The call I had been waiting for came the following morning.
“Nick, darling,” said the voice I had last heard on an answering machine, “it’s Susan. How are you?”
“Susan,” I said, “you know, you can make the most threadbare phrase in the language, ‘How are you?’ sound like you just thought it up.”
“That’s sweet, Nick—but altogether exaggerated. Anyway, I meant it—how are you?”
“The better for hearing from you, my dear.”
“I’d have called before,” she said, “except I’ve been out of town briefly. Now that I’m back—”
“Let’s get together?”
“Right.” I heard a click in the telephone receiver. “Oh damn,” she said, “it’s another call. D’you mind, Nick? I’ll just find out who it is and be back in two secs. Don’t go away, promise? Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t mind,” I said, but I did mind. Damn call interruptus, anyhow, and cursed be he or she who invented it in the first place. Perhaps I oughtn’t to complain, though; I don’t have it because I don’t need it—but what if I were without someone to answer my phone?
“I’m back, Nick. It was nothing important—just the office.”
“Stupid of me,” I said. “That’s where I thought you were.”
“No, I’m at home.”
“At ten o’clock on a Tuesday workday?”
“My trip was business, darling, including the weekend, so I decided to give myself a day off. Anything wrong with that?”
“Not so far as I’m concerned.”
“Moreover, I want you to spend it with me—part of it, anyway.”
“Which part is that?”
“Come to my place for lunch, Nick—I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“Typical reaction. It’s a surprise, that’s what it is.”
I looked down at my calendar. Mirabile dictu, no lunch date; already a pleasant surprise. I’d had lunches booked solidly every day for almost two weeks.
“What do you know,” I said, “I’m free.”
“I’ll expect you around one,” Susan said.
“Okay—”
“And be sure to cancel any afternoon appointments you might have on your calendar. Bye, dear.”
What, I wondered, was I getting myself into? An assignation, that’s all, dummy, said my inner demon. A seductive trap, said my guardian angel. You’re getting yourself entangled. Think of Margo.
But does Margo think of me? Besides, it’s a lovely way to spend an afternoon.
It is the essence, the special savor, of a love affair, to be secretive, clandestine, if you will, even if there is no reason for concealment—another spouse, perhaps. Marriage is so open, so public—everybody knows what you’re up to on Saturday night or Sunday morning—but a love affair! There you have the possibility of brief encounters, eyes across the table, legs touching on the banquette, kisses in the backseats of cars, and heart-pounding synergies—how’s that for a euphemism?—in parked cars on moonlight nights. And best of all—nobody knows!
All this ran through my mind after my phone call with Susan, until I was interrupted—not by another phone call—but by Herbert Poole.
“Morning, Nick,” he said, closing the door softly behind him. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all, Herbert. Come on in.”
He crossed the room and put two sheets of paper on my desk blotter.
“This is the Claire Bunter file you asked for,” he said.
“Oh good,” I said, lifting the sheets and holding them up at arm’s length. “Can’t wait to read this.” I stared at Poole, who was smiling at some private joke of his own. “Is it gamey, Herbert?”
“It’s”—he allowed himself another one of his chuckles—“titillating, I would say.”
“Are you still working on the hard drive?”
“Still. There’s some way to go to get to the end of this database, hear? I’m only up to number sixty-five of one hundred fifty.”
Not up to Susan yet, I thought grimly.
“Well, carry on. I do appreciate your help, Herbert.”
“Glad to be of use, Nick.” And he took his leave.
I picked up the first sheet of Claire Bunter’s file from Parker’s database.
It started with her name, address, and phone number, and then listed these entries:
LAST CONTACT: May 4, this year
CALL: Dont call
STATUS: Limbo
USER DEFINED: Former lover
It was the NOTES, however, that engaged my full attention. The entries were short and always explicit. The first one was dated over a year ago and described the beginning of the affair. They had just had a vinous lunch at The Four Seasons, and Parker drove her home in a cab through Central Park. On the journey, he kissed her, shyly, as he reported it, but when she responded by opening her mouth and tonguing him, he drew back and whispered, “Not yet. But soon,” and drew her hand down to touch his erection. This gambit apparently inflamed her latent passion, or so he remarked. Not long afterward, Parker’s editorial conferences with Claire ripened into meetings at his apartment, where he seduced her with dreams of glory and his intuitive awareness that Claire was ready, after years of marriage, to embark on a liaison with her brilliant and charming editor. “Your books have just not been properly edited, Claire dear,” he told her. “Your talent has not been properly appreciated.”
“To win a woman over,” Parker wrote in his notes on Claire, “you must always tell her what she most wants to hear, whatever it is.”
They met, I read on, in his apartment mainly, but also at a summer writers’ conference they both attended in Vermont where, Parker noted, “we ran all the changes on ‘the beast with two backs’—both in the cabins where we were housed and in the deep sun-dappled woods, on thick beds of leaves and pine boughs. Also in the lake, late at night, skinny-dipping.” Parker seemed quite proud of his ability to mount his lady love, or to sustain her while she mounted him, several times a night…
I felt, reading this stuff, knowing I had no business reading it, that I was invading Claire Bunter’s privacy, and that I had no excuse for such an intrusion except that I had good reason to suspect her of murdering Parker. If I could establish motive and opportunity, all this would be worthwhile, however unpleasant.
I skipped to the end of Parker’s entries, where he remarked: “Claire is pressing me to ‘do something’ about our situation, as though there was anything I could do. She is becoming a nag, wants more of me and my attention than I can give her, threatens to tell her husband about us and ask for a divorce so that we can marry. Not possible, I tell her, I wouldn’t marry you even if you were free. Of course I don’t blame her for being angry…”
There followed a series of transcripts of phone messages Claire had left on his answering machine, messages I found particularly weird:
You don’t know what you’re doing, walking out on me like this. You don’t know what you’re giving up. Why haven’t you called me? (Click)
Where are you? Where the hell are you? I can’t stand this, it’s disgusting. How can you do this to me, you pig? (Click)
It’s four o’clock in the morning and I just woke up.
Four o’clock—about time to reach over and grab a breast. Who are you with this time? Is it the woman I saw you leaving your office with yesterday? (Click)
I just have to add one more comment on this whole situation ‘cause if what I think is going on, you’re really… you’re sick! I hope you have a coronary! (Click)
Last call, darling. I think you’re one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever known. You just threw it away. You just threw something good so easily away. (Sigh… click)
Really the last call, DAMN YOU! You know you’re lucky I didn’t have a knife handy when you walked out on me last week. I wanted to kill you! I still do, you bastard! (Click)
I put the file aside, leaned back in my chair, and made a steeple out of my fingertips. I had not thought that Claire Bunter, on the surface a poised, sophisticated woman, could nurture so much anger and resentment. I had read enough of her work to know that she saw life, as they say, steadily and whole. Surely she must have known that an adulterous affair, however exciting, must end sometime, and often badly. However, if I have one cardinal virtue, it is this: I am, where human emotions are concerned, completely nonjudgmental.
But not where murder is concerned. I probably ought to tell Lieutenant Hatcher about Parker’s files. First, though, I thought I’d better seek Joe Scanlon’s advice.
After my deep immersion in the erotic legacy of Parker Foxcroft, I felt I needed a bath. The next best thing, I decided, was to be with Susan Markham. I told Hannah that I would not be returning after lunch and that she should field all calls and inquiries.
“What about Herbert Poole?” she asked.
“He’s to have complete access to Foxcroft’s office,” I said, “and anything he might need.”
Stepping out on the street to head for East 55th Street, I hailed a cab, and miracle of miracles, it turned out to be a Checker. I climbed in gratefully; it looked as though it was going to turn out to be a memorable day, after all.
“How many of these beauties are still left?” I asked the driver, a somewhat wizened middle-aged man. Angelo Martelli. 45703. I don’t know why, but I always make a mental note of a cabdriver’s name and usually the number. You never know when you might need it.
“Ten, I think,” he said.
Only ten. The last time I snared a Checker there were twelve of them. Think of the odds against running across one. Where, I wondered, had they gone; and why had the cab companies ever given them up in favor of those grungy little Dodges? In my salad days, there were dozens of Checkers on the city streets, roomy enough so that even a disabled person could get into them, all with jump seats and a wealth of legroom. Now—well, I have never subscribed to any belief in the progress of mankind or its ultimate improvement.
The ride, as I expected, was a happy one, and when we pulled up in front of Susan’s apartment building, I gladly overtipped the driver. “Don’t let this baby go,” I told him. He hadn’t spoken during the ride, and now he only grunted his thanks, but I could tell he was pleased.
Susan greeted me at the door of her apartment by kissing me sweetly, then drawing me inside with both hands.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Couldn’t wait, could you?”
“Absolutely not.”
She was wearing a white satin robe, belted, trimmed at the cuffs and the hem with lace. And, as far as I could tell, nothing else.
“The first thing,’ she said, struggling with my jacket, “is to get this off, and then”—tugging at my necktie—“this.”
“What’s the third thing?”
“I’m sure you don’t need any help finding the bedroom, do you, Nick?”
By now we had begun to learn the secrets of each other’s bodies, and their hidden rhythms, so it was some long time before we drew apart, still clasping hands, but spent and silent. There was no need for either of us to ask if it had been good.
When I started to get out of bed, Susan pushed me back down. “Stay right there, sir,” she said, “for your first surprise.”
It was a linen robe, periwinkle blue, with a shawl collar.
“Hey,” I said. “Where did this come from?”
“Saks. I dropped in there this morning.”
“Well, I thank you kindly.”
“Now you know that you can stop by anytime and you’ll always be decent.”
I kissed her, just a touch of the lips. “Are you, or are you not, the best thing that’s happened to me since I can’t remember when?” I hugged her again. “You are.”
“I think,” she said, drawing back but at the same time running her hand down the side of my face, “that I’d better see to lunch.”
“I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble…”
“I’ve made a quiche and a salad,” she said, “and I promise you won’t gain any weight. But first, the wine. It’s my other surprise.”
I followed her into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle.
“I hope it’s chilled enough,” she said, holding the bottle up for my inspection. It was a rosé, God forbid.
“It’s special,” Susan said.
“Oh?” How on earth could that wine be special? I hoped my disappointment wouldn’t be too plain to see. I put on my best smile, even though it was more painful to produce than my worst frown. “How so, Susan?”
“Well,” she said, clearly pleased, “it arrived at my office with a card that read, ‘From a grateful author.’ Isn’t that neat, Nick?”
“I’ll say,” I said. “Any idea who the author is?”
“No, but I hope it is who I think it is—one of Little, Brown’s most difficult authors.”
“Susan dear, they’re all difficult, aren’t they?”
“Now, don’t be cynical, darling. Here, let’s drink a toast.”
She brought out two stemware glasses and poured the wine into them, almost to the brim.
“To us,” she said.
“To us,” I echoed, and took a sip. Somehow a sip seemed to be enough. I know it is snobbish, but I have never been able to appreciate rosé. I consider it an adulterated wine, neither white nor red. You might as well drink that carbonated stuff from Portugal—I forget its name. I hoped I could get away with just another sip or two.
Meanwhile, Susan was emptying her glass with obvious relish, chatting away and fussing around with her salad. Suddenly it seemed to me that the most important thing in the world was for Susan to be happy, even if I had to drink a glass of rosé to achieve it.
I was about to have another swallow, shutting down my olfactory sense as I did so, when something odd happened. Susan belched.
“Oh my,” she said. “Oh my Lord.” And then she hiccuped. “Excuse… excuse…” I put my wineglass down and turned to her. She was swaying, ever so slightly.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I don’t feel so good, Nick,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Excuse me… okay… I think I’ll—” And with that, she bolted for the bathroom.
“Need any help?” I called. There was no answer, but shortly afterward I heard the sound of retching from behind the bathroom door.
What the hell? I hadn’t thought the wine was that bad, just ordinarily unappetizing. I picked up the bottle and looked at it. Armand de Jacquin Gamay Rosé. So who are you, Armand de Jacquin?
The cork was lying beside the bottle. It was dry, usually a bad sign. When the wine steward brings you the cork, you’re supposed to feel if it’s slightly damp, as it ought to be, not smell it, as some people do.
Then I noticed something strange. Several tiny holes in the top and bottom of the cork.
I picked it up and called out: “Are you okay? Susan?”
My only answer was a soft moan from the bathroom.
And by now I was beginning to feel… nauseous. Dizzy, in fact. The wine—something wrong with the wine.
Holy shit, I thought, have we been poisoned? But who? Why?
“Susan!” I cried out, but I don’t think she heard me, for there was no answer. I made my way to the bathroom, step by step, hoping that I wouldn’t vomit before I got there.
“Susan…” This time I could barely croak her name. “Oh my God…”
She was lying on the bathroom floor, her head resting against the base of the toilet.
Somehow I managed to get back to the living room. The phone… pick up the phone… dial 911…
Three numbers to dial. They took forever. And then I remembered nothing. Nothing at all.