Murders & Acquisitions

by Haughton Murphy

  The only other male that could be considered family was Nathaniel Perkins, the husband of Flemming’s daughter Sorella. A failed novelist who bitterly resented anyone else’s success, he had never shown any interest in becoming a part of AFC’s management, for which his father-in-law had always been grateful.

  With the men ruled out, there were, of course, the family women. His wife had always been interested in Company affairs, but this interest had been confined to dinner conversation and pillow talk at home; she had never expressed any desire to participate directly in running AFC.

  As for his daughters, Sorella and Diana, Flemming was ambiguous. He was (at least he told himself he was) certain that he was open-minded about the role of women in business. Indeed, he had insisted that Sorella be the head of the family Foundation. This was a not inconsiderable job, given the half-billion dollars in assets the Foundation possessed, and she had handled it both efficiently and graciously.

  Diana was quite another matter. She was deeply committed to a highly militant feminist organization called Concerned Women. As a national officer of Concerned Women, she had demonstrated so-called “leadership qualities,” but Flemming was not certain that they were of a kind transferable from militant political action to a corporate boardroom. In any event, neither daughter had ever proposed taking an active part in AFC’s management—in view of their grandfather’s legacy, they had perhaps been afraid to ask—and Flemming had never pressed the issue, though now he thought perhaps he should have.

  This brought Flemming Andersen’s thoughts to the man sitting beside him in the limousine. Casper Robbins had been recruited by Flemming over much family opposition. The idea of an outsider as President, and very possible heir-apparent, had been alien to the Andersens, either selfishly (in the case of Laurance and Billy O’Neal) or sentimentally (in the case of Sorella and Diana). Only Sally had supported his effort, five years earlier, to transfuse new, outside blood into the AFC body corporate. She actually had known Robbins—the two of them had met playing tennis and had become occasional tennis partners—and had encouraged her husband to hire him after he had been recommended to AFC by an executive search firm.

  Robbins had been the second-in-command at a leading communications company, where he had been unexpectedly passed over for the top job just at the time when Andersen was looking for a President. But there was more than timing that drew Andersen and Robbins together. Smooth and articulate, Robbins had nonetheless begun life as a poor boy in the remoter reaches of New Jersey. He had advanced through Williams College waiting on tables. His charm and athletic skill—he was captain of the tennis team—had been sufficient to overcome his deficiencies of background, and he had both the social distinction of membership in St. Anthony’s and the academic distinction of graduating with high honors. The Harvard Business School had followed, then an upwardly mobile career at HAG Communications—upward, that is, until he was unceremoniously turned down for the chief executive officer’s job.

  Flemming Andersen had instinctively liked Robbins. As the scion of inherited wealth, the poor-boy-makes-good image of the younger Robbins both intrigued and appealed to him. Besides, Robbins had talent: a rigorous, tough mind, yet a capacity to conceal the toughness with great charm; an extraordinary articulateness in conveying his thoughts without being cutting or condescending to those he was addressing; a razorlike efficiency, but unaccompanied by the impatience that efficiency often brings along with it.

  Robbins had been a good President, carrying out Flemming’s orders without complaint, acting with executive authority in those areas in which Flemming was not interested (dealing with AFC’s labor relations, for example) and, in general, learning the considerable differences between a communications company, eager to dominate the nation’s newsstands, and one dealing in foodstuffs, eager to dominate its grocery shelves.

  Flemming Andersen had no reservations about the prospect of turning over control to Robbins; his only regret was that his own family had been unable to serve up an eligible heir. Indeed, as insurance, Flemming (albeit at the insistence of Robbins) had been instrumental a year earlier in constructing a “golden parachute” for the AFC President—a lucrative bundle of payments and fringe benefits that would snap into Robbins’s possession if and when AFC were taken over by outsiders and Robbins were fired or demoted. The thought was to show the family’s confidence in Robbins, to insulate him from the distraction of any threatened takeover and to put him on an economic and psychological parity with his well-protected colleagues in other corporations.

  The idea that anyone could take over AFC had never really occurred to its Chairman; it was a farfetched pipe dream as far as he was concerned. Or at least had been until ten days earlier when he had met Jeffrey Gruen, the most notorious and perhaps the most ruthless of the corporate raiders still at liberty. Like the pains in his chest, his chance encounter with Gruen had probably been without significance. But …

  The meeting had taken place at a cocktail party for Dartmouth College fund-raisers that Andersen, as an active and loyal Dartmouth graduate, had attended. Gruen, the father of a Dartmouth underclasswoman, had become as enthusiastic a booster of the college as the most loyal alumnus. (Having gone to work on the floor of the American Stock Exchange after high school in Brooklyn, Gruen had never gone to college himself.) More Catholic than the Pope (or at least more green than any Hanoverian), he circulated at the party as if he were a direct descendant of Daniel Webster.

  As Andersen now remembered the encounter, Gruen had come up and introduced himself.

  “I’m a great admirer of yours,” Gruen had said. “And an even bigger admirer of AFC. It’s the greatest food company in the world.”

  Flemming Andersen recalled thanking him for the compliment.

  “Fact is, Mr. Andersen, if I ever want a food company, it would certainly be yours,” Gruen had added.

  That was all there had been to the conversation. No threat of a raid, not even a veiled hint of one. But still and all, Gruen had certainly been deliberate in seeking out the AFC Chairman at that party. And possibly, just possibly, might have put a playing piece on the starting square of that popular Wall Street game called TAKEOVER.

  Andersen kept telling himself that the twinge of worry he felt was utterly unfounded. At any rate, he was not going to discuss the matter with the tanned, athletic man sitting beside him reading the London Financial Times. For reasons the Chairman could not explain, AFC’s President had not been a good listener of late and had not paid his customary deferential attention to the Chairman’s pronouncements. At the best of times Robbins probably would have found his worries silly, Andersen thought; in light of his recent attitude, he surely would have done so.

  Andersen’s anxious thoughts—and almost any other kind, for that matter—were banished at the Marine Terminal, where a larger group than he had expected waited to board the AFC plane. Sally had come in from the country not only with Laurance but with Laurance’s teenaged daughter, Dorothy. Plus a frisky Rottweiler puppy that seemed attached to Dorothy. Ditsy Robbins and the Frosts also waited in the cheerfully restored central room of the terminal, with the artist James Brooks’s splendid History of Flight looking down on them.

  Flemming greeted all except Reuben and his son with kisses. For Reuben he had a warm handshake.

  “Remember when we used to take the old propeller planes from this terminal?” he asked Frost, as they waited to be shown through the gate.

  “Of course I do,” Frost replied. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Endless trips to California with stops about every hundred miles. And on planes smaller than those private jets outside right now.”

  “I think that’s our pilot over there,” Andersen said, pointing to a uniformed figure at the arrival desk. “Yes, he’s gesturing to us. Let’s scoot.”

  Andersen gathered the group and its luggage together and they followed the pilot out the exit.

  “Reuben, would you sit with me on the way up? There’s something I wa
nt to run by you,” he said, bringing up the rear behind the women, children and dog.

  “Of course, Flemming. Something interesting I hope?”

  “I hope not” Andersen replied.

  Once they were airborne, an attendant served drinks aboard the Grumman G-IV, the brand-new and more luxurious of AFC’s two aircraft; lunch would wait until their arrival at the Mohawk Inn some fifty minutes later. All of the group except Flemming, Reuben and the dog (whose name turned out to be Winston) sat in facing seats in the middle of the plane. The two men were in adjoining armchairs at the front, far enough away so that they could talk discreetly without their conversation being heard by those behind them. (Winston sprawled benignly in the aisle. His conversation, or more precisely his breathing, could be heard throughout the cabin.)

  Frost and his client both had Bloody Marys.

  “What’s your problem, Flemming?” Frost asked.

  “I’m not sure I have one,” Andersen responded. “In fact I’m almost certain I don’t. But I want to get your opinion.”

  “Fine.”

  “I suppose your meter’s running for this,” Andersen said.

  “Why, Flemming, I’m glad you reminded me. I never would have thought to turn it on otherwise,” Frost answered, in a slightly acerbic tone.

  Frost realized that many of his colleagues would consider an obligatory weekend with a client time for which that client ought to be charged—indeed, perhaps even charged at a premium rate. But Frost was less prone to charge others for his time (especially now that he had so much of it). He was, however, sick of a lifetime of kidding by clients—even as good a one as Flemming Andersen—about hourly rates, meters running, inflated bills and countless other cheap shots carrying the implication that lawyers overcharged as a matter of course.

  Seeing a slightly puzzled look on Andersen’s face, Frost realized that his ironic remark had perhaps been misunderstood.

  “No, Flemming, this consultation is on the house,” Frost said quickly.

  His colleague described his encounter with Jeffrey Gruen. Frost listened noncommittally, then assured Andersen that his fears were almost certainly groundless.

  “Flemming, I don’t think AFC’s a very likely target. I know you gave Casper his parachute just in case, but the real reason for that was to show how much you loved him. No, Gruen and his kind want to raid companies that are badly run, where the management is vulnerable when attacked. Whatever your shortcomings, AFC is undeniably well run.

  “And another thing,” Frost went on, “these raiders want operations that they can chop up and sell off in pieces. AFC’s far too integrated for that. I can’t believe you have anything to worry about.”

  These assurances seemed to cheer Andersen up greatly. He ordered a second drink and began moving about the cabin, tousling the head of his granddaughter, flirting with Cynthia and petting Winston. This last move was a mistake; once roused, the dog exhibited a strong case of cabin fever, moving furiously around the confined passenger area and barking loudly. Dorothy Andersen tried to calm him without success; finally her father shouted “Sit!” in a commanding voice and Winston returned to his benign, though loud-breathing, state.

  Frost turned his swivel chair around to observe the pre-weekend festivities. He was glad he had buoyed up Flemming, and hoped he was right. But once the idea was planted, it would not go away. Maybe Gruen would be interested in AFC. Under Flemming’s careful and conservative management, it was certainly cash-rich, and cash was catnip to raiders like Gruen.

  But it was all very unlikely, except that … Frost, with an effort, cut off his own speculation; there was no obvious “except that,” and the annual celebratory Andersen weekend, about to begin when the plane landed, was no time to dream one up.

  FAMILY GATHERING: I

  2

  Saturday was a bright, clear day, more remindful of autumn than summer, but hospitable to the athletic activities that accompanied an Andersen outing. With golf and tennis behind them, the participants gathered on the vast green lawn behind the main building of the Mohawk Inn for a late-afternoon bout of water-balloon tag.

  The origins of this odd custom were clear—the elder Laurance Andersen had decreed that it was to be a part of the schedule. Why it continued year after year was more obscure; the silly game did not appear to have any ardent devotees. Yet most of the visitors uncomplainingly went through the ritual.

  The older guests, like the Frosts, were excused. (Reuben, even as a young man, had treated the tag matches with the contempt he reserved for all athletics. And Cynthia, an active ballerina in those earlier years, had begged off on grounds that the whole thing was too dangerous to her body.) So the tag matches were a contest between the next two generations.

  The rules of the game were simple—profoundly so. The contestants divided into two teams. One defended a flag—picturing a bogus Andersen family “crest”—while the other tried to capture it. The players on each side had access to a large supply of water-filled balloons, supplied by the hotel. The object was to tag a member of the opposition with one of the rubber missiles; if the effort was successful, the tagged player had to leave the game. The first team to capture the flag three times was the winner.

  The most vigorous player of all, who actually seemed to enjoy the whole exercise, was Randolph Hedley. A lawyer, like Frost, he was a middle-aged trust and estates partner in the sedate and proper New York firm of Slade, Beveridge & Dalton. As the lawyer for the Andersen Foundation, he was a fixture at the annual outing.

  Reuben Frost seldom saw Hedley except at the Mohawk Inn. The other lawyer was at least thirty years younger, and they were not social friends. And while he knew Hedley was a good, solid attorney, Frost nonetheless had reservations about him. Hedley was a model of rectitude, there was no question about that. But Frost sometimes felt, to use his old-fashioned phrase, that Randolph Hedley had a screw loose.

  How else did one account for the younger man’s current behavior? Frost thought, observing the water-balloon struggle from his rough-hewn Adirondack chair. How else did one make allowances for a grown man getting a kick out of tossing balloons filled with water at people?

  “Aha! Got you, Dorothy!” Hedley shouted maniacally, as he tagged Laurance Andersen’s daughter almost on top of Reuben’s chair.

  To each his own, Frost concluded. And if Hedley was a comfort to Sorella Andersen Perkins, who had the heavy responsibility of running the Andersen Foundation, let him be.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Sorella Perkins came up beside Frost’s chair and sat on the arm.

  “Quite a sight, don’t you think?” the woman said. “I must say it gives you great confidence in the legendary New York Bar—look at Randolph Hedley, solicitor to the rich and famous! Look at him!”

  Hedley was now chasing Sorella’s young daughter.

  “Do you think he sees something sexual in this little game, Reuben? Look! He’s absolutely crazed, trying to splash young Kate.”

  “Just a game, Sorella,” Frost said calmly. “Randolph plays to win, whether it’s Foundation business or balloon tag.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she replied. “But it’s a little hard to reconcile this frenzied man with our calm legal adviser at the Foundation.”

  “Any harder than to realize that the man over there in the Harry Truman shirt is one of the captains of American industry?” Frost asked, pointing across the balloon-tag playing field.

  “Oh, Father, you mean? Yes, I can believe it. Appearances are deceiving, after all. Don’t you think there are people around who say, ‘Does that mousy little creature run the Andersen Foundation?’ I’ve been in meetings where I’ve heard whispers that I’m sure were saying just such things.”

  “I doubt it, my dear,” Frost said. “Or at least, they didn’t say it after dealing with you for more than about two-and-a-half consecutive minutes.”

  Sorella protested modestly, but Frost was right. In outward appearance, Sorella Perkins was an unlikely cand
idate for running a multimillion-dollar foundation. She was athletically built, like her mother, but was bespectacled and, although she was thirty-eight, freckle-faced. She was reticently shy and was even quite capable of blushing in group conversation.

  Yet when Sorella Perkins felt at ease with a person she could kid and speak with the assurance she had just shown in talking with Reuben.

  They concluded their conversation as the tag match broke up—Hedley’s team, despite his strenuous exertions, had lost to the one headed by young Dorothy—and a sweating, exhausted group shuffled its way toward the locker rooms in the basement of the main hotel building.

  “See you at dinner,” Sorella said. “Let’s hope none of our players has overdone.”

  Saturday dinner was the main social event of the weekend. Unlike the informal Friday night buffet, Saturday’s dinner was black tie, and place cards (prepared and set out by the AFC staff in accordance with Sally Andersen’s strict instructions) dictated where each person sat.

  Reuben Frost, in a white dinner jacket, and Cynthia, in a fire-engine-red linen dress, mingled with their fellow guests at the reception preceding dinner. The cocktail hour was always long and amply catered; a Scandinavian appreciation for strong drink had not been bred out of the Andersen genes, though Black Label had long since replaced aquavit as the drink of choice.

  Reuben moved easily in the crowd. As a general rule, he had always tried to avoid social and personal involvement with his clients. Flemming Andersen and his family had been the exception, with Flemming insisting that the attorney-client relationship be warmed up. Frost knew all the family, though the grandchildren had an uncanny way of changing their shape and size—not to say mode of dress—from year to year.

  By the time dinner was announced he had made the rounds, drinking two gins-and-tonic in the process. Dinner was served at a series of round tables for eight. Frost found himself between Flemming Andersen’s younger daughter, Diana, and Dorothy, the winning water-balloon captain.