Murder Times Two

by Haughton Murphy

  “Where the hell did he learn it?” Springer asked incredulously.

  “He told me once he’d picked it up during the War. He was stationed in New Orleans. He had a desk job and he and some of his buddies started doing needlepoint to drive their commanding officer crazy.”

  “Needlepoint? That’s what you call it?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Damn strange for a man, I’d say. He wasn’t, ah, queer or anything, was he?”

  “I’d be amazed if he was. As I said, I think it was just one of his eccentricities.”

  “Well, it’s a new one on me,” Springer said uneasily.

  As they stared at the unusual needlepoint, the kitchen door opened and a man in his mid-thirties, slightly balding, came in. His hair and suit were both disheveled and he peered around the room through Coke-bottle glasses. Frost started when he saw him; he was sure he’d seen him before.

  “Springer, Mattocks, can I see you?” he said oblivious to Frost. The three went out, leaving Frost alone.

  Who was that fellow? Frost asked himself. Then he remembered—Bautista’s nemesis, the assistant district attorney in charge of the investigation of the murder of Frost’s godson, the author David Rowan.

  Soon the law-enforcement trio returned, and Assistant District Attorney Joseph Munson introduced himself to Frost, who did not point out their past association (in which he, and not the police or the District Attorney’s office, had solved Rowan’s murder).

  “I take it you’ve given a full statement to these detectives, Mr. Frost?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a statement, Mr. Munson, but I’ve tried to answer their questions as best I could.”

  “I stand corrected,” Munson said. “How long have you known the deceased?”

  Reuben calculated mentally—how long had it been since the “bigamy” memo?—and finally replied “Twenty-five years.”

  “Are you, were you, his lawyer?”

  “Not really. My firm represents him. My former firm.”

  “You retired?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your firm was?”

  “Chase & Ward.”

  “That small, friendly family outfit, eh?”

  Frost ignored the crack, directed at Chase & Ward’s size—and just possibly its power and prestige.

  “Will Chase & Ward represent Vandermeer’s estate?”

  “I would expect so, yes.”

  “That’s all I have, gentlemen,” Munson said. “Who you want to talk to next?”

  “How about the cutie?” Mattocks said.

  “Good idea,” Springer agreed. “Let’s go. Mr. Frost, if you don’t mind, would you stay here?”

  Once again, Reuben was semi-incarcerated, though he noted with some satisfaction that he was again “Mr. Frost.” They must think I’m a cooperative witness, he concluded. Though he could not figure out who the “cutie” might be. Helena Newcomb? Probably. Or perhaps Michael Costas?

  7

  A Rough Time

  Reuben obediently waited in the kitchen. Like a real prisoner, he was grateful for a small favor from his jailers—not having to return to Miss Boyle’s religious shrine. Given the hour, almost midnight, he was sure her image of the Virgin Mary would not only be moving her eyes, but talking to him. What he knew about such things was largely based on that movie starring Norton Simon’s wife, The Song of Bernadette, and now, even with the confused troubles around him, he could not help but fantasize over a new Lourdes shrine on upper Park Avenue. The deluge of pilgrims would certainly delight the neighbors.

  His outlandish fantasy did not last long; new feelings of nervous anxiety overcame him as he sat alone staring at the gigantic, even ominous, black stove.

  After what seemed an interminable wait, Munson, Springer and Mattocks returned. Their grim faces did not bode well, and Munson’s stiffly formal “Mr. Frost” unnerved Reuben still further.

  “I know it’s late,” the assistant district attorney said, “but I’m afraid we have a few more questions for you.”

  “Fine,” Frost replied without much enthusiasm.

  “First of all, that medicine bottle upstairs. How did you happen to see it?”

  “I didn’t see it at first,” Reuben explained again. “I saw the top of the bottle in the basin when I went to wash my hands. Naturally that made me curious and I looked around. It was then I saw the spilled bottle under the sink.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that Mr. Deybold, who used the same bathroom before dinner, did not see any bottle?”

  Reuben was perplexed. “Maybe it wasn’t there,” Frost offered. What were they implying? he wondered. That he had put it there? Don’t be silly, he told himself.

  “Maybe it wasn’t,” Munson echoed, with perhaps a tinge of sarcasm.

  Springer took his old seat beside Frost and turned to look directly at him.

  “Mr. Frost, if you don’t mind, we’d like to run through again what happened while you were in the living room after dinner. Please reflect carefully and try not to leave anything out.”

  Once again Reuben went over the chronology, starting with the serving of drinks and coffee and Tobias’ attending to the mixing of his rusty nail.

  “Are you sure that’s all?” Springer asked, when he had finished.

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Mr. Frost, would it surprise you to know that all the other guests recall that at one point you got yourself and Vandermeer new drinks?”

  Springer’s question caused Frost’s stomach muscles to tighten. Of course, he had gotten Tobias a drink. And why in the name of God had he not remembered it? What an embarrassment!

  “Yes, you’re quite right,” Reuben said very quietly. “I apologize to you gentlemen.”

  “Will you tell us about it?”

  Frost did so, trying to place his deed in the proper sequence.

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” Munson asked.

  Frost thought of pleading old age, but that would be cheap. “I’m embarrassed to say I simply forgot it.” Never complain, never explain, as his old legal mentor, Charles Chase, had always been fond of saying.

  “If Vandermeer was poisoned, don’t you think that was a pretty important fact to leave out?”

  “I have to agree with you. All I can do is apologize.”

  “Another matter, Mr. Frost,” Munson said. “You said that your firm represents Mr. Vandermeer?”

  “That’s correct,” Reuben said, puzzled at the abrupt change of subject.

  “Are you still a partner in the firm?”

  “No, I’m retired, as I told you.”

  “Are you of counsel?”

  “Yes, I am, though I’m really not active these days.”

  “How are you compensated?”

  “I get an annual retirement payment.”

  “Based on firm income?”

  “No, it’s a fixed amount.”

  Munson seemed disappointed. “But you still are dependent, shall we say, on the financial well-being of the firm?”

  “Well, yes, of course. If Chase & Ward went belly-up, it’s unlikely I’d get paid. I’m reasonably certain you can dismiss that possibility, however,” Frost retorted, peeved at Munson’s questions, which he regarded as highly personal.

  “And your firm, Chase & Ward, I assume will get a fee for handling Mr. Vandermeer’s estate?”

  “I have no idea what the fee arrangement with Mr. Vandermeer was. But I’m sure you’re correct, yes.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Frost,” Munson said, as he led the two detectives to the back of the kitchen and talked to them in a low voice.

  Frost, left alone, was in a state of confused panic. Did these young men think he had killed Tobias? It was entirely possible. Suspicious of everything he said—or didn’t say, in the case of his cursed lapse over the drink he had poured for Tobias. And now this myopic, self-important ADA fitting him out with a motive—benefitting from the fee Chase & Ward would get for representing T
obias’ estate.

  “That’s all, Mr. Frost,” Munson said perfunctorily when his sidebar conference had ended.

  “What now?”

  “You can go home. Your wife’s waiting for you in the library.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s just one thing,” Munson said, handing Frost his card. “If you decide there’s anything else you should tell us, give me a call. And I would ask that you don’t leave town without letting me know first.”

  At least they don’t want bail, Frost thought, as he went to pick up Cynthia.

  In the living room the police technicians were still at work. Tobias’ body had been removed, though a large chalk mark showed where he had fallen. Frost hurried across to the library; seldom had he been so glad to see his wife.

  “Reuben, where have you been? I thought they had arrested you,” Cynthia said.

  “For God’s sake shut up! They’re still here!” he hissed at his wife.

  Startled, she put her hand on his arm and squeezed it.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Where’s Robyn?”

  “I made her go to bed around fifteen minutes ago.”

  “And the others?”

  “They’ve all left except Helena Newcomb. She’s staying over with Robyn. We had to wait until the Medical Examiner came and they took away Tobias’ body.”

  “Like being at a party with the goddam Queen,” Frost said, his mood dark and not a little desperate. “Can’t leave until she leaves. But she’s—he’s gone, so, dammit, let’s go home!”

  “This whole business is incredible,” Reuben said, as he and Cynthia walked down Park Avenue. “I don’t mean to worry you, but they suspect me!”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Is it? What do they say? Look for someone with a motive, an opportunity to commit the crime and the means to do it. That’s me.”

  “Reuben, you must be tired. I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

  Frost kept talking as they walked, continuing as they entered their townhouse and as they sat in the living room on the second floor. He told his wife about the odd lettering on Tobias’ needlepoint and the open medicine bottle with the peculiar smell. And his terrible gaffe in failing to remember that he had gotten Tobias a drink.

  “Oh, dear, I told the police about that,” Cynthia interrupted.

  “That’s all right. It’s my own stupid fault. But the police certainly acted as if they were on to something when they questioned me the second time.”

  “All right, dear, so you had the opportunity to kill Tobias—either by slipping poison into his Inderal bottle or into his drink. Which was it?”

  “Very funny.”

  “What about a motive? You thought Tobias had become a disgusting drunk. So did everyone else, including me. Surely the police don’t think that’s a motive for killing him? Unless you had to live with him.”

  “Believe me, I considered that angle while I was waiting. But it’s too late at night—or too early in the morning—to speculate about Robyn. Let’s stick with me.”

  “Sorry, dear.”

  “The little twerp ADA on the case thinks he’s found a motive, I’m sure of it. Chase & Ward will get a large fee for handling Tobias’ estate. Chase & Ward pays me my retirement. Q.E.D., I stood to benefit from Tobias’ death.”

  “But you’re not a partner any longer; you won’t get a percentage of that fee.”

  “Quite right, Cynthia. Just try and tell Mr. Smarty-Pants that. If Chase & Ward were going broke—which it most certainly is not—there could be a link between getting a big fee from Tobias’ estate and my fixed retirement payments.”

  “I hate to say it, but you seem a trifle paranoid, Reuben.”

  “I’d like to think that’s all it is. But this guy Munson was pick, pick, picking about the firm, what I got out of it, and on and on. He’s probably a great prosecuting attorney but he doesn’t know a damn thing about law firms, at least mine. Do you want a drink, by the way?”

  “No. I’m exhausted. A Perrier would be nice, though.”

  Reuben got up to do his errand, fixing a light Scotch for himself in the process. He winced when he thought of his earlier drink errand at the Vandermeers.

  “So you had a motive, Reuben,” Cynthia said, when he returned. “That leaves the means. Where did you get the poison? What was it, by the way?”

  “They don’t know yet. The police said the almond smell upstairs was a sign of cyanide. Wayne Givens said the blue color around Tobias’ mouth was a symptom of cyanide, too.”

  “Don’t remind me of Tobias’ face,” Cynthia said with a grimace. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Let’s say it was cyanide. I grant you I’m not in the business of buying poisons, but I remember what Luis once said to me—with a little looking, and enough money, you can buy anything in this town. And if teenage kids can make crack, surely an intelligent adult can cook up cyanide.”

  “At least you’re not a doctor, like Wayne, who surely would have access to such things.”

  “My dear, that thought crossed my mind, too.”

  “Reuben, we’re both very tired. But it’s folly for anyone to believe that my darling husband would, or even could, commit murder.”

  “All I can say is I was told not to leave New York.”

  “That’s serious. What about our trip to Rio?” Cynthia said, referring to a long-planned visit the Frosts were scheduled to make at the end of March. “The Herculanos will be very amused if you are under house arrest in New York.”

  Frost groaned. His Brazilian friend, Alfredo Herculano, was a great kidder. The idea of the ultra respectable Reuben Frost as a murder suspect could fuel his teasing for years.

  “Let’s hope that everything is resolved by then. But enough about me, thank you. What happened where you were?” Frost asked.

  “After they took you away, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s see. You went to the door to meet the cops and that was the last we saw of you. Why did they separate you from the rest of us?”

  “I’m just guessing, but I seem to recall Luis telling me that if somebody at the scene of a crime is making a serious allegation, you peel him off from the rest. Since I called the police and mentioned poison, I think that was the reason.”

  “Then that explains why they took Wayne Givens away, too?”

  “Probably.”

  “They left the rest of us in the library. That is, until the two detectives came and put each of us in a separate room.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In one of the guest rooms upstairs. Ghastly. It smelled of vomit.”

  “Oh, God. Tobias again. Remember that tale his cousin told us last year, that when he’s drunk he sleeps in whatever room he falls into—and throws up in his sleep?”

  “Yes, of course I remember. Who could forget a story like that?”

  “Lord. Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” Frost said. “Tell me, though, before you were isolated, what happened in the library?”

  “Everyone was completely stunned—and frightened. Robyn was really the only one who talked, babbling on about how absurd it was to think Tobias had been poisoned.”

  “I got some of that, you remember, when she found out I’d called the police.”

  “Well, she went on with it, insisting that drink had finally caught up with her husband.”

  “How was she otherwise?”

  “As calm as could be. Eerily so. She was back to playing the Principessa, the grande dame. Apologizing for the inconvenience, asking if everyone was comfortable.”

  “Not exactly grief-stricken?”

  “Not exactly,” Cynthia said. “I must say, dear, if and when I keel over, I would hope there would be a few tears.”

  “And vice-versa,” Frost replied. “Did she say anything about money?”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. Robyn may be crass sometimes, but she’s not that crass.”

  “
I was just asking. I can’t for the life of me remember, if I ever knew, what Tobias’ arrangements for her are. What about the others?”

  “Everybody was too shocked to talk much. Mutterings and inane small talk, and not even very much of that. Except for Barbara Givens, who was in hysterics much of the time. Robyn had to calm her.

  “We all knew that Wayne had brought up the matter of poison,” Cynthia went on. “Helena Newcomb started to speculate on how Tobias could have been poisoned. We didn’t know about the pill bottle upstairs, so when she said it must have been in Tobias’ drink no one disagreed. We got off the subject fast when it dawned on us that one of our group—or you or Wayne—must have put it there.”

  “Or, I suppose, that waiter Robyn had hired,” Reuben said.

  “You mean the butler did it?” Cynthia asked. “I suppose in real life you don’t have to follow the conventions of the murder mystery.”

  “My dear, we’ve reached our limits. We’ve got lots to chew over, but I can’t stay awake another five minutes. I need a good night’s sleep, and we can talk to our hearts’ content tomorrow.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Good night, dearest. And despite Mr. Munson, I hope you sleep the sleep of the just.”

  8

  Piecing Things Together

  Despite his late night, and despite a Kafka-esque nightmare in which he was tried for the murder of Tobias Vandermeer without being able to prove his innocence, Frost rose early Monday morning and was immediately on the telephone.

  His first call was to Luis Bautista. After much switching around, he was informed that Bautista was out of town and not expected back until the next day. Frost cursed to himself silently—there would be no way to get Springer & Co. under control until he could speak to Bautista—and left a message stressing his urgency.

  Then he called his doctor, Martin Odenson. It was early in the morning; Cynthia was still in bed and had not squeezed him his customary fresh orange juice. So it was with a dry throat that he undertook the task of getting past Dr. Odenson’s receptionist.

  Marian Gaylord would have done well as a switchboard operator at the White House, screening crank callers and bringing the majesty of the Presidency to bear to intimidate them. Frost knew from past experience that one could not get through to Dr. Odenson without giving Ms. Gaylord a thorough description of one’s symptoms, often receiving back a diagnosis and a prescribed course of treatment from the confident receptionist herself.