Reuben was fearful that Juliana Merriman’s death would be a topic of interest, and he was not wrong. The murder had, after all, been reported in the morning Times, and he found himself cornered in two successive groups that asked him about it. But when it developed that he had nothing to add to the newspaper account, the subject was quickly dropped.
The only person Frost wanted to discuss Merriman with was Judge Kendall, for whom the young woman had clerked. Frost had spotted him across the living room, but had been unable to make his way to him without being swept up in successive interchanges of conversation.
Dinner was announced before Frost got to Judge Kendall. Reuben found himself seated between the hostess and Margaret Dotson. He was pleased with the singer’s aggressively friendly self-introduction, though at the same time slightly overwhelmed; there was a small fear that she might devour him.
“I’m so hungry I could eat those flowers,” she said, laughing exuberantly as she pointed to the sprawling, colorful centerpiece of out-of-season orchids. “Oh! But these will be better!” she added, once she saw the plate of shrimps (later identified by Mrs. Clifton as shrimps Arnaud) at her place. “You can’t give a girl from Louisiana too many of these!”
Reuben held the diva’s chair as she sat down, not without apprehension given her dimensions and the chair’s. Mrs. Clifton, on his other side, turned to him at once.
“Reuben, you old rascal, I’m delighted you’re here! You’d think we lived on opposite sides of the world. I haven’t seen you since the Multiple Sclerosis ball.”
“You mean Mrs. Reuff’s last triumph before her divorce?”
“Isn’t it dreadful! Four young children and yet she can’t keep things together. With all that money, too. And the lawyers! What a circus that is. On television all the time. They’re dreadful sleazes, don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid I do. But in defense of lawyers, I don’t imagine we have any more sleazes than any other profession. Or any more thieves, or any more drunks—”
“Or any more murderers?”
“You’re referring, I suppose, to what was in the paper this morning?” Frost asked, looking directly at his hostess.
“Yes. It must be terrible for you, Reuben. I remember years ago when a young secretary at Eric’s, my husband’s, firm was shot. A lover’s quarrel. They couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.”
“I know, I know. But to get back to your question. Lawyers as murderers? I’m sure statistically we’re the same as anyone else. One only hopes the statistics haven’t caught up with Chase & Ward. Though I hasten to add I’ve no reason to think they have.”
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Reuben.”
“Not at all. Nothing could disturb me at this beautiful party, my dear.” As if to underscore the point, he drained the glass of Corton Charlemagne 1986 that had been served with the shrimps and turned to the Grand Puy Lacoste 1982, the Bordeaux accompanying M. Jouvet’s navarin of lamb.
“One thing, Reuben,” Mrs. Clifton said, lowering her voice. “I put you next to Margaret Dotson deliberately. I think you’re one of the few people here who can handle her. And you don’t smoke, which she hates.”
“I’ll do my best,” Reuben said, shifting to talk to the diva as they both attacked the new course, she with a zestful relish that amused him.
“Mr. Frost, tell me about yourself,” she asked, between bites.
“There’s not much to tell,” he replied modestly. “I’m a retired lawyer.”
“Business law?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
“I didn’t know it was so obvious.”
Ms. Dotson laughed heartily. “It isn’t. Just a shrewd guess. So what do you do, now that you’re retired?”
“Investigate murders,” he almost said, but he really didn’t want to talk about that. “I enjoy myself,” he said, instead. “I try to improve my mind, to the extent that’s possible at my age, eat long lunches and take long naps. And occasionally hear wonderful singers at the Metropolitan Opera.”
“That’s the best thing you’ve said. Do you go often?” (“Have you heard my Azucena?” is what she really meant.)
“A fair amount. We don’t have a subscription—that’s too much like Russian roulette with casting the way it is at the Met these days—but yes, we do. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen the Trovatore yet. We’re going at the end of this month.”
“Good! I’ll be singing the performances until early February. Then I’m off to Covent Garden for Amneris in their new Aïda. Mr. Frost, why don’t you write me an opera in which the mezzo isn’t a witch or a servant? I want to play a seductress,” Dotson said, raising her arms for dramatic effect.
Reuben laughed and said he’d be delighted, if he only knew how. Then he asked about the new director at Covent Garden. “His name’s Isaacs, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Jeremy Isaacs. From everything I hear he’s very good. I’ll be able to tell you better when I get back in March. Maybe the ambassador knows him,” she said, nodding toward Sir Robert Buxton on her other side.
“Are you taking my name in vain, madame?” he asked, overhearing the reference.
“Bob,” Reuben said, “I was just asking Miss Dotson if she knew Jeremy Isaacs. Do you?” (Frost had chatted with the ambassador before dinner and followed the rule he had once been told of addressing him the first time as “Sir Robert,” and “Bob” thereafter. He wasn’t sure there was such a rule, but it sounded right, like the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen curtsying at the first encounter with Her Majesty each day.)
“I’ve only met him,” the ambassador replied. “I understand he’s a capital fellow. What a job, though. The Prime Minister’s budget cuts, labor troubles with the ballet dancers, every kind of morass you can think of.”
“But a guaranteed full house for the new Aïda.”
“Oh?”
“With Ms. Dotson singing Amneris.”
“Oh yes, yes, of course! Standing room only!”
Margaret Dotson laughed appreciatively.
Continuing the opera conversation, Reuben got into deep trouble by expressing admiration for the young American soprano, Dawn Upshaw. “She’s absolutely marvelous and seems to be able to sing modern music as well as the traditional repertoire.”
Miss Dotson, for all her ebullient amiability, was not interested in hearing about new singers, even ones who could not, by definition, be classified as rivals, and greeted Reuben’s praise only with a noncommittal “Oh, really?”
Frost was about to shift conversational gears—and quickly—when Anne Clifton reminded those at the table that midnight was almost upon them. With impeccable timing a strawberry bombe and more champagne were served.
“Maybe you’ll sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ for us,” the hostess said.
“You mean—Should auld acquaintance be forgot.” Dotson sang only the one short line, almost sotto voce, but conversation stopped and Reuben could swear the glass pendants in the chandelier overhead began to vibrate. “That’s so—so mournful. I’d rather do—The joint is jumpin’, it’s really jumpin’.” She laughed as encouraging applause came from her tablemates. “Some other time, friends, some other time.”
“Well, here it is,” Mrs. Clifton said, glancing at her small, bejeweled watch. She rose, champagne glass in hand. “Happy New Year, everyone!”
The others rose, touched glasses with those near at hand and drank. Then the men, in a disorganized round-robin, kissed the women, mostly lightly on the cheek, though Miss Dotson had bussed Reuben full on the lips before he could accomplish a more sedate cheek-kissing maneuver. Reuben also kissed Cynthia warmly on the lips, whispering, “May the next year be the best yet,” after he had done so.
Dessert was soon finished and the diners drifted back to the living room, where a splendid assortment of liquers, and more champagne, had been assembled on a tea wagon. Reuben was ordering a brandy—a New Year’s exception to his usual regimen—when Judge Kendall came up
behind him.
“Reuben, I’ve been wanting to talk to you all evening,” said the tall, graying jurist. He had been, as Frost knew, the personal lawyer for the Cliftons before his appointment to the Federal bench a decade earlier. He now served with distinction on the Second Circuit Court of Appeals.
“I could say the same, Ramsey. I assume it’s about Juliana Merriman.”
“Yes.”
“She clerked for you, did she not?”
“Yes, indeed. One of the finest clerks I ever had.”
“I scarcely knew her, but she certainly was well regarded around the firm.”
“There’s something I’d like to tell you about her. It’s rather delicate.”
“Why don’t we slip up to the library right now, before everyone gets settled?”
“Fine idea.”
The Clifton library, stodgily wood-paneled, was not a relaxing setting for the two lawyers, though they were comfortable enough as they sat in deeply cushioned reading chairs, brandy snifters in hand. Judge Kendall began talking immediately in a deeply serious voice.
“Reuben, I’ve thought about little else except Juliana Merriman since I opened the paper at breakfast this morning. In particular, I’ve been thinking who I might talk to. I was going to call Charlie Parkes and then I realized you’d probably be here tonight, so I decided to wait, on the chance that I’d be able to see you alone.
“I have some information about Julie that is undoubtedly irrelevant—at least I hope it is. But I do want to tell it to somebody responsible, and even to the police if that becomes necessary. My problem is that what I have to say is potentially embarrassing to someone—I don’t know who, as you will see.”
“In other words, Ramsey, you’d like to talk to me in confidence.”
“That’s what I’d like, but I know when you get embroiled in a homicide investigation—and one that the newspapers are going to be interested in—that may not be possible. So all I’m asking is that you treat what I’m going to tell you with discretion. I don’t know you well, except from seeing you here at Anne’s once a year, but I know your reputation, so I’m certain you’ll be discreet. And we’re both members of the Gotham Club, after all.”
“True enough.”
“I’m assuming, with your new career as an amateur detective, that you’ll be involved in the investigation of Juliana’s death,” the Judge said.
“That’s a safe conclusion. Charlie Parkes has asked me to lend a hand, and I intend to do whatever I can.”
“Good. Let me tell you my story, which is perplexing and brief,” Kendall said, taking a deep gulp of brandy before continuing. “As I told you, Juliana Merriman was very exceptional. You know, we always try to find the best and the brightest in the law schools to be our clerks. Sometimes that means we get to deal with some prickly pears—super-bright youngsters totally lacking in what I believe they call ‘people skills.’ Asinine term. And you often get a clerk that thinks he’s the judge, not you.
“Julie was never like that. She knew her place—and I use the phrase in the best sense—and never tried to play judge herself. She just did the research I required brilliantly, and in most cases, I agreed with the conclusions she proposed to me. She was a very likable person—warm, friendly and often witty, too. We became true friends and, given the gap in our ages, I think I was something of a father to her.
“Our friendship continued after she left me. I followed her progress at your firm with great interest and from what she told me, even speaking from her worm’s eye view, I sensed that she was doing well at Chase & Ward. That is correct, isn’t it?”
“From what I understand, yes. She definitely had a chance for partnership,” Frost said.
“About six months ago, she called and asked if she could come and see me. I of course said yes and she came to my chambers. She was obviously disturbed about something and swore me to secrecy. Then she told me that she’d been a victim of sexual harassment at your firm. And that she didn’t know what to do about it.”
“Did she say who the guilty party was?”
“Unfortunately, Reuben, she said that it was a partner, though she wouldn’t identify him. I didn’t press her for the name, because I didn’t think it was any of my business.”
Reuben audibly let out his breath and rubbed his chin with his free hand, while mentally running through the roster of his former partners.
“All I can say is, it must have been someone she worked with very closely,” Kendall said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the harassment apparently occurred out of town, on business.”
“Where, did she say?”
“No.”
“I suppose it was the old line about his wife not understanding him and here they were lonely and far away from home. You know the routine.”
“Only by hearsay.”
“My dear Ramsey, I wasn’t implying anything else.”
Both men smiled, if a little tightly.
“Do we know whether Mr. X was married?” Frost asked.
“She said he was. Oh, and Mr. X, as you call him, must have some clout, since she was sure if she brought the matter to a head it wouldn’t be good for her career.”
“I suspect my ex-partners would draw the wagons into a pretty tight circle if any one of them—with clout or not—was accused of fooling around with an associate,” Frost said.
“They would at my old firm, too. Or even on the Federal bench!”
“What was she proposing to do?”
“She was uncertain. I told her I’d known Charlie Parkes for many years and that he’d always seemed like a fair-minded person to me. I suggested she go and see him.”
“What was her response to that?”
“She said, no, that wasn’t what she had in mind. If she was going to do anything, she wanted to go all the way.”
“And bring a lawsuit?”
“Yes, and bring a lawsuit.”
“Good God.”
“She was practical enough to know that suing was probably not a career-enhancing move. I told her she ought to weigh the matter carefully—lawsuits like this can be very messy—but that her own conscience would have to be her guide.”
“What did you think? That she would sue?”
“I couldn’t tell. She said she would have to reflect on what I’d said. That’s where we left things and I never heard any more about it.”
“Well, Your Honor, you’ve certainly started the year off well for me.”
“I’m sorry about that. I know that as a rule murder is not a lawyer’s weapon of choice, but I thought you should know about our conversation. The prospect of a scandal may have sent someone over the edge. For the sake of your fine firm, my New Year’s wish is that everything I’ve told you is irrelevant.”
“Amen to that. Shall we rejoin the happy party down below?”
CHAPTER
9
Next of Kin
Judge Kendall’s revelation put a damper on the festivities for Reuben, though they were winding down anyway, the older crowd at Anne Clifton’s running out of energy as the beginning hours of the new year started ticking away. At one-thirty, the Frosts made their goodbye rounds and found outside the chauffeur-driven car that Reuben had engaged for the evening.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Cynthia asked as they were driven quickly uptown through streets all but deserted except for occasional bands of happy, unsteady pedestrians. “I saw you go off with Ramsey Kendall, and then you were as pale as a ghost when you got back.”
Frost related to his wife what the Judge had told him. “I said to Charlie Parkes yesterday that the man we’re looking for might be a partner. But I didn’t really believe it. What a disaster! Besides, Kendall kept me from meeting that actress—my selected target for after dinner.”
“You didn’t miss much. Pretty vacant upstairs.”
“But good to look at. Three stars—worth a trip.”
“You had your sex at din
ner, with the reigning diva.”
“Not quite the same thing. What a formidable lady!”
“Opera singers always are. But speaking of sex, I’m sure your culprit is Dick Langdon,” Cynthia said, referring to a Chase & Ward partner who had been involved in some pants-unzipping episodes some years before.
“No, I doubt it. I think Dick learned his lesson when the husband of that young nurse caught him unawares.”
“Caught him unawares and beat him up, you mean.”
“Yes. I certainly wouldn’t stake my life on it, but I think he’s been on reasonably good behavior ever since.”
“Who’s your candidate, then?” Cynthia asked, while her husband fumbled for the key to the front door of their home.
“I don’t have one. The implication was that it was someone for whom that girl had worked directly. That means Bernie Straus, Brian Heyworth or Bill Richardson.”
“From what you’ve always told me, Brian’s probably too ineffectual to carry out a seduction. And Bill Richardson—William Denning Richardson, the heir-apparent as leader of your firm—and Bernie are devoted family men. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. They’re all friends of ours, to one degree or another. Right now, I’m going to struggle to bed. I need a good night’s rest before I confront Charlie with this latest stick of dynamite.”
Frost waited until the relatively decent hour of nine o’clock on New Year’s morning before he called Parkes. After Frost had said “I told you so”, referring to the morning’s press coverage in the tabloids—“Death Blackens White-Shoe Law Firm” was the most restrained of the headlines—he summarized his conversation with Ramsey Kendall, without naming him. As expected, the Executive Partner was not happy with what he heard. His first reaction was to jump to the conclusion that Merriman “must have been crazy.” Then, on reflection, he soberly admitted that a made-up story, or an imagined incident, was inconsistent with all that he knew about her. Reuben was relieved that Parkes sounded genuinely puzzled; he would not have been pleased if Parkes had known about Mr. X and not mentioned him when they had gone over the situation the previous Friday.
Murder Saves Face Page 8
