“No one, except my cook and butler,” Sally said.
“Anyone at your house?” Frost asked the Perkinses.
“Just the two of us,” Sorella replied.
“How about Laurance’s house? Anyone there?”
“No, Laurance went to California this morning. And Dorothy has gone to stay with her mother,” Sorella said.
“I assume he’s been notified, by the way. And how about Diana?”
“Diana’s on her way now,” Sorella explained. “She was in the city. But we haven’t got to Laurance yet. We tried to reach him at his hotel, but he wasn’t in. We left a message.”
“Where’s he staying, the Beverly Hills?” Frost asked.
“No, he’s changed his hotel. No longer the Beverly Hills or the Beverly Wilshire. He’s staying at something called the St. Martin. I think he’s an investor in it.”
“I hope not too big an investor,” Frost said.
“Why?” Sorella asked.
“I was there about three months ago and the place was total confusion. They couldn’t keep track of anything—their guests, messages, nothing. In fact, if Laurance doesn’t call back soon, I’d call him again.”
“Good idea,” Sorella said.
“Do any of you have any idea of who might have killed Flemming?” Frost now demanded, sending Sally into tears once more.
“I know it’s silly, Reuben, and always said when someone dies in strange circumstances, but I honestly believe Flemming didn’t have an enemy in the world,” Sally said, once she had regained her composure.
“Casper, you’re more familiar with his business dealings than any of the rest of us,” Frost said. “Do you have any ideas—do you know of any business enemies he may have had?”
“Well, the Campbell Soup people didn’t like the success of SUPERBOWL very much. But it’s impossible to think they had anything to do with this. Seriously, to answer your question, I can’t think of a single person who had any kind of grudge against Flemming.”
Sorella and her husband also had no potential suspects to propose.
The group was still. Then Sally turned to Reuben and fixed him with a steady gaze:
“Reuben, we badly need your help. I don’t want to make you sound like a funeral director, my dear, but you have been through situations like this before.…” she said, then paused, uncertain of how to go on.
“What do you mean?” Frost asked ingenuously.
“You know very well what I mean. That trouble at NatBallet when that choreographer was killed. Or that business in your law firm when your partner was poisoned.”
“Oh yes. Disaster seems to have a way of striking when I’m around,” Frost said.
“All I’m saying is, the Andersens are going to need your help. Disaster has struck near you again, and we want you around to advise us.”
“That’s very flattering, Sally. Certainly I’ll do everything. I can to help. But right now I’m going to have a last word with that policeman, Castagno, and head back to New York. I don’t see any point in making plans or decisions tonight, when we’re tired and upset.”
“I agree,” Sally Andersen said. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
CONTACTS
9
Cynthia Frost was waiting up for her husband when he arrived back from Connecticut. It was almost one in the morning, but Reuben asked his wife to sit with him while he related the day’s events to her. Confused as he was in his own mind about Flemming Andersen’s death, he was anxious to see if Cynthia, usually a shrewd analyst of human nature, might offer any helpful insights.
“I’m puzzled,” Frost told his wife, after fixing Scotches for them both and then telling her the circumstances of Flemming’s death as best he knew them. “Everyone says he didn’t have an enemy in the world. Yet here he is, murdered.”
“Does it matter whether he had enemies or not if the murder was done by a lunatic?” Cynthia asked. “The lunatic could be anybody, couldn’t he? Disgruntled employee, unhappy customer, unrequited lover—though I doubt that, in Flemming’s case.”
“Yes, I suppose it could have been anybody.”
“Of course I guess the note could be bogus and just a way of diverting attention from the real murderer and the real motive,” Cynthia said.
“Yes, but then you’re back to the truism that Flemming had no enemies.”
“He may not have had enemies, but he certainly had family,” Cynthia said.
“Family? Do you really think any of the family could be involved? It doesn’t make sense, Cynthia.”
“Reuben, I know these are your friends. But let’s be objective. Coldly objective.”
“Very well,” Reuben said skeptically.
“Just think back to last weekend,” Cynthia said. “Sure, everything was okay on the surface, but I just have an idea there are some family tensions there—probably not made easier by the smell of Jeffrey Gruen’s dollars.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the relationship with Diana. You told me she’s bitter about not having been brought into the Company. And she couldn’t have been thrilled at her father’s insistence that she keep her stock, since she’s already said she wants to sell more of it. Sorella? She seems all right, but I told you how angry she was at being excluded from the important flight back to New York on Sunday. And then there’s her bitter husband. He’s as quiet as a mouse, but deep down, I’m willing to bet that he’s unhappy being married into a family that doesn’t appreciate his genius.
“And Laurance, what about him?” she went on. “Totally silent, seemingly preoccupied with other thoughts that we’re not privy to. Not healthy. And let’s not forget Billy O’Neal. He’s been mad at Flemming’s branch of the family since the day he was born.”
“All true, my dear. But that doesn’t mean they’d go out and commit the ghoulish murder of the decade to work out their grievances,” her husband said.
“I don’t know all the ins and outs of this takeover business, but I can’t imagine that’s helped much, either,” Cynthia said, paying no attention to her husband’s protestations. “Quite the reverse. My guess is that this fellow Gruen’s threatened raid has aggravated whatever tensions were there before—and perhaps aggravated them enough to lead to murder. Take Sally, for instance. When she left the tennis world to marry Flemming, she retired from public notice for good—or so she thought. All she’s ever wanted is to have a quiet, respectable—and private—life. Remember how she hated that where-is-she-now piece in People a few years ago? Or the publicity about Laurance’s third divorce—the really messy one?
“Just for argument’s sake, look at her situation,” Cynthia went on. “Here’s Jeffrey Gruen, the infamous raider, about to focus public attention on Andersen Foods. Which attention was bound to increase when Flemming starts fighting him. I know it’s a very nasty thought, but don’t you think it’s just possible that Sally, with her craving for privacy, killed Flemming to prevent the publicity battle? Of course, there would be headlines for a day or two about Flemming’s death, and for another day or two after Gruen made his tender offer—but then Gruen would take over the Company and peace and quiet would return.”
Frost was silent for a few moments after his wife had spun out her theory about Sally Andersen. “I think that’s preposterous, Cynthia,” he finally said, a trace of anger in his voice. “Be sensible. A murder as spectacular as Flemming’s—can you imagine what the tabloids are going to do with it?—is not exactly the way to protect one’s privacy. But now that I think about it, there may be a variation. I’m convinced somebody—and maybe even more than one somebody—is ready to betray the family and sell out to Gruen. Isn’t it just possible Sally saw this coming, saw that her husband was about to be defeated, and killed him not only to spare herself the notoriety she hated but to spare him public humiliation—and humiliation caused by a member of his own family?”
“Look, Reuben, we’re both very tired, and I’m afraid our imaginations are cooking up some fancy bed
time stories,” Cynthia said. “I’m probably wrong, and so are you. Let’s go to sleep.”
“Maybe the solution will come in our dreams,” Reuben concluded.
“God, I hope not,” Cynthia said.
Reuben scarcely had time the next morning to drink the orange juice his wife had squeezed for him before the telephone began ringing incessantly. Sally Andersen’s secretary called to notify him of the funeral arrangements scheduled for the next day—“Mrs. Andersen wants the funeral to be held as soon as possible”—at eleven at the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church, to be followed by a luncheon for the family and a few select guests at the Andersen apartment.
Then the widow herself was on the telephone to make two surprising requests: that she herself wished to be elected to AFC’s Board of Directors and that Casper Robbins should be elected Chairman as well as President.
“What about Billy O’Neal and Laurance?” Frost asked.
“Nonsense. Laurance is too busy with the high-tech toys he and his friends in California have bought. And Billy just isn’t … isn’t temperamentally suited for the job.”
“Billy will be very disappointed,” Frost said.
“That may be. But what’s he going to do, start a proxy fight?” Sally asked. Out of choice, she had up until now not served on the AFC Board; but she had seen enough and heard enough, and talked with her husband enough, to be both shrewd and clever where the family business was concerned.
The third call of the morning was a conference call with Marvin Yates and Ernest Crowder of Chase & Ward, Fred Stacey of Hughes & Company and Casper Robbins to discuss what the next step with Jeffrey Gruen should be. Frost detested speakerphones and calls to multiple locations; there was no intimacy or privacy, and one could never be sure who was listening to what was being said. Let alone the screaming and shouting often required because of bad connections. But Frost agreed in this case that a short conference call was preferable to attempting to arrange a face-to-face meeting.
“Reuben, are you there?” Casper Robbins asked.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Marvin? Ernest?”
“Good morning, we’re here.”
“Fred?”
“I’m here.”
“Can everybody hear okay?” Robbins asked. All agreed that they could.
“Before we begin, what happened yesterday when Flemming called Jeffrey Gruen?” Frost asked.
“Very puzzling,” Robbins said. “I was on the call and when we got through we were told we had to talk to Norman Cobb, Gruen’s assistant. You remember how firm Gruen was about getting back to him by noon yesterday? But when we did that, he wasn’t there to talk to us.”
“That’s very strange,” Stacey said. “You think it was a deliberate insult?”
“Couldn’t tell,” Robbins said. “But Flemming gave the message loud and clear to Cobb—no endorsement of Gruen’s offer was likely, and the AFC Board was ready to buy back ten percent of the Company’s stock.”
“What did he say?” Yates asked.
“Not much,” Robbins answered. “Thanked us for calling within the deadline and said he would report everything to Gruen.”
“And as far as we know, they didn’t make an announcement of their tender offer,” Yates said. “I find that a little unusual after all Gruen’s big talk on Monday about bulling ahead right away.”
“You’re right, Marvin. There was nothing on the tape yesterday or this morning,” Stacey said.
“Maybe he’s having trouble raising the money—maybe that’s where he was when Hemming called,” Crowder added.
“Or maybe he got cold feet,” Frost said.
“I doubt that,” Yates commented. “There’s nothing Flemming told him that he couldn’t have anticipated, if he had any sense at all.”
“So what do we do now?” Robbins asked.
“I can’t imagine he’ll go ahead without waiting some decent interval after Flemming’s death,” Yates said.
“Probably so,” Robbins agreed. “But how do we make sure of that?”
There was silence as the telephone conferees considered the problem. Frost, ignoring George Bannard’s implicit stricture to be seen-and-not-heard, spoke up.
“I think I should go and see him,” Frost said. “I believe I’m the only one who knows him outside of the context of this deal, or the M&A context anyway. He’s a director of NatBallet and maybe I can talk to him in a less adversarial way than the rest of you.”
Again the conferees were silent for a moment—an uncomfortably long moment, as far as Reuben was concerned. Then Yates, speaking perhaps too rapidly, said: “I think that’s fine. Gruen would have a hard time saying no to a postponement if Reuben asked for it—Reuben being the decent fellow that he is.”
Disembodied laughter from the participants came over the line. They all agreed that Frost should approach Gruen and see him as soon as possible, preferably in person, and request a postponement, telling him that AFC’s management wanted to think about his proposal for a couple of weeks.
Frost promised to contact Gruen and to report the results as soon as possible. This led to the next call, to Gruen’s office, where Frost ended up talking with Norman Cobb, as his colleagues had the day before. The young man was not at all forthcoming about Gruen’s whereabouts. But he did agree that Frost could see Gruen at five o’clock at Gruen’s New York apartment.
No sooner had he completed these arrangements than Casper Robbins was on the line again.
“Can you come over here, Reuben?” he inquired. “We’ve got another goddam note.”
“You mean from the killer?”
“Allegedly,” Robbins said. “Come to my office.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
On his way to AFC headquarters, Frost picked up a copy of the afternoon Press, which had a screaming front-page headline:
NUT COOKS SOUP KING
Frost hastily read the story. It contained no new information, but made clear that the Greenwich police were convinced a psychopath had committed the murder, though the note at the scene was not mentioned.
At AFC, Casper Robbins closed the door to his large corner office as soon as Frost came in.
“Here, take a look at this,” he said, thrusting a sheet of brown paper at Frost. Frost carefully took out a handkerchief to cover his right hand, before taking the sheet.
The edges of the paper were uneven, as if cut from a larger piece of brown wrapping paper. Written with red crayon, in a script hand quite different from the one in the note found in Greenwich, was a short message:
Revenge has come to the Andersens! And high time, too! Meanness and dishonesty do not go unpunished! Flemming Andersen died for his!
“Where did this come from?” Frost asked.
“Somebody left it off at the mail room about an hour ago.”
“How was it addressed?”
“Just to Andersen Foods Corporation. No other name or anything. Here’s the envelope.” Robbins handed over a kraft envelope.
“Fortunately someone in the mail room had the good sense to bring the thing directly to me,” Robbins said.
“It bears no resemblance to the earlier note,” Frost said.
“So what does it mean?”
“You’ve got me,” Frost said. “But I do know one thing I’m going to do—and do it right now.”
“What’s that?”
“Call my old friend Luis Bautista at the New York City Police Department.”
Frost excused himself and dialed Bautista’s direct-dial office number, where he found the detective desk-bound, working on completing reports. Could he meet Frost in forty-five minutes at his home? Of course; anything would be better than report writing.
“Casper, do you have an office safe of your own?” Frost asked, when he returned to Robbins’s office.
“Yes, I do.”
“I suggest you put this note in an envelope and keep it in your safe until we decide what to do with it,” Frost said
. “But first, let me have a Xerox of it and the envelope.”
“Whatever you say, Reuben,” Robbins replied.
Frost had scarcely gotten home when Bautista arrived. When Frost opened the front door, they greeted each other as the old friends they had become, though Frost at first looked startled.
“What’s the matter, Reuben? Never seen a man with a beard before?” Bautista asked.
The Frosts had seen Bautista and his girlfriend, Francisca Ribiero, in late July; the beard was new since then. Reuben had always thought the detective, whom he had first met after the murder of his partner, Graham Donovan, extremely handsome, a nicked front tooth being the only irregularity in Bautista’s features. He was not sure the beard did much to enhance his friend’s good looks.
“Luis, I’ve seen plenty of beards, most of them unfortunate,” Frost said.
“You don’t like it, in other words?”
“The jury’s still out,” Frost answered. “Why did you do it?”
“I’m working on a couple of real tough cases,” Bautista explained. “Murdered drug dealers. I thought it would help if I looked fierce.”
“I guess you could say you’ve succeeded. How is Francisca? What does she think of it?”
“She doesn’t like it. But she’ll get used to it,” Bautista said.
“Hmn.”
The two men went upstairs and sat down in the living room. Frost offered Bautista a drink, but he declined, saying he was still on duty.
“What’s up, Reuben?” the detective asked. “You were rather cryptic on the phone.”
“Did you see the headline in the Press today?”
“Let’s see … oh yes, about some guy cooking to death in his hot tub in Connecticut.”
“Precisely. His name was Flemming Andersen, he was the Chairman of the Board of Andersen Foods Corporation and he was an old friend and client of mine,” Frost explained.
“I’m sorry,” the detective said. “Was he a close friend?”
“Fairly.”
“Who’s got the case?” Bautista inquired.
“The Greenwich police. A fellow named Arthur Castagno seems to be in charge.”
Murders & Acquisitions Page 9
