered Mrs. Hugh Waymark after the opening bars, Samuel Plummer’s beloved “Song of the Middle Border.”

  “Plummer,” she enlightened him further, “is one of Juilliard’s most distinguished alumni.”

  As far as Thatcher was concerned, that was no excuse. The waves of relentless Americana enveloping him did what the lento could not. Thatcher relaxed his heroic wakefulness and let his thoughts drift away from the homespun score. But, like Samuel Plummer, he stuck to nuggets from the national repertory of quaintness.

  “Mother knows best,” he reminded himself while the violins tugged vainly at his heartstrings. That, of course, depended on what Mother knew, and which mothers one was talking about.

  Then there was the ancient prescription beloved of coos, codgers and sots: “Nothing like a drink to kill the pain.”

  But had Bob Laverdiere been hurting while he burbled on? Thatcher rather doubted it.

  He was reviewing “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” when the soggy finale arrived.

  In spite of the provocation, Thatcher’s music-loving neighbors responded with another rousing ovation. The conductor stepped to the front of the stage, bowed from the waist, and waited for silence.

  Watching a black-suited back was not Thatcher’s notion of entertainment, even when long arms were coaxing and bullying violins and woodwinds into a harmonic whole.

  But, with the maestro facing him, Thatcher discovered Junior, and another ancient saw.

  Acorns, he had always been told, do not fall far from the tree.

  Obviously, perfect pitch was not the only genetic anomaly about Junior. Taller by at least a head than his father or grandfather, golden blond, he was—although nobody had bothered to mention it—gloriously handsome.

  Every swan hatched by barnyard ducks seems destined to become a superstar. But this awful fate had yet to befall young Ecker. Not quite an adult, but no longer a boy, he was still modest, confident, and appreciative to a fault.

  “. . . personally thank my mother and my father.”

  Wild applause.

  “. . . and Grandfather and Grandmother Ecker.”

  Mrs. Waymark was still going strong. Hugh began fumbling for a cigar.

  “. . . wonderful friends Tina and Bob, who’ve always been real sympathetic.”

  Junior should already have stopped. After parents and grandparents, most crowds cease empathizing and start fidgeting.

  “. . . and last, but not least, my Uncle Alan.”

  The polite patter was drowned out by the rustling that herald departure. Thatcher remained seated, while escorts went for wraps, makeup was repaired, and families ringed the performers, who were leaving the stage clutching instruments like trophies. For several long minutes he sat still, testing another hoary old saw for contemporary relevance.

  “Out of the mouths of babes . . .”

  Chapter 28

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  John Thatcher’s call from the Waldorf Astoria propelled Inspector Giorni into a whirlwind of activity. Within forty-eight hours he had what he wanted: nevertheless he was still too late. Alan Frayne’s plane had already landed in Zurich, Switzerland.

  Determined to exact a pound of flesh somewhere, Giorni stormed across the Ecker compound to disrupt a high-level conference. Ignoring John Thatcher, Tom Robichaux, and the Laverdieres, he bore down on Conrad Ecker.

  “You tipped him off,” he rasped accusingly. “I could nail you for that.”

  Conrad’s response to any display of aggression was reflexive.

  “I’ll do as I damn please!”

  “You realize you’ve let a killer get off scot-free?”

  “If you’d done your job right, he’d have been behind bars a long time ago.”

  Thatcher’s sensitive ear detected a false note in Ecker’s vigorous ripostes. Say what you would about him, he usually kept to the point. Fortunately Tina Laverdiere, who had been listening with a faint air of amusement, was willing to solve Conrad’s dilemma. Before Giorni could demolish the last digression, she broke in:

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Inspector, can’t you see that Conrad didn’t warn Alan? Alice is the one to blame.”

  Conrad, whose appetite for combat was insatiable, cast her a resentful glance.

  “That’s no business of his!” he declared before turning to Giorni and issuing a splendid ultimatum: “And I’m not having you drag my wife into this.”

  “She’s the one who dragged herself in.”

  The outthrust jaws, lowering brows, and rapid-fire exchanges might have gone on forever if Tina had not suddenly choked on a spurt of laughter.

  “If you really want to track her down, I can tell you where to go,” she said merrily. “Alice is having her hair done at Gaston’s Salon on South Water Street.”

  For the first time Giorni’s resolution faltered.

  “Think you’re pretty damned cute, don’t you?” he said, scowling at Tina.

  Thatcher’s sympathies were with the inspector. It was one thing to bellow threats at Conrad. It was quite another to tackle a white-haired grandmother in the midst of whirring blow dryers, mincing stylists, and a spellbound clientele.

  But Tina recognized the worth of other approaches besides unremitting defiance.

  “Oh, come on, Inspector,” she coaxed. “I couldn’t believe my ears when Conrad told us that Alan had hightailed it. We’re all dying to find out what’s been going on. So why don’t you just tell us?”

  Still bent on causing discomfort to someone, Giorni snapped: “Why not ask Thatcher? It was his bright idea.”

  Tina, Bob, and Conrad turned to Thatcher expectantly. Tom Robichaux, however, shook his head.

  “That’s no way to treat a client, John,” he criticized.

  This opinion was not shared by Conrad Ecker. He was too annoyed at having been beaten to the finish line.

  “Don’t see how you could come up with Alan. You probably picked his name out of thin air,” he said with all the graciousness of a sore loser.

  “Oh, it was easy after your performance at Tom’s office,” Thatcher replied with malice aforethought. “You’re the one who started us on that hare about Bradley stealing from his lab. And once anyone looked at Bradley, the next logical step was Alan Frayne.”

  Bob Laverdiere took over. Casually reaching for Conrad’s pencil, he rapped it sharply on the table.

  “We’ll never get anywhere this way,” he announced. “Suppose you start at the beginning.”

  Thatcher was momentarily distracted by an insight into the new force at Ecker that had been steadily emerging all afternoon. Conrad might be sitting at the head of the table; Laverdiere was calling the shots.

  “Actually it all became clear at the musicale,” Thatcher began again. “For weeks we had all been dealing with ASI’s reaction to your firm. Given the number of relatives here and the informal chain of command, it was only natural that they should consider Ecker as a cozy family unit. But, until the Juilliard concert, I never realized how much you people accepted that fiction.”

  “Fiction?” Bob queried.

  “Alan’s always been part of the family,” Tina protested.

  “I never treated him differently than anyone else,” Conrad added.

  The last contribution sparked memories for Bob Laverdiere.

  “Sometimes a lot better,” he recollected.

  Thatcher held up a hand to stem the tide. “Oh, I realize you were all continuing habits formed a long time ago. That’s what was so confusing. You overlooked the fact that Alan Frayne, in one important aspect, ceased to be part of the family the day he got divorced.”

  “Nobody blamed Alan for that. It was Betty who . . .” Tina began hotly before having second thoughts. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “Money,” Thatcher replied succinctly. “When Conrad announced his decision to sell the company, nobody doubted his underlying motive. He was planning to provide for his family.”

  “Of course.” It was Bob who answered. “When Doug was forced to retire, that became important.”

  Thatcher shook his head. “You misunderstand me. Nobody doubted that Conrad’s munificent share of the sale would descend along the bloodline to his children and grandchildren.”

  This was one subject guaranteed to rouse Tom Robichaux.

  “Only way to go!” he trumpeted. He rarely had a bad word for the system that had stood him in such good stead.

  “And it’s what most people do,” said Laverdiere, striking a more detached note.

  “Of course,” Thatcher agreed. “But look at it from Frayne’s point of view. For years the future was taken care of. Half of Conrad’s estate would ultimately enrich Frayne’s wife and children, and they would all be wealthy. Then Conrad’s daughter divorced him and, almost as important, she moved to California.”

  Tina was puzzled. “I see the inheritance problem—Alan would no longer benefit from it. But why should Betty’s leaving be a big deal?”

  “Because it obscured the issue. If Betty had been nearby, the change in Frayne’s role would have been patent. She and her children would have been in and out of her parents’ home, and her second husband would have become established as the son-in-law at all family get-togethers. Frayne would either leave the company or settle for being a close colleague.”

  “I see what you mean,” Tina said slowly. “I suppose we did pretend that nothing had happened.”

  “It’s not altogether surprising,” Thatcher went on, “with the family’s center of gravity here in Bridgeport. Nonetheless, I was startled at the Waldorf by the degree to which things had, on the surface, remained the same. Frayne was the familiar figure at Junior’s concerts, while Betty was the one who had drifted away. Junior clearly considered Uncle Alan as the permanency in his world. If Frayne had remarried, I got the impression his wife would have become Aunt Sally. The ties seemed as close as ever.”

  Now it was Bob nodding acknowledgment.

  “So, when Conrad decided to sell out, Alan had to face facts. It must have really shaken him. God, it took me a while to adjust,” he confessed. “And, with our twenty percent, we’ll be millionaires.”

  “Frayne didn’t wait that long,” Thatcher replied. “The moment Doug Ecker retired, Frayne foresaw dramatic changes down the road. And there was more than the vanished inheritance to goad him. Bear in mind that you and your wife have transferable skills. Production managers and accountants are needed everywhere. But Frayne was running a test lab for a research department that consisted of one person. He could never duplicate that. On the other hand, as soon as he considered ways to redress his grievance, he must have realized that he had one enormous asset—a credit balance of trust that had been accumulating for years. So he simply advised Conrad that one project would cost too much to produce, then went out and sold it on the open market.”

  Bob Laverdiere could not believe his ears.

  “That
can’t be all there was to it,” he objected, involuntarily turning to his uncle. “There must have been some sort of check.”

  Conrad, faced with a choice between blaming his son or blaming himself, did not hesitate. “There was. Doug reviewed Alan’s decisions. I just let that lapse after Doug left. I never once thought about Alan double-crossing me.”

  A dull-red tide suffused Bob’s face, and possibly for the first time in his life, he sounded dangerous.

  “Let me get this straight,” he grated. “For two solid years you’ve wanted us to treat every one of Doug’s systems as sacred, no matter whether it was production, sales, or record-keeping. And then, behind our backs, you casually scuttle one of the most important?”

  Conrad did not burke the issue. Shamefaced and awkward, he stumbled into a long-overdue apology. “Didn’t want anybody doing what Doug did,” he mumbled. “It was a mistake. I should have had you take over from him.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Bob said evenly. For a long moment that seemed to be all. Then, tempering justice with mercy, he added, “I never would have doubted Alan’s honesty either.”

  Benignly, Thatcher observed this honorable attempt by both parties to meet halfway on a tricky and tortuous path. Inspector Giorni, however, was only too pleased to emphasize flaws in Conrad’s conduct.

  “So you practically invited Frayne to steal this kitchen cleaner of yours,” he remarked smugly. “What the hell is the thing, anyway?”

  “Ah, not the cleaner,” Tina sighed. “Conrad had a real winner there. It mechanically washes your kitchen floor and then really dries it.”

  She sounded enthusiastic enough to be a potential customer.

  Meanwhile Giorni was nodding to himself. “I figured it couldn’t be a mop, not the way it’s going to be priced by the outfit that bought it from Frayne.”

  This offhand remark threatened to derail the entire conversation.

  “What are they planning to charge?” three voices demanded in unison.

  When Giorni told them, Tina and Bob groaned aloud. Conrad was made of sterner stuff.

  “The bastards are going to cut corners,” he ground out.

  “You can see why Frayne felt safe,” Thatcher commented, neatly seizing the opening. “Long before he took to crime, another company happened to bring out a cheap version of one of Ecker’s rejects. You would all assume the same thing had occurred again. And none of you would have the same proprietary interest after the Ecker Company was sold. Still, when the anticipated merger became a reality, when Pepitone and Hunnicut appeared in the flesh, Frayne did not want loose ends lying around. Old lab books were still being automatically shipped to records, and anyone who studied them would realize that Frayne’s conclusion about the kitchen cleaner was at variance with the facts. A fire in the boiler house seemed the perfect solution.”