“I’d suspect you had fallen in love with another woman!”
They had a leisurely dinner at the kitchen table: veal casserole, three-bean salad, and a small bottle of California chablis that wasn’t quite as dry as the TV commercials claimed. They talked about how well the girls looked and what time they should be home from their date.
“Make it two o’clock,” Delaney said. “I forget how long midnight mass lasts, but they’ll want to stop off somewhere for a nightcap.”
“Two in the morning?” Monica said dubiously. “When I was their age I had to be home by ten in the evening.”
“And that was only a few years ago,” he said innocently.
“You!” she said, slapping his shoulder lightly. “I better go upstairs and see how they’re coming along.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll clean up in here.”
After he had set the kitchen to rights, he inspected his liquor supply, wondering what he might offer the girls’ gentlemen callers.
They’d know about martinis, he suspected, and daiquiris, margaritas, and black russians. He thought of the cocktails that had been popular when he was their age: whiskey sours, manhattans, old-fashioneds, and fizzes, smashes, and flips.
He suddenly decided to give them a taste of the old days, and stirred up a big pitcher of bronx cocktails, taking little sips until he had the mixture of gin, sweet and dry vermouth, and orange juice just right. Then he put the pitcher in the fridge to chill.
He went into the living room and plugged in the Christmas lights. He sat solidly in his favorite chair, stared at the beautiful tree, and brooded about Calazo’s report exonerating Ronald Bellsey. How could the detective be so sure?
He had the feeling that Calazo’s judgment had resulted from more than a friendly dialogue between cop and subject. But whatever it was, the report had to be accepted. They had taken the investigation of Bellsey’s alibi as far as it could go. Which left Joan Yesell …
When he heard the door chimes, he glanced at the mantel clock and saw it was a few minutes after eight. At least they were prompt. He lumbered into the hallway to let them in, shouting upstairs, “Your perfect gentlemen are here!”
God, they were so young! But street cops now seemed young to Delaney. And what was worse, the nation had elected presidents who were younger than he.
The boys certainly were presentable in their dinner jackets. He didn’t particularly care for ruffled shirts and butterfly bow ties—but different times, different fashions. What worried him most was that he couldn’t tell one from the other, they were so alike. He addressed both as “young man.”
“A drink while we’re waiting?” he suggested.
“Don’t go to any trouble, sir,” one of them said.
“We have a reservation at nine, sir,” the other one said.
“Plenty of time,” Delaney assured them. “It’s already mixed.”
He brought in the pitcher of bronx cocktails and poured.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Happy Holidays,” they said in unison, tried their drinks, then looked at each other.
“A screwdriver,” one of them said. “Sort of.”
“But there’s vermouth in it,” the other one said. “Right, sir?”
“Right.”
“Whatever it is, it’s special. I’d just as soon forget about the Plaza and stay right here.”
“A bronx cocktail,” Delaney said. “Before your time. Gin, sweet and dry vermouth, and orange juice.”
“I’m going to sell it in mason jars,” one of them said. “My fortune is made.”
Delaney liked them. He didn’t think they were especially handsome—go try to figure out what women saw in men—but they were alert, witty, respectful. And they didn’t scorn small talk, so the conversation went smoothly.
Monica came down first, and both youths rose to their feet: another plus. Delaney poured her a cocktail and listened, as, within five minutes, she learned their ages, where they lived in Manhattan, what their fathers did for a living, what their ambitions were, and at what hour they intended to return her treasures, safe, sound, and untouched by human hands.
When Mary and Sylvia entered, they seemed so lovely to Delaney that his eyes smarted. He poured them each a half-cocktail, and a few minutes later said, “I guess you better get going. You don’t want to keep the Plaza waiting. And remember, two o’clock is curfew time. Five minutes after that and we call the FBI. Okay?”
The girls gave him a quick kiss and then they were gone.
“Please, God,” Monica said, “let it be a wonderful night for them.”
“It will be,” Delaney said, closing, locking, and chaining the door. “Nice boys.”
“Peter’s going on to medical school,” Monica reported as they returned to the living room, “and Jeffrey wants to be an architect.”
“I heard,” Delaney said, “and I was disappointed. No cops.”
The cocktail pitcher was still half-full, and he got ice cubes from the kitchen and poured them each a bronx on the rocks.
“Should we put the presents under the tree tonight or wait for tomorrow morning?” he asked.
“Let’s wait. Edward, you go to bed whenever you like. I’ll wait up for them.”
“I was sure you would,” he said, smiling. “And I plan to keep you company.”
He sat relaxed in the high wing chair covered with bottle-green leather, worn to a gloss. Monica wandered over to Diane Ellerbee’s basket of flowers placed on their Duncan Phyfe desk. She made small adjustments in the arrangement.
“It really is gorgeous, Edward.”
“Yes—” he started, then stopped. He rose slowly to his feet. “What did you say?” he asked in a strangled voice.
Monica turned to stare at him. “I said it was gorgeous. Edward, what on earth is the matter?”
“No, no,” he said impatiently. “I mean when the flowers first arrived and I brought them into the kitchen. What did you say then?”
“Edward, what is this?”
“What did you say then?” he shouted at her. “Tell me!”
“I said they were beautiful and wondered if they were for the girls. You said no, they were for us.”
“And what else?”
“I asked if you wanted a buttonhole. You said you didn’t.”
“Right!” he said triumphantly. “I asked if you had ever seen me wear a flower. You said no, not even at our wedding. Then I asked what you’d think if I showed up wearing a rose in my lapel. And what did you say then?”
“I said I’d suspect you had fallen in love with another woman.”
He smacked his forehead with an open palm. “Idiot!” he howled. “I’ve been a goddamned idiot!”
He went rushing into the study and slammed the door. Monica looked on in astonishment. After a few minutes she settled down to watch a Christmas Eve program on television.
She resisted the temptation to look in at him for almost an hour, then, maddened by curiosity, she opened the study door just a few inches and peeked inside. He was standing, at the file cabinet, his back to her, flinging reports left and right. She decided not to interrupt.
An hour later, figuring this nonsense had gone on long enough, she marched resolutely into the study and confronted him. He was slumped wearily in his swivel chair behind the desk, wearing his horn-rimmed specs. He was holding a sheet of paper, staring at it.
“Edward,” she said severely, “you’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ve got it,” he said, looking up at her wonderingly. “The man was in love.”
23
IT WAS SUPPOSED TO be a festive day. They all came downstairs in pajamas, bathrobes, and slippers and opened the tenderly wrapped packages stacked under the tree. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done it!” … “Just what I wanted!”
Delaney had given Monica a handsome choker of cultured pearls which she immediately put on.
Then they all sat around the kitchen table fo
r a big breakfast: juice, eggs, ham, hashed-brown potatoes, buttermilk biscuits, lots of coffee, glazed doughnuts, and more coffee.
Delaney moved through all this jollity with a glassy smile, his thoughts far away. At 10:00 A.M. he ducked into his study to call Carol Judd, Simon Ellerbee’s receptionist. No answer. He called every hour on the hour. Still no answer. Where the devil was the woman? He sighed. Spending Christmas Day with the boyfriend, he supposed. She was entitled.
There were calls to the girls from Peter and Jeffrey. That took an hour—at least. And then all the Delaneys sallied forth for a stroll down Fifth Avenue. They admired Christmas decorations, the tree at Rockefeller Center, and ended up having lunch at Rumpelmayer’s.
They walked home up Madison Avenue, the girls stopping every minute to Ooh and Ahh at the windows of the new boutiques. Back in the brownstone, Delaney got on the phone again to Carol Judd. Still no answer.
They spent a pleasant afternoon hearing about the girls’ lives at school, but although Delaney listened, he was in a fever of impatience and hoped it didn’t show.
After dinner he dived back into his study and continued to call Carol Judd, without success. Trying to control his anger, he went to the files and pulled out certain notes that now had a significance he hadn’t recognized before.
Finally, at 10:00 P.M., he reached her.
“Edward X. Delaney here. I spoke to you a few weeks ago in connection with the police investigation into the death of Doctor Simon Ellerbee.”
“Oh, yes. Merry Christmas, Mr. Delaney.”
“Thank you. And a Happy Holiday to you.”
He was forcing himself to slow down, play it cool. He didn’t want to alert this young woman.
“Miss Judd, a few questions have come up that I think only you can answer. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to give me a few minutes of your time.”
“Well, I can’t right now.”
That probably meant the boyfriend was there.
“At your convenience,” Delaney said.
“Umm … well, I’m working now.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “With another psychiatrist?”
“No, I’m with a dentist on West Fifty-seventh Street.”
“I’ll bet I know the building,” he said. “Corner of Sixth Avenue?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Don’t tell me your dentist is there?”
“No,” he said, “but my podiatrist is. I have great teeth but flat feet. Miss Judd, you’ve been so cooperative that I’d like to take you to lunch. Do you get an hour?”
“Early. At twelve o’clock.”
“There’s a fine restaurant on Seventh Avenue just south of Fifty-seventh. The English Pub. Do you know it?”
“I’ve seen it but I’ve never been in.”
“Good food, generous drinks. Could you meet me there for lunch tomorrow at, say, twelve-fifteen?”
“Sure,” she said cheerfully. “Sounds like fun.”
He was at the English Pub promptly at noon on December 26th. He took a table for two, sitting where he could watch the door. Carol Judd came in at 12:20 and stood looking around. He rose, waved at her. She came over laughing. He held the chair for her.
“Hey,” she said, looking around at the restaurant, “this is keen.”
He hadn’t heard anyone use the word “keen” in twenty years, and he smiled.
“Nice place,” he said. “There’s been a restaurant here as long as I can remember. It used to be called the Studio, I think. Would you like a drink?”
“What’re you having?”
“Vodka gimlet.”
“I think I’d like a strawberry daiquiri. Okay?”
She was wearing a denim smock that hid her limber body. But her blond curls were still frizzy, and her manner as perky as before. She chatted easily about her new job and the funny things that happen in a dentist’s office.
“Maybe we better order,” he suggested, handing her a menu. “We can talk while we eat.”
“Sure,” she said. “What’re you having?”
“I’m going for the club sandwich,” he said. “I’m a sandwich freak. You have whatever looks good to you.”
“Cheeseburger,” she said, “with a lot of fries. And another strawberry daiquiri. Hey, you know what happened? Doc Simon left me a thousand dollars in his will!”
“I heard that,” Delaney said. “Very nice of him.”
“He was a sweetheart,” Carol Judd said. “Just a sweetheart. I don’t have the check yet, but I got a letter from the lawyers. When the money comes, me and my boyfriend are going to take a great weekend in Bermuda or the Bahamas or someplace like that. I mean it’s found money—right?”
“Right,” Delaney said. “Enjoy it.”
“How you coming on the investigation? You find the guy who did it yet?”
“Not yet. But I think we’re making progress.”
Their food was served. She doused her cheeseburger and French fries with ketchup. Delaney slathered his wedges of club sandwich with mayonnaise.
“Carol,” he said casually, “you told me you did the billing for Doctor Ellerbee. Is that correct?”
“Sure. I mailed out all the bills.”
“How did you keep track of who owed what?”
“In a ledger. I logged in every patient’s visit. We billed monthly.”
“Uh-huh. Did you know the billing ledger is missing?”
She had her mouth open to take a bite of cheeseburger, but stopped. “You’re kidding,” she said. “First I heard of it. Who would want that?”
“The killer,” Delaney said. “Maybe. Where did you keep it?”
“In the top drawer of my desk.”
“Everyone knew that? I mean patients and other people coming in and out of the office?”
“I suppose so. I didn’t try to keep it hidden or anything like that. No point, was there?”
“I guess not. Carol, the last time I spoke to you, we talked about Doctor Simon’s change of mood in the last year. You said he was up and down, happy one day, depressed the next.”
“That’s right. He became, you know, changeable.”
“And also,” Delaney said cheerfully, “you mentioned that he wore a flower in his buttonhole.”
“Well, it really wasn’t in his buttonhole because he didn’t have one on his suit. But it was pinned to his lapel, yes.”
“And it was the first time you had seen him wear a flower?”
“That’s right. I kidded him about it, and we laughed. He was happy that day.”
“Thank you,” Delaney said gratefully. “Now let’s get back to that billing ledger for a minute. Were there patients who didn’t pay or were slow on their payments?”
“Oh, sure. I guess every doctor has his share of slow payers and out-and-out deadbeats.”
“And how did Doctor Ellerbee handle them?”
“I’d mail out second and third notices. You know—very polite reminders. We had a form letter for it.”
“And what if they didn’t pay up, even after the notices? What happened then? Did he drop them?”
“He never did,” she said, laughing and wiping ketchup from her lips with her napkin. “He was really such a sweet, easygoing guy. He’d say, ‘Well, maybe they’re a little strapped,’ and he’d keep treating them. A soft touch.”
“Sounds like it,” Delaney said. He had finished his club sandwich and the little container of cole slaw. Now he sat back, took a deep breath, and said, “Do you remember the name of the patient who owed Doctor Ellerbee the most money?”
“Sure,” Carol Judd said promptly, popping the last French fry into her mouth with her fingers. “Joan Yesell. She owed almost ten thousand dollars.”
“Joan Yesell?” he repeated, not letting his exultation show. “Ten thousand dollars?”
“About.”
“That was more than any other patient owed?”
“A lot more.”
“Did you send her second and third notice
s?”
“At first I did, but then the doctor told me to stop dunning her. He said she probably couldn’t afford it. So he just carried her.”
“Thank you,” Delaney said. “Thank you very much. Now, how about some dessert?”
“Well …” Carol Judd said. “Maybe.”
He plodded home on a steely-gray afternoon, smoking a Cuesta-Rey 95 and thinking he owned the world. Well, he didn’t have it all, but he had most of it. Enough that made sense. The problem was: Where did he go from here?
The brownstone was silent and empty. The women, he supposed, were out exchanging Christmas gifts. He went into the study and got on the horn. It took almost an hour to locate Boone and Jason and summon them to a meeting at nine o’clock that night. He was ruthless about it: Be here.
But when they arrived and he had them seated, the study door closed against the chatter of the women in the living room, he wondered how he might communicate his own certainty. He knew it might sound thin, but to him it was sturdy enough to run on.
“Listen,” he began. “I’m convinced Simon Ellerbee was in love, or having an affair, or both, with Joan Yesell. Four women, including his wife, said that his personality changed recently. But they don’t agree on how it changed. He was up, he was down, he was this, he was that: a good picture of a guy so mixed up he couldn’t see straight. Also, Ellerbee was carrying Yesell on the books. She owed him about ten grand and he was making no effort to collect. I got that from Carol Judd, his receptionist, just this afternoon.”
The two officers were leaning forward, listening intently. He saw he would have no problem convincing them; they wanted to believe.
“That would explain his will,” Boone said slowly. “Canceling his patients’ debts. He put that in for Yesell’s benefit. Right, sir?”
“Right. She owed much more than any other patient. Also, I went through his appointment book again. She’s down as a late patient eleven times this year, always on Friday nights. But the interesting thing is that notation of those Friday night visits stopped in April. Only I don’t think the sessions stopped. I believe they went on, but he didn’t write them down in his book.”
“You think he was screwing her?” Jason asked.
Fourth Deadly Sin Page 31
