“Who is it?”
“Peter Jewett.”
“Let’s go.”
The Frosts inched their way toward the professor. Cynthia interrupted his conversation, greeted him cheerfully and introduced her husband.
The man was seedy, Reuben could not help observing as he shook hands. Dandruff was visible in his thinning hair and on his suit collar. His horn-rimmed glasses were dirty and his not very becoming false teeth had unsightly food particles between them. The young girl drifted off as her three elders began talking.
“This is a long way to come for a party, Peter,” Cynthia said.
“I know. But I love parties, I love New York and I love Wheeler Edmunds.”
“You’re a supporter?” Frost asked.
“In my modest way, yes,” Jewett replied. “I’ve been giving the Senator some advice on foreign policy. I came to town to talk with him about the speech he’s giving at the Council on Foreign Relations next week.”
“Speechwriting?” Frost asked.
“Of sorts. He’s clearly the best man around and I’m glad to be of whatever help I can.” Jewett feigned modesty, but his manner and tone indicated that he felt Edmunds was very lucky to have him aboard.
“How do you get here, Peter?” Cynthia asked. “It’s quite a trip from Amherst.”
“It is if you rely on public transportation. But I like to drive. The trip isn’t half-bad.”
The crush around the Frosts increased as more guests continued to arrive. Jewett said he was going to try and get a drink so Reuben, noticing that a breeze seemed to be coming in through the open windows, steered Cynthia toward them. In the noise and the circumstances, they did not have a chance to dissect their brief conversation with one of the murder suspects.
Once at the windows, the Frosts encountered two women sitting on the window seat, one puffing on a cigarette as if it might be the last she would ever be allowed.
“I hope you don’t mind my smoking,” she said, looking up at the new arrivals. “It’s very unthoughtful, I know, and a bad example, but I really need this.
“I’m Ginny Edmunds,” she said, thrusting out her hand but not getting up. The Frosts now recognized the candidate’s wife, prettier and younger-looking than in her pictures.
Reuben admired her independence, making no effort whatsoever to work the crowd as she smoked away. The woman with her was introduced as Paula Storz, her personal assistant. They acknowledged, with satisfied smiles, Reuben’s observation that the primary campaign seemed to be going well.
A flurry of activity signaled the entrance of the Senator and his Secret Service escorts. A single photographer from his staff—the press brigade had been barred from this private gathering—began taking flash pictures as Edmunds, with Lowell Oatsman at his side, plunged into the crowd.
Back by the windows, Mrs. Edmunds was soon joined by Richard Taylor, who had come in with the candidate. He recognized the Frosts and shook hands with them both.
“I see I convinced you to support my man,” he said to Cynthia, his pink-cheeked and youthful good looks underscoring the heartiness of his greeting. “I’m glad.” She smiled noncommittally.
“How did it go, Richard?” Mrs. Edmunds asked. “The boys are just back from a flying swing upstate,” she explained to the Frosts.
“Everything was fine till we got to Syracuse,” Taylor said. “We made a quick stop at the airport to generate some local press coverage, and the Senator told the crowd how happy he was to be back in Utica.”
“Oh, God,” Mrs. Edmunds said. “Now we’ve lost the Utica vote and the deaf-and-dumb vote in two days.”
“What do you mean?” Frost asked.
“Wheeler was at a rally in Queens last night,” she explained. “As they so often do these days, they had an interpreter to translate his speech into sign language. This one was truly obnoxious—waving his arms all over the place, standing right on top of the podium—so Wheeler got peeved and told him to go away.”
“I’m not worried,” Ms. Storz observed. “Little gaffes like that are unimportant—and they make the Senator look more human. That’s all to the good.”
Further conversation ceased as Oatsman introduced Edmunds from a microphone set up at the side of the room, noting that the Senator was in the middle of a full, three-day swing through New York “and is rapidly becoming one of us” and that Ginny Edmunds, now cigaretteless and at her husband’s side, was “the First Lady of New York” who would, in a matter of months, be “the First Lady of the United States.”
The applause was warm as Edmunds began speaking, lavishing praise and thanks on his audience and then giving a brief recital of the “vital and crucial issues” of the campaign on which, needless to say, he was on the correct side in every instance.
Frost marveled at the Senator’s delivery. He was sure the man must have repeated the same words at a thousand fundraising parties, but he made them sound spontaneous and, with a clever hesitation or two, made up just for this occasion. Taylor, standing nearby, once again listened with rapt attention, as if he had never heard the words before, though Frost speculated that he had probably written them. Frost was sure that he could never master the public performance tricks of either man.
More applause followed the Senator’s brief speech. He asked for questions, a look of confidence saying there was nothing, at this late stage in the campaign, for which he would not have an answer. He was right, for the usual New York topics—defense spending, AIDS, relations with Israel, abortion and narcotics enforcement—all were raised and dealt with in deft responses. Finished, he started moving into the crowd in front of him.
Frost, going to Taylor’s side, enlisted his help. “I’ve never met the Senator, you know.”
“You haven’t? Well, we’ll take care of that right now.” Taylor motioned to a fellow staff member at the Senator’s side, who deftly steered the candidate in Frost’s direction.
“Senator, I’d like you to meet Reuben Frost,” Taylor said once the two men were face to face. “And this is his wife, Cynthia, whom I personally recruited for you.”
“That’s wonderful, Richard,” the candidate said. “I’m glad to meet you both.” He was uncertain whether he should linger or move on. Seeing his eyes scanning the horizon, Frost made his move. He had thought about his approach; it was time to be ingenuous and even a bit folksy—and brief.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Senator, since I understand my godson was going to be one of your speechwriters.”
The candidate looked puzzled. “Yes? I’m glad to hear that. What was his name?” he asked finally.
“David Rowan, the biographer.”
“Rowan? David Rowan?” Edmunds still looked baffled. “Oh, yes, the fellow who got the Reuff Prize, and then was killed. I spoke at the award dinner. You’re his godfather?”
“Yes, and I know he was looking forward to working for you.”
“It’s a tragedy, Mr. Frost, no question about that. But I’m interested. You say he was going to work for me? I’m flattered.”
“Yes, I understood he was going to be a speechwriter for you.”
“Well, we certainly can use all the help we can get. Always glad for volunteers. Though I’ve got a pretty good speechwriter right here,” he said, pointing to Taylor. “My indispensable right hand.” The younger man, who had listened to Frost’s questions without showing any emotion, now smiled back at his employer.
“I’m very sorry about your godson, especially since you tell me he was a supporter. A great loss, not only for you but for the country.” Edmunds, having delivered a politician’s eulogistic cliché, equally suitable for the death of a senior statesman or a washerwoman, quickly grabbed Reuben’s and Cynthia’s hands, murmuring as he did so how nice it was to meet them both. Then he pushed beyond them, enveloped at once in a new conversation.
“It was nice to see you both again,” Taylor said as he left the Frosts and followed in the candidate’s wake. Before the Frosts could decide what
to do next, the Secret Service agents converged from the corners of the room and formed a cordon around Edmunds, leading him politely, but inexorably, toward the door; it was time to collect a new stack of thousand-dollar checks at the next party.
Reuben was glad that Edmunds was leaving, since it meant he and Cynthia could do the same. Moments after the candidate and his retinue hurried out, the Frosts headed for the door, stopping only long enough for a perfunctory handshake with Lowell Oatsman.
“We missed the holy-of-holies, tonight, Lowell,” Reuben said.
“The Schnabels, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“This was Wheeler’s show. I didn’t want to detract from that.”
“I trust the broken plates are still in place,” Frost said, referring to the pieces of crockery embedded in the Schnabel paintings.
“Yes, they’re still there. Maybe I can get Julian to add all the broken glasses from that crowd in the living room. What a mob!”
“It’s a good cause, Lowell,” Frost said. “Edmunds is a richer man than when he came in here, or at least his campaign is.”
Once on the street, the Frosts decided to walk home.
“So your friend Jewett is helping to write speeches for Senator Edmunds, heh?” Reuben said.
“That was news to me, but it’s an interesting twist, isn’t it?”
“To say the least. Here are two bitter, academic rivals of long standing and they end up competing for the favor of the hottest political prince.”
“And they meet, and quarrel, and one of them—David—ends up dead.”
“I’ve got to find out what the constables up in Amherst learned. What a ghastly idea, though.”
“What do you mean?” Cynthia asked.
“David’s last moments. Let’s assume Jewett went to have it out with him and then, reverting to his bullying, wife-beating ways, killed him. It’s a ghastly, ghastly thought.”
“Of course it is, but what exactly do you mean? Watch out, Reuben, wait for the light.”
Frost had been walking down Park Avenue with determination and now barely avoided stepping in front of a speeding taxi.
“I mean, how ghastly to be knocked out by Jewett. So that your last vision as a live human is of a constricted face, surrounded by seedy, dandruff-covered hair, and showing bad teeth plugged up with rotting food particles.”
“Your imagination is working, my dear.”
“I know. But isn’t it possible that I just described exactly what happened?”
“Yes, it’s more than possible.”
The Frosts walked in silence for a block or two as they took in the reality that Reuben’s distasteful reconstruction might be accurate.
“What did you think of the First Lady of New York?” Cynthia asked finally, changing the subject.
“I liked her. Any candidate’s wife who has any vices at all appeals to me.”
“But, Reuben, what about her outfit?”
“I didn’t really notice. It certainly wasn’t flashy.”
“Flashy! It was a housedress.”
“The Pat-Nixon-cloth-coat syndrome, perhaps. Besides, she isn’t running for W’s ‘in’ and ‘out’ list.”
“I know, but really.”
“Look, never mind Mrs. Edmunds. Let’s talk about her husband. Do you have any doubt that he’d never heard of the idea of David’s writing speeches for him?”
“That’s certainly the way he acted.”
“I realize he’s probably working on two cylinders about now—still trying to figure out the difference between Syracuse and Utica—but he certainly convinced me. The whole idea was brand-new to him.”
“I agree. But what follows from that?”
“Nothing that I can think of. Which is the problem. Just another piece of a hopeless puzzle that I’m supposed to put together. I’d say we wasted two thousand dollars.”
“Maybe we’ll be invited to the White House.”
“To be greeted by Ginny Edmunds in her housedress,” Reuben replied, very out of sorts.
21
Death Once More
Bautista was on the telephone early the next morning with a report from Amherst. Questioned by the local police, the professor said that on Tuesday, March 29, he had driven to New York for the Brigham Foundation meetings and driven back, arriving at his off-campus apartment around seven o’clock. He had been at the apartment all evening, he said, reading and correcting papers. Asked if anyone could substantiate his statements, he had become extremely angry and refused to answer further questions.
“Do they think he was angry because he had no support for his alibi?” Frost asked.
“They couldn’t tell. They’re checking around, but so far haven’t found anyone to confirm or deny his story.”
Later in the morning, Reuben, on an impulse, called Frank Norton at Chase & Ward.
“I remember that you told me the other day that Dine Carroll, the Supreme Court Justice you worked for, was close to Garrett Ainslee? Isn’t that right?”
Norton agreed with Frost’s recollection, and also agreed with the older man’s theory that perhaps Carroll’s papers on the three cases missing from Ainslee’s files might offer some clue.
“They traded memos and notes back and forth more than most of their colleagues,” Norton said. “They usually disagreed, but they trusted each other’s judgment. It’s worth a try, Reuben.”
Norton explained that the Carroll papers were at the Princeton University Library, though they were still sealed and could only be looked at with the retired Justice’s permission.
“He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. And very alert. He lives outside of Philadelphia, in Swarthmore.”
“What’s the best way to approach him?” Frost asked.
“I’ll be happy to give him a call. I like to keep in touch with the old boy, and this would give me a good excuse to do that. Can I tell him what you’re interested in—and why?”
“Of course. But also tell him it’s fairly urgent. I’d like to get in there right away—like tomorrow.”
Norton called back before lunch and reported that everything was fine, with one hitch. Carroll wanted to be present when Frost made his visit. “I’ll be able to help him,” he was reported as saying, except that Carroll could not get to Princeton before Friday morning.
“You sure you can’t light a fire under him? Make him get up there sooner?” Frost pleaded.
“You can light a fire under Dine Carroll, but I’m afraid he has asbestos pants, Reuben. You’re just going to have to wait till Friday.”
A further round of telephone calls sealed the arrangements. Carroll would go to Princeton Friday morning and retrieve the files on the three cases. He suggested that Frost join him at two o’clock.
So be it, Frost said to himself, resigned to the delay.
“We seem to be eating at home a great deal lately,” Cynthia said to her husband that evening as they finished dinner.
“Don’t you really mean, ‘I’ve done a lot of cooking lately?’” her husband replied.
“Not at all. Usually we’re out somewhere most nights, but the last week or so we’ve been dining à deux à la maison. I’m not complaining, just making an observation.”
Her husband knew better; Cynthia’s “observations” often had an (intended) edge. But before he could make a lavish commitment to take his wife out on the town, the telephone rang.
“Reuben, can I come over?” It was Bautista again, his voice low and constricted.
“Of course. What’s up?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” was the only reply Frost got.
“That’s strange,” he said to Cynthia. “Something must be happening. Aren’t he and Francisca coming to dinner tomorrow?”
“Yes. We’re eating here.”
Reuben ignored the underlining to the phrase “we’re eating here” or, more precisely, the double underline under “here.”
Bautista arrived on s
chedule and barely said hello before announcing that Horace Jenkins was dead.
“I’m sorry,” Reuben said. “The poor fellow. When did it happen?”
“Around seven.”
“What did he die of, was there any way of telling?”
“Sí, sí, sí, Reuben. He died of suffocation from having a pillow stuffed over his head.”
Frost had not counted on such a reply. He drank it in, nervously fingering his necktie. “He was murdered, Luis?” he asked, quietly.
“That’s right. With five thousand nurses and nurses’ aides and interns and residents all over the place.”
“And no one saw the murderer, is that what you’re saying?”
“No one saw the murderer? Those dumb bastards didn’t even see the little red light go out on his monitoring machine when he was asphyxiated. Somebody just came in there, put a pillow over his face and snuffed him out.”
“What about the other patients in the ward? As I remember there were three others.”
“Christ, they’re so full of tubes, or so doped up, they didn’t see a thing.”
“That’s strange.”
“Not if you remember how sick those guys were.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Reuben, what the hell are we going to do? First your friend Rowan, now his assistant. And we don’t have a single clue that’s panned out.”
“Could it have been a friend?” Cynthia asked. “A mercy killing?”
“I thought about that, Cynthia. I don’t think so. He only had two regular visitors, volunteers from the Gay Men’s Health Crisis. His mother and brother have disowned him, and if he had other friends, they’ve been no-shows at the hospital. Jenkins had a few days, maybe a few hours, to live.
“If anyone wanted to perform a mercy killing, they could have turned one of the dials, or unhooked the IV. Or they could have sneezed, for Christ’s sake—that probably would have killed the poor guy right there. But whoever did it chose to smother him. No ‘friend’ would do that. It’s an outsider, I know it!”
Murder Keeps A Secret Page 17
