Murder Keeps A Secret Page 9

  “Oh, yes,” she said with a sigh. “He was visiting some friends up in New Brunswick, at Rutgers. He’d just forgotten to tell me he was staying out for the evening.”

  “I’m told he’s at home for the year.”

  “Yes.” She did not elaborate.

  “How are the other children?”

  “Oh, they’re fine. Christina’s graduating from high school this year and going to Trinity in the fall. Laura’s a sophomore at Princeton Country Day, with not a thought in her head of what she might do.”

  “Lots of tuition to look forward to.”

  “Yes, yes. What do the sociologists call it? Tuition overburden? I’m getting ready for that. David was supposed to pay half, but God knows what will happen now.”

  “You’ve joined my profession, I understand.”

  “In a manner of speaking. I went to Penn and finished two years ago. I took the New Jersey bar exam and now work for the Mercer County legal defender.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s all right. The work is sometimes challenging, but there’s too much of it. And the county doesn’t pay your fancy New York salaries.”

  Frost felt a twinge of regret for Nancy. She had never had it easy, working to put David through graduate school at Harvard, then raising the three children on an academic’s salary, followed by begrudging support payments after David moved out. And now living on what he was sure was still a tiny income.

  “Well, I’m glad you find at least some of your work challenging. That’s all a lawyer can ask.”

  “I had to do something with my life after David left. I’d never done real work, you know. Just professor’s-wife jobs that any competent eighteen-year-old could do. Doing something where you can use your head is a great change, and every so often you do feel as if you’re helping somebody. But enough about me. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  The woman sat back and lit another cigarette.

  “I’m sure you can guess. To put it bluntly, I’m trying to find the person who killed David.”

  “And I’m a suspect?”

  “I hardly think so, Nancy. Maybe in theory—God knows you had a motive—but I don’t see you overpowering David and chucking him out the window.”

  “Defenestration, as they used to say in crim law. I’m glad you don’t suspect me. But you’re certainly right. I had a motive. I’ve had black moments about David ever since I realized he was never coming back. And I confess I hated him every time I overdrew my checking account or had to tell the children they couldn’t have something they badly wanted. Or thought about his leaving just when he was going to get the academic recognition he’d always coveted—until he started coveting that TV woman, that is.

  “Most of it didn’t bother me—the pictures of her and David at those glittering New York parties, for instance. I didn’t care about that at all. But leaving me hovering on the poverty line, that got to me real hard. After all those little wifey jobs I’d suffered through when he was getting started.

  “Plus being both father and mother to the children. That’s good fun, too. And not exactly the way to meet a new Mr. Right.”

  “You should.”

  “I’ve given up. I couldn’t do the dutiful faculty wife number again, and they’re the only men I ever really see. Except for a bunch of bright-eyed young lawyers about half my age.”

  “I’m sure it’s been rough and I’m sorry to be talking about David. But I promised Harrison I would do everything I could to help.”

  “Poor Harrison. How is he? I get reports from the children once in a while, but I haven’t seen him since the Big Disappearing Act.”

  “He was getting over Valerie’s death, but now there’s the new blow of David’s death.”

  “Poor man. Could I have another drink?”

  “Sorry. Of course.” Frost repeated his fetching maneuver at the bar, returning with four drinks.

  “This isn’t my idea. They tell me it’s happy hour. The bartender had poured them before I could stop him.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re small.”

  “Getting back to David …” Frost pressed. He had looked at his watch while at the bar and realized that time was running out if he wanted to get the 7:05 Metroliner to New York.

  “You know, while I was waiting for you to come back with the drinks, I was thinking of how I felt when I heard the news. I was startled, of course—and I knew from the beginning that it wasn’t suicide. David loved himself too much to deprive the world of his genius. It was terrible, I felt that. But then I realized that my reaction was the same as it would be to any tragedy—to a child down a well, for instance. Or some great catastrophe happening to a total outsider. There was no sense that things might have been different had he not been killed, or anything silly like that. I was hearing about the death of a stranger.”

  “And a stranger that was not the husband you had loved.”

  “True.”

  “Nancy, I’m trying desperately to find some thread, some connection that links David’s killer to him. Can you put aside your feelings long enough to help me? Is there anyone out of David’s past that might have done this?”

  “You’re delving into ancient history, Reuben. For all intents and purposes David went out of my life eight years ago—fifteen years ago, really. Before that? I can’t think of anyone with an old grievance that would fester into murder so many years later.

  “There were plenty of people who would’ve gladly put David down. Or belittled him professionally. Lots and lots of people were jealous of his rapid advancement at Princeton. And there were always those mean, petty turf fights that make academic life so calm and pleasant. Who gets his own secretary, who has an office with an outside view, who gets a research assistant. You know the old saying, Reuben, academic infighting is so intense because the stakes are so low.

  “And then there were always battles in the American Historical Association. David was an agile politician. That and his golden boy reputation usually meant he won out. And when he won, somebody else lost. But a person doesn’t kill to have his own secretary, does he?”

  “People kill for all kinds of reasons. But I agree, academic cat fights usually stop short of homicide. But Nancy, are you sure there was no one David hurt, maybe inadvertently, in some major way? Someone who’s career was blocked and who might still be resentful years later?”

  “I honestly can’t think of anyone, Reuben.”

  “Did David ever mention a professor named Peter Jewett?” Frost asked. “He’s now up at Amherst.”

  “No, I don’t recall David’s ever referring to him. Why?”

  “I’ve gotten intimations that he and David didn’t get on.”

  “It must have been after my time.”

  “One more question, and then I’ve got to go,” Frost said. “How did David and Alan get along?”

  For an instant, Nancy Rowan gave Reuben a look of impatience, even of resentment. “Why do you ask that?” she said with some petulance. She lit another cigarette.

  “To cover all bases.”

  “Alan used to be very loyal to me. He wouldn’t have anything to do with his father all the time he was in high school. Then, once he got away to Vanderbilt, he started seeing David.

  “They seemed to get along quite well until last summer. Alan wanted to go to Europe and David absolutely forbade it. He said it would destroy Alan’s treatment.”

  “Treatment?”

  “His drug addiction. Surely you know about that?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “How strange. You said you’d talked to Grace Mann?”

  “Yes, at some length.”

  “And she never mentioned it?”

  “Never.”

  “I’m very surprised. As much as I dislike her, she’s the one who found the therapy program Alan’s in.”

  “Which is?”

  “A combination inpatient, outpatient clinic called Fairhaven Gables. It�
�s in New Brunswick. Alan was there for three months after he was arrested …”

  “Arrested?”

  “He was busted, as they say, at Vanderbilt.”

  “For what?”

  “Dealing in drugs.”

  “How can that be? Surely you and David supported him?”

  “Yes, we did. We paid his tuition, bought his books, paid for his off-campus apartment and gave him a generous allowance. But it wasn’t enough to support his cocaine habit. And like good, naive, divorced middle-class parents, David and I thought that if we didn’t give him the money to buy dope, he wouldn’t buy it. It never occurred to us he’d go off and raise money on his own—by peddling the stuff himself.”

  “Good Lord. Had you known about his habit?”

  “He’d fooled around in high school—‘experimented,’ as the kids say. If I knew then what I know now—I see the effects of addiction every day in my job—I’d have known better. But then I thought it was just marijuana and some of those crazy pills. I was very firm about it and had no idea he was snorting—and dealing—cocaine until he was arrested.

  “They didn’t send him to jail, though they don’t take dope-selling lightly in Nashville. He’s on probation as long as he keeps going to Fairhaven. He now goes for outpatient therapy three times a week. That’s why I called you the other night, by the way. Alan had disappeared, hadn’t shown up for a therapy session, and I was afraid he was lapsing.”

  Unpleasant as the things he was hearing were, Frost was nonetheless relieved to learn that Nancy’s call, the night of the Reuff Dinner, had not been as spiteful as he and Cynthia had speculated.

  “I’m very sorry to hear this, Nancy.”

  “Cross your fingers. Fairhaven seems to be working, even if I go wild every time he’s off somewhere unaccounted for.”

  “Let’s hope for the best. And now, I fear, I’ve got to get my train.”

  “You mean you don’t want another drink here at the beautiful Twilight Room?”

  “If I did, I’m afraid happy hour would turn into a most unhappy one for my stomach. So let me just ask one more question. Was there ever an Elizabeth in David’s life that you know of?”

  Nancy thought hard, then smiled. “I don’t think so. David was guilty of a lot of things, but I don’t believe an Elizabeth was one of them. Why?”

  “Nothing, really. Forget I said it.”

  “If you say so, Reuben. You know, I appreciate what you’re doing. It means a lot, I’m sure, to Harrison.”

  Outside the bar, Nancy directed Reuben to the station. The route was all perfectly safe, except for enough panhandlers to populate a city in India.

  As they parted, Nancy promised to let him know if she thought of any leads. Frost was not optimistic that any would be forthcoming from her—and gloomy about the one that might develop from what she had said.

  12

  Comparing Notes

  Frost arrived home to find a note from his wife—on an impulse she had gone to the National Ballet to look over a hot new prospect, a male dancer from Finland the Company had imported as a guest artist with the idea of perhaps hiring him.

  It had been a wearying day, and Frost went almost immediately to bed. His eccentric lunch and the ancient sandwich on the train had suddenly seemed enough food, so he did not eat. He was sound asleep when Cynthia returned shortly after eleven o’clock.

  “How was the Finn?” he asked his wife Tuesday morning while she busily packed an overnight bag for a one-day trip to Cleveland.

  “Not bad. Big and strong, which NatBallet can use right now. But he has to do something about his name.”

  “What is it?”

  “Jan Aadlo.”

  “I don’t see why. He’d be first in those alphabetical cast lists NatBallet insists on using.”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “Are you going to have a busy day in Cleveland?”

  “No, not for an old trooper like me. There’s a reception this afternoon and a dinner at the museum tonight. I told you about it. It’s the opening of the Eric Fischl show the museum’s put together—with Brigham Foundation money.”

  “It’s a long way to go to see dirty pictures.”

  “Now, Reuben, we must be broadminded.”

  “I saw his pictures at the Whitney last year. Little boys masturbating.”

  “That’s about one percent true,” Cynthia said reproachfully. “Honestly, sometimes you’re as narrow-minded as our dear Mayor, Norman.”

  “Hmn. When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow morning. In time for lunch with Stanley Knowles, by the way.”

  “You’re having lunch with Stanley? Good. You can ask him a question for me.” He told Cynthia about Ralston Fortes’s novel, allegedly to be published by the Hammersmith Press.

  “That’s rich. What else did you learn yesterday?”

  Frost gave his wife a hurried summary, but then rushed her off. “You’ve got to get going. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow night.”

  “I hate this. Going a whole day without knowing what you found out.”

  “I know, dear, but there just isn’t time, if you’re going to get to Cleveland and socialize with the guest pornographer.”

  “I understand. Will you take me to dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Of course. Where?”

  “I’m scheduled to be down at Cooper Union at the end of the day. How about that nice Italian place on Tenth Street? Il what’s-its-name.”

  “Il Cantinori.”

  “Fine. Can you make the reservation? Eight o’clock, if that’s all right.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, good-bye, darling. Will you be okay without me?”

  “I’ll try. Maybe I’ll get a date.”

  “Oh? Who with?”

  “How about Emily Sherwood?”

  “You rascal. Still carrying the torch for her, are you? Well, go ahead, see if I care. I might just call my new friend, Richard Taylor. He’s probably out campaigning somewhere in the Midwest near Cleveland.”

  “Hurry up. You’ll miss your plane.”

  “Be good.” Cynthia kissed her husband warmly and dashed out.

  Bautista called a few minutes later. Something had come up—he assured Frost it had nothing to do with the Rowan case—and he would not be free until late afternoon. He proposed dropping by the Frosts’ house about six.

  “How did it go yesterday?” the detective asked before hanging up.

  “Interesting. We’ll talk about it.”

  Frost was not unhappy to have the day off, even though he had slept for nine hours, unusual for him. He read the papers thoroughly, fell asleep again, then got dressed and made himself a tuna-fish sandwich; if he was going to have a day of idleness he would forgo lunch at the Gotham Club.

  His sandwich revitalized him and he remembered his jocular threat to Cynthia that he might call Emily Bryant Sherwood. He got her number in Port Washington from information, only to learn from her maid that Mrs. Sherwood was spending two days in the city at the Colony Club. Tracking her there, he found that she was at lunch.

  Emily Sherwood returned Reuben’s call in midafternoon. A godsend, she termed his invitation. She had come to town to take care of some matters relating to her husband’s estate but had not thought to make plans for the evening.

  “Dinner would be lovely. But could it be on the early side, Reuben? I’m not the same good-time girl you used to know. Too old to do the Charleston anymore. It’s early to bed for me these days.”

  “Perfect. Let’s splurge and go to La Grenouille.”

  “It sounds divine. Will you pick me up here?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  By late afternoon Frost was restless. Over and over, during his solitary day, he had tried to fit the bits and pieces of information that were all that constituted the Rowan case into a pattern. But the pattern eluded him. By the time Bautista arrived at six he was ready and eager both for company and to discuss the murder.

&n
bsp; “Reuben, I asked Francisca to join us here a little after seven. Okay?” the detective asked.

  “Of course. You know I’m always glad to see Francisca. We don’t see enough of her.” Frost genuinely liked Bautista’s apparently permanent, and very stylishly beautiful, girl friend.

  “We’re going to some damn detective movie Francisca picked out. Tonight’s our movie night. How about if you and Cynthia join us?”

  “Cynthia’s in Cleveland. An art show for a dirty-picture artist named Eric Fischl. Besides, I can’t join you because I have a date.”

  “You don’t let much grass grow under your feet.”

  “Mind your manners, Luis. Let’s get down to business.”

  Frost reported on his previous day’s travels, reviewing Dawson Evans’s descriptions of Marietta Ainslee and Ralston Fortes and telling the detective his own impressions, that Marietta was a very determined woman and Fortes a thug.

  “You’re ahead of the NYPD—or almost,” Bautista said. “We got a report on him from the D.C. police this morning. There’s quite a sheet on him. He’s been arrested three times for assault, but he’s never been convicted. And a drunken driving charge for which he got a suspended sentence.”

  “Sounds like he breaks his bodybuilder training once in a while.”

  “Yeah. He only gets into trouble when he drinks.”

  “How did he support himself before he met Mrs. Ainslee?”

  “Odd jobs. He’s worked at a whole series of gyms and health clubs. Been around the gay circuit, too. Bouncer in a gay bar, and a stripper in one.”

  “Good heavens, do they have such things in Washington?”

  “Practically around the corner from the White House, they tell me.”

  “Is he gay?”

  “Bisexual probably. I mean, you thought he and Mrs. Ainslee had something going, right?”

  “I’d bet on it.”

  “Anyway, he’s a bad hombre.”

  “There was another odd detail,” Frost added, “though I can’t make anything out of it. The Ainslee cat is named Elizabeth.”

  “Let me write that down,” Bautista said. “It probably doesn’t mean a thing, but you never know.”

  “Can I get you a drink, by the way?” Frost asked. “I know you can hold your liquor better than this fellow Fortes.”