“Megan apparently had something of a fling ages ago, about the time Michael came along. What little I know about it is from Doyle; we’ve become pretty close through the years. Needless to say, Megan and I have never discussed the subject.”
“I hate to sound like a broken record, but that’s hardly surprising. Does Michael know anything about this?”
“Unfortunately, yes, and he blames his mother. And I also know, again from Doyle, that it stimulated more than a little discussion between him and Megan years ago.”
“Undoubtedly. But they stayed together for a long time after that?”
“It was one of those marriages that staggered on long after it was dead. The old story—they kept it together mainly for the kids.”
“And who is Noreen’s father?” I asked.
“Oh, Doyle—I don’t have any doubt about it,” Lily stated. “By the time she arrived, three years after Michael, Megan’s silly liaison had ended. Actually, my impression is that the marriage improved for a few years there.”
“I assume the liaison was not with Pamsett.”
“Good Lord, no. He’s relatively new on the scene. He’s a widower, plenty of assets, comes from pharmaceutical money. They met working together on some benefit or other.”
“He seems pleasant enough.”
Lily shrugged. “I guess so. ‘Urbane’ and ‘cultured’ are a couple of good words to describe him, but he’s not my type.”
“Meaning I’m not urbane and cultured?”
“You, my dear, have more savoir vivre than ought to be legal for any one person. And if you don’t know what that means, you can always ask your boss.”
“I have a pretty good idea.” I sniffed, feigning offense, then grinning. “Anything else I ought to know about these intriguing relatives of yours?”
“Heavens, isn’t that enough?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I feel like I’ve wandered into an episode of Dynasty. Well, here ye be, lady,” I said as the cab pulled up in front of her building. “I’m off to see whether the Living Legend can be persuaded to get involved with the misadventures of the Jameses.”
“Good luck. And don’t forget to ask him about savoir vivre,” Lily said as the cab pulled away. I gave her my best smirk in answer, but she was in animated conversation with the doorman and missed it. That’s just like her, always getting in the last word.
EIGHT
MR. RAMIREZ PULLED UP IN front of the brownstone at ten-fifty-nine, which meant that by the time I’d paid, tipped him, and got Fritz to unbolt the front door, Wolfe already had arranged himself behind his desk and started attacking the morning mail. So much for my being on hand to greet him.
“Good morning, did you sleep well?” I asked with a smile, stealing his own opening line as I sauntered into the office.
Wolfe scowled his opinion of my attempt at humor and then gave me an expression that a six-year-old could have interpreted as: Where the hell have you been?
“Maybe you’ve been wondering where I’ve been,” I said conversationally as I dropped into my desk chair. “On the other hand, maybe you haven’t.”
“Archie,” he said, allowing himself a protracted sigh that probably reached Fritz’s ears in the kitchen, “I could of course feign total uninterest regarding your ambulations, but you would no doubt counter with one of your puerile devices to distract or otherwise bedevil me. The result would be to increase the tension in this environment, which is hardly conducive to proper digestion. Am I correct in stating that your foreday activities centered on Miss Rowan’s family?”
“You are.”
“All right, confound it, report!” he grumbled, indulging himself in another sigh.
“Yes, sir,” I said, making sure to keep my face straight. I then proceeded to give him a verbatim of the events at both Lily’s and Megan’s apartments. Wolfe listened with eyes closed and fingers laced over his center mound, except when he surfaced to drink beer poured from the first of two bottles Fritz had delivered. He asked no questions, which is out of character, but he made a face several times—which is in character—and managed a full-scale grimace right at the end of my narrative, when I got to the part about Noreen wanting to hire him.
“Bah, refer her to the police. They have the resources to establish her brother’s innocence or guilt far more readily than I.”
“Hell, the cops already are convinced the brother did it. Besides, that’s the easy way out for them—a confession dropped into their laps. No, sir. She wants you. And she says she is willing to pay.”
“I am not interested.” He reached for his book.
“I can suggest two reasons why you should be,” I told him. “One, Lily Rowan; and two, our bank balance. I realize that the latter is in moderately robust health at this moment, but we both know only too well how fast that can change. For one thing, the Mercedes is due for a major tune-up. For another, the heating-and-air-conditioning man is coming next week, and chances are the old furnace is ready for the scrap heap. Remember, you’re the one who complained so much last winter about drafts. For yet another, the outside trim has got to be painted and—”
“Archie, shut up!”
“Then there’s Lily Rowan, who admires you unabashedly and for whom you also have expressed admiration. This is her niece we’re talking about, a young woman ill-used by someone she thought was a friend.”
“You have only her word for that,” Wolfe remarked, setting his book down deliberately and glaring at me.
“That’s true, and now with Linville dead, that’s all I’ll ever have. But as you have said many times, I am an astute judge of women,” I told him, warming to the realization that now I at least had his attention. “And from what little I’ve seen of Noreen James so far, as well as what Lily has told me, I would be inclined to wager my next paycheck that the young lady had a bad experience, probably a very bad experience, with the late Mr. L.”
Wolfe scowled, drained the beer from his glass, and scowled again, opening his center desk drawer and peering in. He was counting bottle caps, a ritual that allows him to monitor his beer consumption. “All right, I will see Miss James. What is her emotional state?” This question is not surprising from a man who has been known to flee from a room at the first hint of tears or other signs of what he perceives—rightly or otherwise—to be female hysteria.
“Unhappy, but plenty stable,” I responded. “In many ways, she reminds me of Lily. She has that same blend of warmth, toughness, temper, and brains. And who knows—maybe like her aunt, she will find you charming.”
That remark got ignored, as I had expected it would. Wolfe leaned back, eyes closed and hands cupping the arms of his chair. While a visitor might surmise that he was weighing the pros and cons of the prospective case, I knew he was contemplating lunch, because the wonderful aroma of Fritz’s spareribs, served with a special sauce he and Wolfe concocted several years back, had begun to permeate the office. I’ll confess that I was thinking about lunch myself.
“At the risk of breaking into what might well be a creative reverie, when can you see Noreen?” I asked. “What about this afternoon? Say, three o’clock?”
Wolfe sniffed. “ ‘Creative reverie’ is an oxymoron. I do not indulge in reverie.”
But I hadn’t spent more than half my life with Wolfe’s dictionary for nothing. “Enough with the obfuscation,” I told him. “If you don’t like three, pick another number. I got the distinct impression Noreen could come at any time convenient to you.”
That threw him off, as I had hoped it would. He knows my vocabulary has increased, albeit slowly, through the years, but he’s never quite prepared to hear words such as “obfuscation” coming out of my mouth. Maybe he thinks that he’s the only one in the brownstone who reads Safire’s column in the Times Sunday magazine.
“Miss James may come at three,” he decreed. “My agreeing to see her, however, does not constitute a contract, and she should be fully cognizant of that.”
“I believe she alre
ady is well aware of your methods of operation. In fact, I have it on good authority that to ingratiate herself, she is bringing gifts to you, including a new illustrated guide to orchid growing, two cases of Remmers beer, and a collection of London Times crossword puzzles. I of course told her that you couldn’t be bought by such transparent ploys, but she …”
I stopped talking, because I lost my audience. Wolfe had risen and was headed out the office door, his destination being the dining room, where a plate of spareribs awaited him—and me.
NINE
BECAUSE ANY DISCUSSION OF BUSINESS is verboten at meals in the brownstone, Noreen James’s name didn’t come up during lunch. However, as soon as Wolfe and I were back in the office with coffee after having laid waste to the spareribs and the raspberries in sherry cream, I dialed Lily at home.
“Mr. Wolfe can see your niece at three, which is only forty minutes from now,” I said. “Can you relay that message to her?”
“I’ll be happy to. I owe you something—say, dinner at La Ronde?”
“Sold, although of course I’ve earned every dollar of that meal. One more thing: As you are well aware, Nero Wolfe’s services hardly come cheap. Is your niece, uh …”
“My dear chap, if ‘loaded’ is the word you’re groping for, the answer is affirmative, and that’s spelled with capital letters. I gather her ability to pay is in question?”
“I wasn’t sure if she had an independent source of income, other than her publishing job, that is. Or if she’d have to tap into one of her parents—specifically her mother. I’m not wild about the idea of, in effect, having your half-sister as our client.”
“Oh, stop worrying. I don’t make it a habit to pry into the financial condition of members of my family, but in Noreen’s case, I happen to know—and only because she told me—that on her twenty-first birthday she came into the first payment of a trust fund, and that it brought her something over a million. And there is plenty more on the way a few years down the line in another installment. Unlike my case, it hasn’t spoiled her, though; she’s worked, by choice, from the day she got out of school, and she is by no means a reckless spender. She does buy nice clothes, though, despite the way she looked this morning. Anyway, the bottom line is that you and Wolfe can charge your usual outrageous fees without having to worry about guilty consciences.”
“I never have a guilty conscience,” I said, trying to sound offended. “Also, you are not spoiled. Lazy—maybe. Spoiled—never.”
“You sweet-talker,” she purred. “If you don’t hear from me in the next ten minutes, Noreen will be on your doorstep promptly at three.”
It was actually seven minutes after three when the doorbell sounded. “That would be Miss James,” I said to Wolfe, who gave no sign from behind his book that he had heard me.
Viewed through the one-way panel in our front door, Noreen James looked like a different person from the one I had seen earlier in her mother’s apartment. Granted, she had now been awake for several hours, had made up her face and fixed her hair, and was clad in a crisp blue shirtdress with a white belt and white pumps. As Lily said, she does dress well.
“Good afternoon, and please come in,” I said with a smile as I swung the door open.
“Hello, again, Mr. Goodwin,” she responded primly, returning the smile. “And thank you for getting me such a fast appointment.”
“Call me Archie, and thanks aren’t necessary. Part of my role is to see that my employer doesn’t get rusty from disuse.” I ushered Noreen into the office and made the introductions. Lily must have primed her, because she seemed to know that Wolfe is not a hand-shaker.
“I appreciate your seeing me,” she said, easing into the red leather chair and keeping her eyes on Wolfe. “I have my checkbook here, and—”
“A moment, Miss James.” Wolfe raised a palm. If he was rankled by having a young woman as a prospective client—something that has unsettled him on occasion—he didn’t let it show. The man never ceases to amaze me. “My agreeing to talk to you does not necessarily signify a contract between us. That may result, but not until I know considerably more than is now the case.”
“All right,” Noreen said, folding her hands in her lap and meeting his eyes squarely. She seemed undaunted by Wolfe and his size, which endeared her to me. “But first, I have to tell you both the news: Michael is out on bond. My father took your advice, Mr. Goodwin—Archie. His attorney recommended a criminal lawyer, his name is Hargrove, and this man argued that Michael has no record and that his family is well-known. So now he’s free.”
“At least for the moment,” I remarked. “But, hey, that’s a victory of sorts. And from what little I know about Hargrove, you’ve got yourself a top-flight man.”
Wolfe snorted, which was meant to reflect his opinion of lawyers in general. “Before we begin, Miss James, may I offer you something to drink? I’m having beer, but Mr. Goodwin can get you any one of a variety of beverages.” She said no thanks and Wolfe rang for beer, readjusting his bulk.
“Very well. Mr. Goodwin has supplied me with some basic information, but I have myriad questions, a few of a personal nature.”
“I’m ready.”
“First, how did you meet Mr. Linville?”
“Through my roommate—Polly Mars. She and I went to college together, at Smith, and for the last two years we’ve shared an apartment on the Upper West Side. She’s a fashion model, kind of struggling at it, but getting herself a few jobs.”
“And where did Miss Mars make the acquaintance of Mr. Linville?”
“At Orion—that’s a bar up on Second Avenue where a lot of people our age hang out.”
“You among them?”
She colored slightly. “Oh, I’ve been there a couple of times with Polly,” she said, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “But I’m not really into those places. They’re awfully noisy for one thing, and most of the people are phonies, if you know what I mean.”
Wolfe didn’t know, and didn’t care. “So Miss Mars brought you together?”
“Not directly,” Noreen said, crossing one slim leg over the other and smoothing her skirt. “Actually, she had several dates with … Sparky, and the first time I met him was when they came back to our apartment one night after hitting a few of the places. I could tell he was interested in me, and a couple days later he called and asked me to go out.”
“How did Miss Mars react to this?”
“That was the first thing that occurred to me, as you might imagine,” Noreen said. “She knew before she ever went out with him that he had a reputation for being pretty wild, but from what I could tell, and from our talks, she was having a good time with him. Anyway, when he called me and asked me out, I didn’t say yes right away; I put him off, asked him to call back later. And then I told Polly about it. She said it didn’t bother her at all, that she was getting tired of going to the same places with him—like Orion and Morgana’s. You should see Polly, Mr. Wolfe. She’s really beautiful, tall and blond. She’s never had trouble getting dates. She’s gone out with guys just as rich and well-known as Sparky, so being around him was no big deal with her.”
“Did she warn you about anything?” Wolfe asked.
“You mean …” She took a deep breath, then shook her head vigorously. “No. And I got the impression nothing much went on between them. But I didn’t ask her during the time they were seeing each other, and she didn’t volunteer any details. We’re pretty good friends, but we don’t talk about … that with each other, never have.”
I knew Wolfe was uncomfortable with the subject. But I also was aware, given his respect and admiration for Lily, that he was willing to tough it out, at least for a while.
“So you agreed to an engagement with Mr. Linville?”
“Yes, and we had a very good time that first night. To be honest, I was a little worried beforehand. Most of the guys I’ve gone out with, at least until recently, have been, you know, fairly conservative. Maybe that’s because I’m what you�
��d call conservative too, I guess. And I’d have to say I was flattered by the attention. Anyway, on our first date we went to a comedy revue down in the Village, which was very funny. Then we had a couple of drinks at Morgana’s, where we ran into some of his friends, and then he took me home—all very innocent. God, was I fooled. Talk about a babe in the woods.”
Wolfe drank beer and glowered at his nearly empty glass. “So there was a second engagement?”
Noreen nodded. “Right. By now, I was thinking Sparky Linville was just an exuberant rich young guy whose activities had gotten blown out of proportion by the papers. And there was even something about him in People or Us one time, I think. Anyway, yes, I did go out with him again—once.”
Wolfe contemplated her but said nothing. She returned the look, then glanced my way. Only a stone-heart could fail to have sympathy for her at this point, and even Wolfe isn’t a stone-heart. We both waited for her to continue.
“So the second time we went out, on a Saturday night, it was just for drinks, to—where else?—Orion and then Morgana’s. He took me home early and invited himself up. Polly was gone for the weekend, staying with her folks up in Bronxville.”
“Did Mr. Linville know your roommate was away?” Wolfe asked.
“Not that I’m aware of, although I guess I must have mentioned it when we got upstairs. Anyway, we each had a beer, I turned on some music, and …” She braced her shoulders. Wolfe leaned back, closing his eyes, then took a breath, came forward in his chair, and started to say something, but Noreen cut him off.
“Before you ask the question, I’ll answer it for you, Mr. Wolfe,” she said, measuring her words. “I did not—repeat, did not—do anything to lead him on or encourage him. I’ve thought about it at least a dozen times every day since it happened, and I know I did absolutely nothing to make him think I was …” Her voice was a little wobbly.
“I was not about to pose that question, Miss James,” Wolfe responded evenly. “What I was about to ask was if you saw or spoke to Mr. Linville after that night.”
The Last Coincidence (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 4) Page 6
