Uncertain of the ages and whereabouts of Bill Richardson’s children, he asked Aline about them.
“Darren, my older brother, is at Yale. He’s two years older than me and a senior. Then there’s the baby, Walter, who’s still at Exeter, but can’t wait to go to Yale, if he can get in. I’m the meat in the sandwich. A girl, a Princetonian, a non-jock. The men in the family all think I’m weird.”
“Which of course is not true.”
“Well, they’ve got some cause,” Aline said, laughing. “I do sing with a rock band, you know.”
“What?” Frost said, genuinely surprised at his bespectacled companion.
“Yup. There were some guys down the hall from me at Princeton who talked about starting a band, so I joined them. Youthful rebellion, a sure way to annoy Mom and Dad.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“You won’t be embarrassed? My father is.”
“I’m beyond embarrassment, my dear.”
“Well, um, we call ourselves Lolita and the Lechers.”
“Who’s Lolita—you?”
“That’s right. My stage name. I decided to keep some peace at home by not calling us the Randy Richardsons, or Aline and the Ape-shits. Excuse me, but that was one of the names we considered.”
“You did the right thing,” Frost said. “How often do you play?”
“As often as we can. A couple of times a month. We’re not exactly up there making top-forty records.”
“Doesn’t this interfere with your studies?”
“You sound like Dad. No, I work real hard at school. I do better than my brothers, I can tell you.”
“Amazing.”
Frost, curiosity aroused, wanted to probe further into the alien world of rock, but Aline Richardson got up and excused herself.
“There’s going to be a little show now, before the birthday cake,” she explained. “I’ve got to get ready. It was nice talking to you. I’ll see you later.”
Almost at once, one of Bill Richardson’s college chums appeared and acted as the master of ceremonies. Featured were two songs—a dreadfully unfunny one performed by Nina’s friends about dwindling sexual capacity and a more amusing one, sung a cappella by the Yale contingent, about Richardson’s valiant attempts to better his performance in the New York Marathon (he had been 224th the previous year). Then there were toasts by the two sons—the Exonian was quite funny—Bill’s law school roommate, one of the Green Berets and Charlie Parkes. The two themes throughout were Bill’s wonderful family and his dogged bad luck on the ski slopes, which had led to two injuries in recent years, including the broken leg that had kept him on crutches through most of the previous winter.
As the entertainment progressed, Reuben had noticed an impressive collection of electronic gear at the side of the bandstand, unused by the Lester Lanin sidemen who had played for dancing earlier. Now, it was pushed forward on the makeshift dance floor and the emcee introduced, with much fanfare, Lolita and the Lechers.
Frost couldn’t decide which was funnier: the four fresh-faced Princetonians and Lolita/Aline (without her glasses), trying to look fierce and menacing in their jackboots and leather gear, or the song of Aline’s composition that they sang, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy”:
When I was twelve I went out on the street,
When I was fourteen I got me a treat,
When I was sixteen I had me a ball,
But now that’s behind me—
‘Cause Dad’s best of all.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,
Won’t you come to me?
I’m your darlin’ daughter,
Here for all to see.
When I was thirteen I longed for a thrill,
When I was fifteen I went over the hill,
When I was eighteen I wanted them tall,
But now that I’m twenty—
Old Dad’s best of all.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy …
The attempt at decadence (incestuous decadence at that) was delightfully ludicrous; the loud, raucous song surely bore no resemblance to what may have been heard at the tables down at Mory’s a generation earlier. Richardson, seated at ringside, tried to get into the swing of things, good-naturedly shifting his upper body in attempted rhythm, but it was hopeless. The generation gap was evident.
When the song, and an encore (“Lolita, My Lovely”) were over, waiters wheeled a trolley containing an enormous birthday cake out onto the dance floor, while others poured champagne at the tables. Nina Richardson came forward, glass in hand, and took the portable microphone from her daughter. Years of fund-raising appeals enabled her to handle both the microphone and her glass. The rock musicians, except “Lolita,” left the floor and she and the two Richardson sons flanked their mother, standing behind the cake, which featured the spun-sugar likeness of a runner, rather than a wracked-up skier.
“Twenty-five years ago, when he was half his present age,” Nina Richardson began, “I met Bill for the first time. He was the most wonderful man in the world then, and he still is today, only doubly so. I have been very lucky, and my children have been very lucky. You know, today, when there’s so much talk of ‘quality time,’ I just want to say that we’ve had twenty-five years of Bill’s ‘quality time’—except the part Chase & Ward got, of course—and we’re the better for it. So, Bill, for your birthday, let me make a double toast—first, when we go to Chamonix next week, may you not break your leg again and, second, may you have many more years for the ski slopes, the jogging path—and for us. Happy birthday!”
The crowd rose, singing “Happy Birthday,” as Bill Richardson stepped forward. If the shade of Juliana Merriman was haunting him, it was not evident: either the virtue of the innocent or the confidence of the undetected guilty made him seem a genuinely happy man.
“I don’t have a witty speech prepared,” he said. “I’m not a terribly witty man. And, besides, how could I compete with ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy’? But I can tell you one thing. I’m not going to fall next week. I’m never going to fall again!”
Was there a subtext here? Reuben wondered, as Richardson went on to express his love and affection for his wife, his children and the guests at his birthday party. Then the entertainment ended with a chorus of “Bright College Years” by the Yalies; it was the first time Reuben had seen white handkerchiefs waved aloft since a Yale-Princeton football game decades before.
“I’ve talked to your friends,” Richardson told Frost, in a low voice, as they shook hands when Frost was leaving.
“Friends?”
“The police. I assume it was you who slipped them that damn-fool complaint.”
“My apologies, Bill. I warned you we would have to do that.”
“I’m innocent, Reuben. Don’t you forget that …” Richardson’s features had hardened, and he seemed prepared to say something stronger, perhaps even to issue a threat. But the queue of those waiting to greet him had grown, and it would have been impossible to continue the exchange without others hearing.
Frost moved on, realizing that he wanted to believe, after the warm family vignettes observed during the evening, that his former partner was indeed innocent. He began to wonder if perhaps Merriman had not misinterpreted what had happened in Dallas—or worse, inexplicably made the story up.
“What did you think?” Reuben asked his wife, once they were back home, sitting comfortably with their feet up in their living room.
“I think Bill’s family doesn’t have a hint of what’s going on,” Cynthia replied. “Either that or the Richardsons are a family of actors to rival the Redgraves. Which I doubt.”
“I didn’t see a trace of papering anything over. I sat next to the daughter—the singing Lolita—and she certainly didn’t give any indication that anything was amiss. I’ve almost concluded that we’ve been wrong to suspect him. Bill’s just too straight to be a philanderer. Juliana Merriman was wrong. Or up to something.”
“That party was
certainly all good clean fun, I grant you that,” Cynthia said. “But that doesn’t mean Bill didn’t make a slip somewhere along the line.”
“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced he’s not the type, Cynthia. All-American, or at least all-Yale, good guy. That certainly came out tonight. He might be capable of an innocent flirtation, but nothing beyond that.”
“Reuben, the trouble with you is that you have the typical male notion of philandering, which I grant you fits most cases. Endless catting around, looking for a chance for clandestine sex every time a new female appears. The fat man ready to raid the icebox when no one’s looking. The compulsive stage-door Johnnies I used to see at the ballet.”
“That’s not Bill Richardson.”
“Granted. But you don’t have to be a Don Juan to get into trouble. I’ve seen it happen. Upright family men who suddenly get infatuated—who see something, or hear something, and are struck dumb. You yourself told me how Bill remembered so vividly Juliana Merriman wiggling her foot and stroking her hair when they were meeting in Dallas, or wherever it was. Those tiny gestures may have been all it took to set Bill off.”
“That’s ridiculous, Cynthia.”
“Is it? I’m no Dr. Ruth—”
“Thank God for that—”
“But Bill Richardson may have been a walking time bomb ready to explode. Look at the facts. He’s fifty, which means he grew up when sex was about as exotic as it was when we were young. You saw the blissful smiles on those faces tonight when they played the twist—that was their biggest excitement, Reuben. Doing the twist at a spring house party. No girls in the classrooms then, to say nothing of the dormitories. Then what happened? He probably had a quickie or two with the Suzy Wongs out in the Far East, then came home and met a sweet Mount Holyoke coed, probably as sexually unsophisticated as he was. They fall in love, they marry, they have children. Then the sexual revolution happens. Sex is everywhere, probably even in his own children’s bedrooms. Half the young lawyers who work for him are living together. Everywhere he looks he sees that sex has become accessible and casual. Isn’t it just possible that the golden boy thought life was passing him by? That he got dizzy and fell off the edge when Ms. Merriman wiggled her foot at him? Is that really such a ridiculous theory?”
Reuben refreshed his drink before he answered.
“You could be right,” he said, finally. “I thought what I saw tonight was going to make things simpler for me, that Bill Richardson had been struck from the list and we could concentrate on Genakis and Harvey Rawson. Now you’ve put him back on. Even though making a fool of yourself—‘exploding’ as you call it—doesn’t necessarily turn you to homicide.”
“I didn’t say it did. But a public scandal—a harassment lawsuit—certainly would shatter the complacent picture we saw tonight. The model wife, the model kids, the camaraderie of the Old Blues, the jovial but very conventional friends. Keeping that picture intact seems like a pretty powerful motive, I’d say.”
“I’d be much happier, my dear, if your astute analysis had been about Genakis or Harvey Rawson,” Reuben said. “But I’m afraid I have to take what you said seriously.”
CHAPTER
19
An Escapade
Frost was in a restless mood by the time the weekend was over. Monday morning, he realized that he had no plans for the day and no new ideas for advancing the investigation. He was impatient for something to happen, though he knew that instant results could not be expected from the new tactic of casting a wide net for information about the likely suspects.
For want of anything better to do, he called Bautista, who patiently explained that their plan was indeed being put into place. After lunch at the Gotham Club, Frost went to Chase & Ward, where he called him again. This time Bautista responded to Reuben’s hectoring with a gentle, but nonetheless clear, plea to let him get on with his digging without pointless interruptions.
Bautista was able to report that Petito had interrogated Harvey Rawson. “It was pretty dicey, I understand. Real stonewalling at first. Even after Dave made it clear that he wasn’t interested in the hanky-panky over that bank consent, Rawson still clammed up about what had happened on December twenty-ninth.”
“So we don’t know where he was or what he was doing when Merriman was killed?”
“Wait. Dave got a break. He and his partner talked to this guy Lewis, Rawson’s helper—the fat one we’ve heard about. After about five minutes of good-cop, bad-cop jazz, Lewis told them Rawson left Chase & Ward the same time he did, to meet Skip Wylie for dinner.”
“Skip Wylie and his, uh, escort?”
“Yeah. When Petito went back to Rawson, he admitted he’d spent the night with Skip, his bimbo and her friend, Melody Teabury—can you believe it? They had dinner at the Palm, went over to Mars and then came back to the On-Line apartment.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that Skip Wylie didn’t tell us he was with Rawson that evening?” Frost asked.
“He was probably trying to protect Rawson. Dave’s reading is that things are not too good in the domestic department for Rawson, and the guy was scared out of his skull that his wife would find out about his night on the town. She was at their country place in Redding, Connecticut.”
“Maybe,” Reuben said, skeptically. “Anyway, what time did Lewis and Rawson leave here?”
“Lewis said he left just before nine and Rawson was with him.”
“So they left together?”
“Hold on, that’s the interesting thing. Lewis said Rawson went out to the elevator with him. But then he told Lewis he’d forgotten his umbrella and went back for it. He said not to wait, and Lewis didn’t.”
“So we don’t know when Rawson left the office?”
“Right.”
“What does Rawson say?”
“He told Dave he left about nine to meet his party at the Palm.”
“And what do his friends say?”
“Skip Wylie claims he got held up drinking at Mickey Mantle’s, so he was late. He thought he’d gotten to the Palm about ten-fifteen, but he couldn’t really remember. Rawson was there when he arrived.”
“What about the girls?”
“Dave hasn’t talked to them yet.”
“Well, keep me posted.”
“Stay cool, Reuben, I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything more.”
Frost attempted to follow Bautista’s advice, but flipping idly through the latest Princeton Alumni Weekly did not allay his edginess (though he did register that, for a welcome change, his class notes did not record the death of a classmate).
Then he had an inspiration. The police had not yet talked to Melody Teabury. Why couldn’t he do that? The Sugar and Spice Escort Service, wasn’t that the name? He located the Manhattan Yellow Pages and eventually found a section, an extraordinarily long one, called “Escort Svce-Personal.”
Sure enough, there was a full page display ad for the “expensive and exclusive” Sugar and Spice, which promised “personalized attention” to the “discriminating gentleman” from “sophisticated, beautiful and poised” companions. Whose ministrations were both “safe” and “discreet,” no less. Company for luncheon, dinner and travel, as well as “late-night service,” were all offered.
Did he dare to go further? What if he located Ms. Teabury? Where would he take her? What if they were seen? And what would Cynthia say? She would never stop kidding him. But why was he worried? He did not, after all, plan on seeking Melody’s “personalized attention”; he merely wanted information that might be useful in tracking Harvey Rawson.
Conquering his doubts, Reuben decided to call Sugar and Spice and, if Ms. Teabury was available, he would hire her (Hire? Is that what you did?) for drinks and dinner (he was reasonably sure Sugar and Spice would not be interested in sending her out for cocktails alone). Then he would exact whatever information he could over drinks, pay her off for the whole evening—and flee.
Should he use a false name? Reuben
wondered. He smiled as he thought of calling himself Buzz Tiffler, after one of his college roommates. But given his serious purpose, he decided to play things straight.
Or relatively straight, as it turned out. He closed the door to his temporary office and called Sugar and Spice.
A neutral 800-number voice answered (it turned out to belong to a male named Terry) and put Frost through a round of screening questions, including the name in which the telephone he was calling from was listed (Oh, Lord, there probably will be a vice raid this very day, he worried, and Chase & Ward’s name will come up in still another scandal—to say nothing of my own), his address and his credit card number. Then there was a stumper: since he had never used Sugar and Spice before, could he supply a reference? After a pause, he gave Ian Wylie’s name.
“Oh, yes, Skip Wylie,” Terry said, adding that he would call Reuben back at the number he had given.
When they were reconnected, Terry got down to business and described Sugar and Spice’s rate structure—a basic four hundred dollars per hour. Reuben was taken aback; it seemed exorbitantly pricey, even for sophistication, beauty and poise. But then he remembered that his colleagues at Chase & Ward charged almost as much, albeit for a slightly different kind of service. As it turned out, once drinks and dinner were brought up, there was a special one thousand dollar rate for a maximum of four hours.
When Terry asked Frost “what kind of a companion he had in mind,” he gave Ms. Teabury’s name.
“She’s the greatest,” Terry said, his voice no longer neutral but rather insinuating. “Skip Wylie must have told you about her.” Frost did not deny it. “You’re in luck, she’s not booked tonight. Monday’s usually slow. Let me see if she’ll do it.”
Within half an hour, the assignation was arranged. Cocktails at the Royalton Hotel at six o’clock.
“How will she recognize you?” Terry asked.
Another poser. “I’ll be wearing a gray suit and carrying a copy of Time magazine,” Reuben finally said, feeling as if he were being sucked into some Eastern European intrigue.
Murder Saves Face Page 19
