I sat there and shook my head. “No, it didn’t.” I wasn’t going to be able to do Dan a bit of good if I didn’t get my brain together very soon. “But it doesn’t take two of you to get the car, does it?”
“No, but the Network needs someone at these hearings, especially now. Shirley, tell him about it.”
Now she had something to do, so she could stop fidgeting. “Well, Marty Adelman is going to be okay. He regained consciousness last night, and I went to speak to him. He confirms that the man you met up here, Roger Sparn, the ComCab representative, came to visit him a few weeks ago, trying to get the Network to ease up on his company. Marty says he implied that if they just left ComCab alone for a year or so, they could come to some sort of an arrangement about Network Cable Arts.”
“What kind of an arrangement?”
“Marty says he didn’t get specific. That note in his pocket, by the way, was to remind him to call you and tell you about Sparn.”
“Well,” I said, “it’s confirmation of what you already know, but it’s just about the way I figured things were when I first heard about the visit.”
Still, it was disappointing that Marty’s news wasn’t as important as the note seemed to promise, and it rankled that Sparn had felt obligated to mention the visit minutes before I found out about Marty’s “accident.” I tried to figure what it might mean, some kind of angle ...
“What am I doing?” I snapped. “Look, Harris, Shirley, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to work on my own case.”
Harris was chuckling. I stared at him. My arms went tight with the effort to stop myself from smashing his handsome grin against the back of his head.
“Harris,” I said, “I used to put up with a lot of bullshit from you because I was your boss and you were the best in the industry at what you do. I needed you. I don’t need you anymore. The fact that my best friend is accused of murder is not to be laughed at. Is that clear? If you ever make any friends, you might understand.”
Harris’s grin never wavered, but the happy gleam left his eyes for a split second, then returned. “Sure, Matt,” he said quietly. “No offense meant.”
“All right, then. But really, I’m tired, and I’ve got a lot of work to do, so if you don’t mind ...” I reached into my pocket and got the keys to the Network car. I held them out to him, but he wouldn’t take them.
“Keep them,” Harris said. “You’ll need something to get around in, and I’ll be dipped in the Gowanus Canal before I let you drive Trigger.”
Trigger was Harris’s pride and joy, a 1959 Plymouth in white and gold, like a palomino, hence the name. He kept it in perfect condition and had once turned down an offer of fifteen thousand dollars for it.
I was incredulous. “You drove Trigger up here?”
“Sure, I like to get the old stallion on the highway every once in a while. What power. What acceleration.”
“We could pass everything on the road coming up but the gas stations,” Shirley chimed in. “But Harris, we haven’t told Matt the important part yet.”
“No, we haven’t. Matt, the reason both of us came upstate is that ComCab is going to take some looking into. Shirley is going to stay around Sewanka, and I’ll be going on to a little town outside Rochester where they have their headquarters.
“But even working in New York, I found something I think you’re going to find very interesting. I got it from my top Wall Street source.” Harris Brophy’s sources tended to be attractive secretaries. “It was a proposed stock deal. Big minority interest in ComCab, something like twenty-three per cent was earmarked for sale to a buyer here in Sewanka.”
I raised a brow. That was interesting. “Whitten Communications?” I guessed.
Harris grinned again, but this time I didn’t mind at all. “Close. Mr. Grant Sewall. In his own person. As an individual.”
I rubbed my jaw, thinking about it “Why didn’t it go through?”
“My source couldn’t tell me. She seemed—” I thought I caught a brief flash of discomfort on Shirley’s face at the word “she.” Harris must have seen it too, because he started over. “My source seemed to think Sewall was going to get the presidency of the company as soon as the deal was complete.”
“When was this?”
“About two years ago. This any help, Matt?”
I was thinking. Two years, hmm. “It just might be, Harris. Thanks. Thanks, Shirley.”
“I figured you’d like it,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, before we left, Shirley did a quick job of research on everything that’s been printed about the case.”
“I don’t think I missed anything,” Shirley said proudly.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I told her.
“We talked it over in the car on the way up. Now, taking it for granted that your friend is clean—”
“Watch it, Harris.”
Harris came as close to getting angry then as anyone has ever seen him. “Lighten up, Matt. I said we were taking it for granted. So, if your friend is clean, the killer either had to be you, which is unlikely, unless you have some beaucoup special motive. It would take a dilly to make a murderer out of a nice guy like Matt Cobb, and I haven’t been able to think of one.”
“Thank you, I think.”
Harris ignored it. “It either had to be you, or it had to be the old man—”
“Impossible. I was with him the whole time, except for a minute or so, and he couldn’t have done it in that time unless he took a rocket to the house and back.”
“All right, then. The papers weren’t absolutely clear on that.” Shirley sounded almost apologetic.
“Besides,” I added, “what motive did he have?”
Harris shrugged. “I’m just running down possibilities. How about the girl?”
“Brenda? No.”
“Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. She was the first one back to the house.”
“Oh, it crossed my mind, all right.” For which God help me, I thought. “I even tested it out this afternoon. It’s no good. Even if she knew anything about karate, which she doesn’t, she just couldn’t have delivered that blow the way the ME says it was delivered. She can’t be fluid enough on the artificial leg to get her body behind it, and she doesn’t have enough upper-body strength to come close to doing it on arms alone. I saw her; I’m sure of it. Besides, she doesn’t have a motive either.”
“An outsider doesn’t look likely,” Harris said. “Even you have to admit that.”
I thought that one over. It was interesting because of what we knew about Grant. Assuming Grant’s innocence for the sake of the outsider theory, we know it couldn’t have been an outsider because Grant would have seen him as he was leaving the estate himself. Of course, someone else could have been using Grant’s car, but I could check that tomorrow.
There were a lot of things for me to check on Saturday. I was looking forward to my talk with Grant with more enthusiasm all the time. As Harris put it just before he and Shirley left to go to dinner, “From your point of view, Matt, I don’t think you can let the killer be anybody but Mr. Grant Sewall.”
CHAPTER 17
“... and don’t forget to say your prayers.”
–Bob Keeshan, “Captain Kangaroo” (CBS)
THE SUN WAS OUT Saturday morning, but the ground was still wet from yesterday’s soaking rain. The lush green of Saint Elizabeth’s Cemetery was soft and slippery, and before long began to show little curves of brown where the feet of mourners had broken through the grass.
I stood well back from the grave. I don’t like funerals in the first place, and I don’t think I would have been welcome at this one. That didn’t stop the police, of course. Chief Cooper was there, without a stitch of plaid on him; I didn’t know he could do it. He was wearing a very nice navy blue suit, white shirt, black tie. I wondered how he kept it nice in the wild.
The press was there, too, but at a discreet distance. They wanted news. No
thing at all had happened on Friday. I stood among them. Camouflage. We were close enough to hear the eulogy without horning in on the mourners.
Les Tilman spotted me and came over to talk. He whispered quietly while Bishop Peterstone of the Northfield Episcopal Church led prayers for the soul of Debra Whitten.
“You’ve got a lot of balls, showing up here,” Les said conversationally.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell him the truth—that Brenda had called this morning and insisted the cemetery was where the meeting with Grant should take place, despite my best efforts to talk her out of it—and I never lie to the press if I can help it.
“Come on, Cobb,” the tubby little reporter whispered. “Give me a quote for the afternoon edition.”
“That’s all I need,” I told him. “I suppose there’s no chance of your ignoring my being here at all.”
He looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “Maybe. Let’s take a little walk.” We squished across the grass until we came to the white gravel path that ran through the cemetery.
For a full minute, Les devoted his attention to cleaning his shoes. “Damn mud. Soil in this place is like glue when it gets wet. Next time I have to cover a funeral here in spring, I’m going barefoot, so help me.”
“What’s on your mind, Les?”
There was a look of real pain on his face. It made him look his real age. “You want me to keep you out of the papers. Why?”
“Because it would be embarrassing to the family and to me.”
“Okay. But why? Why are you here? Why don’t you want me to print you were here?”
“Nice talking to you, Les.” I could still see the grave site. They were about finished over there. Mourners were throwing flowers on the coffin. I figured it was about time to head over to my rendezvous point.
Les, with his short legs, had to run on the gravel to catch up with me. “All right, how about if I guess? You’re here trying to pick up something that will help your friend. Is that it? Off the record, but I’ve got to know.”
“Yeah, that’s it, Les.”
“Okay, then. I won’t print it. If anybody else spots you, you’re on your own, but from me, you’re in the clear.”
It was my turn to ask why. “Do you have something that will help Dan? Tell me, Les, it’s important.”
“Nah, I’ve got nothing. From where I sit, he looks guilty as hell. She broke his heart, and he killed her for it. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that? For Christ’s sake, Les, if I killed every woman who broke my heart, Playtex would go out of business!”
“I like that,” Les said. “But all this isn’t the point, is it?”
“It is for me. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look. I’ve been in the newspaper business a long time, and I’ve managed to work myself up to the exalted position of city room hack. I’m the top local newsman in Sewanka, New York, which is like being king of the moon. But that’s not the point either.
“The point is journalism. I’m in this business to print the truth—laugh at me, and I’ll kill you—and that’s what I want to print. We’re under orders down at the shop. Make it look fair but crucify Morris all the same.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’ve noticed a certain trend in that direction.”
The old man, I could take it from. Sewall, he’s got an excuse, too. But the editor down there is just trying to kiss ass. That’s his privilege, but he’s not going to do it with my lips, if you follow me. I may not deserve any respect, but I’m old enough to remember when my profession did.
“So here’s the deal. You do what you have to do. I’m going to cover this story fairly if it costs me my job, which it probably will. But when I go, I’ll go out with a blaze of glory. However this turns out, when it’s all over, I want an interview with you. Exclusive.”
“I thought you said he was guilty.”
Les shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, it’s a great story no matter how it turns out ‘Friend Fights to Save Friend.’ Succeeds, fails, or vows to go on despite conviction. They’ll have to run it, whether they fire me or not. If they don’t, the crooked bastards, I’ll sell it to a magazine.”
I thought it over. It didn’t take long. I had nothing to lose and neither did Dan. I said sure, and we shook on it.
“Great,” Les said. “And remember, I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for my own self-respect.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Les, can I quote you?”
He hit himself in the head “Jesus,” he said, “thirty-three years in the newspaper business, and I get caught. No, don’t quote me. This is off the record.”
We shook on that, too, and I made my way to the stone bench where Brenda had promised she’d be waiting with Grant. I didn’t like the setup; if I remembered Saint Elizabeth’s correctly, we’d be about twenty-five yards horizontally and six feet vertically from Debbie’s body. It was going to be an added strain on what was bound to be an unpleasant conference in the first place, especially if Brenda got Grant to stay the way she said she was going to. She planned to ask him to stay with her so that they could have some time alone with Debbie.
It stank. The whole setup was terrible. Unfortunately, it was the only chance at Mr. Sewall I was likely to get.
They were there, all right, sitting on a curved marble bench with an angel at either end. Brenda wore a black dress, Grant a light gray suit with a mourning band. Brenda called to me.
Grant was not happy to see me, and when Brenda turned to him and said, “You just be quiet and talk to Matt,” he turned purple. But he obeyed. Quite a gentleman, I thought. And with a lot of self-control.
“What could you possibly want to say to me, Cobb?” His voice was strangled.
“Just a few questions.” I was keeping calm, but I was watching Grant’s hands. They were balled up into tight fists, and God alone knew what was keeping him from trying to use them to make a muffled drumbeat on my face.
“Do the police know you’re here?” He tried to make it a threat “Do they know you’re going around asking questions?”
“Probably. Nothing they can do about it. I’m assisting Mr. Morris’s attorney, for one thing. For another, I’m a citizen of this state; I pay taxes. I can ask anybody any damn question I please, and they can answer it if they’re willing to.” I looked him in his blue eyes. “Brenda thought you might be willing to, as a favor to her.”
“As a favor to Brenda,” he said. It was hard to understand him, he was so mad. “I will not! My fiancée has just been buried! This was supposed to be our wedding day!”
That point had occurred to me yesterday. Harris Brophy had observed that at least the flowers wouldn’t go to waste. It hadn’t been one of his more endearing moments.
Grant continued to rage. I thought he might be creating a disturbance, but all the other mourners for other decedents were studiously avoiding us. I suppose emotional outbursts are fairly common in cemeteries, even Episcopal ones. Fortunately, the press had left.
“... And you come here—here!—to ask questions, to try to free the man who killed her!” Grant stood up with the last exclamation point and was about to stomp off.
Brenda spoke very softly. “Please, Grant. Talk to Matt. This is a difficult situation for him, too. If Dan is innocent—”
“You know he’s not innocent.”
“—if he is, you wouldn’t want him to be convicted. If he’s guilty, just answering Mart’s questions won’t save him.”
He looked at her. He was a lot less purple now, for which I was grateful. I was hoping to hang a murder on the man. I didn’t want him to expire from apoplexy before I got the chance.
“I’m sorry, Brenda,” he said “But I just can’t.”
“Grant” she said. It was extraordinary, but she managed to be sweet and persuasive and at the same time put plenty into her tone that said, “Don’t try my patience.” “Grant as a favor to me, won’t you? I really think it’s the right thing for you to do.”
Grant gave her a fearsome look, a look of pure hostility, but he sat. “Make it short, Cobb,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to the house.”
I told him it wouldn’t take long, but I thought never underestimate the power of a woman. The woman in question said she would be waiting for us at the car. She picked up her crutches and made her way carefully to the path, after which she carried them. I watched her go, then I asked Grant my first question.
“What did you and Debbie fight about Wednesday night?”
“None of your business.”
I sighed. “Don’t be difficult Grant. Did you tell the police?” He nodded. “If you told them, then I’ll find out. A legal practice known as discovery. The DA has to share all his evidence with the defense. What did you fight about?”
He sneered at me. A Ken-doll sneer. “It was about you, if you must know.”
“That’s interesting. Care to elaborate?”
“I just don’t like you, Cobb.”
“I’m crushed.”
“And I didn’t like the idea of your spending every spare moment draped all over Debra and the Whitten family. Don’t you think I know what you were up to?”
“Tell me,” I said. This was fascinating. I keep running into people like this, people who impose whole sets of fantastic motives onto the simple actions I perform as I attempt to muddle through my life. “What was I up to, Grant?”
“Don’t be smug, Cobb. You were trying to re-create your tight little clique from college days, trying to get Debra back into the habit of thinking of your Jewish friend as her man, instead of me.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Yes. And that afternoon I told her so. We argued about it. I decided it would be best if I let her cool off for a day or so. And now, thanks to you, the last words we had together were insults.”
“Is that why you drove back later? To try to make up with Debbie?”
“Later? What are you talking about?”
It’s such a nice feeling when a bluff pays off. Now I was sure Grant had been back on the estate about the time of the murder. He was trying to play things tough, but his shock at hearing the question seemed to shrink him an inch in every dimension.
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