Chapter 18
AFTER DINNER, I found that Walter had put his shaving kit on the sink counter in the three-quarter bathroom off the kitchen. It had a toilet, a sink, and a shower, all clean and in good working order, but it was the size of a closet.
“This bathroom is pretty small,” I said, concerned.
“It’s jus’ fine. Growing up, we had an outhouse. No indoor plumbing ’til I was old enough to work an’ help pay for it. Junie was born poor, too, but I made sure she always had a nice place to live.”
Even though his wife had been dead for more than ten years, I’d noticed that he still wore his wedding ring. “You must have loved her very much.”
All he said was, “Yep,” but the tenderness in his voice as he spoke was eloquent.
I took a set of clean sheets and a comforter out of the linen closet, and handed Walter a pillow and fresh pillowcase. Together, we transformed the couch in the den into a comfortable bed.
“When I came back to New York from Africa and didn’t have anyplace to stay, Nancy turned her den into a bedroom for me,” I said. “This is like completing a circle.” I took the TV remote from the lamp table between the club chairs and handed it to him, and with it the card listing the channel numbers and what they were.
“We have satellite. The company claims we’ve got a hundred and twenty channels, but I’ve never bothered to check out more than a few of them.”
Walter settled himself in one of the club chairs, and I plopped down in the other. “I don’t want to be in the way now,” he said.
I smiled ruefully. “If you’re talking about my so-called social life, there’s nothing to get in the way of. Frankly, I wish there were.”
“What’s wrong with the men in New York?”
Joking, but with a grain of truth, I said, “Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”
The telephone connecting my apartment to the Dakota’s reception desk rang. That was a surprise.
“I’m not expecting anybody,” I said. Picking it up, I got a bigger surprise when I heard Arnold Rose’s voice.
“Morgan, I hope I’m not interrupting you.”
“Not at all.”
“Please forgive me for just showing up at your building without calling first, but could you give me a few minutes?”
“Yes, of course, Arnold. Come up. I’m on the third floor. Whoever’s on the desk will show you which elevator to take.”
I stood in my doorway as Arnold got off the elevator. He saw me and hurried forward, grasped my hands, and said, “I feel terrible about how I acted when you phoned this afternoon. I wanted to apologize to you in person.”
“There’s no need. I understand.” I led Arnold into the living room, where Walter was sitting on one of the two sofas flanking the big picture window that faced Central Park.
I introduced Arnold to Walter. Walter stood up, and while they were shaking hands and doing the “how-do-you-do” routine, I took a good look at Arnold under the strong living room light. As always, his clothes were an elegant study in black and gray. During the week he wore black suits and pale gray shirts, or pale gray suits and dark gray shirts, always with silk neckties that matched the shirts. On weekends he wore gray slacks, gray cashmere jackets, and black cashmere sweaters. Usually, Arnold’s complexion was ruddy, but tonight it was sallow. Deep worry lines etched his face, but he also looked generally better than when I’d seen him several weeks ago. He’d lost a few pounds, and his abdomen was decidedly trimmer.
A last detail I noticed was that Arnold’s thinning black hair seemed darker than previously. I wondered if he was dying it. I probably wouldn’t have noted the change, except for the bright overhead light from the crystal chandelier that had come with the apartment—one of the fixtures I hated. I’d joked to Nancy and Penny that I’d replace them as soon as I had time to figure out what my own taste was. I’d gone from living in a boarding school, to a college dorm, to camping in jungles, and finally to this fully furnished apartment. I told my friends, and myself, that since I’d moved into the Dakota, I’d been too busy to pick out my own things. But I’d begun to realize that wasn’t the entire truth. I’d gone to Bobby Novello because I suspected that the missing pieces of my past might be keeping me from moving forward.
I said, “Sit down, Arnold, please.” I gestured to the couch opposite Walter. “Can I get you something to drink? Scotch? Or wine?”
“No, thank you, Morgan.” He sat down, and I sat next to him. “I can only stay a few minutes. My housekeeper is with Didi, but I don’t want to be away for long.”
“Of course not.”
Walter was smiling pleasantly, but behind his round, owlish glasses he was studying Arnold as though his glasses were a microscope.
“I really just came to tell you how sorry I am that I was abrupt today.” Suddenly, he asked, “How is Nancy?”
“Strong,” I said. “She’s hanging on.”
“I want to help her, but I don’t know what to do.”
“She didn’t kill Veronica. You believe her, don’t you?”
Just as Cynthia Ruddy had, Arnold hesitated, then: “If she says that she didn’t do it, of course I believe her. I understand that she’s dismissed Cynthia as her attorney. Do you know why?”
I replied with the excuse Nancy had invented. “To save your firm embarrassment.” I added, “She was thinking of you.”
Arnold nodded. “Hmmm. I see. Then I’ll get her another attorney—the best in the country. I’ll pay all the fees. Whatever happened in that room, I’m sure it wasn’t murder . No matter how things look, Veronica’s death couldn’t have been intentional. I don’t want Nancy’s life destroyed, too.”
“She has a new lawyer. Kent Wayne.”
“Wayne?” A sudden flush colored Arnold’s cheeks. “That unscrupulous—” With a sharp intake of breath, he managed to rein in his burst of emotion. “Whatever I think of the man is unimportant. He’s an excellent defense counsel. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s one of the most capable on the eastern seaboard. In these dire circumstances, he’s probably the best chance Nancy—he’s a good choice.” Arnold stood up. In response, Walter and I got to our feet, too.
“I’ve got to get back to Didi,” Arnold said. He took my hands. “Will you accept my apology about this afternoon?”
“Of course. I know what you’re going through.”
“Thank you.” He released my hands, said good night to Walter, and started to go.
“Oh, Arnold. You know I’m very fond of Didi.”
“She likes you, too,” he said, smiling.
“I’d like to see her. I could invite her to come to the studio—”
His smile vanished. Suddenly his voice was sharp as the crack of a whip. “No!”
“No?”
“I meant not right away. It’s too soon for Didi to see anyone.” As quickly as he’d flared to anger, he softened his tone. “Now, I really have to go. Call me, Morgan—let me know what I can do to help Nancy.”
I followed Arnold to the front door and locked it behind him. Returning to the living room, I told Walter, “When I first met Didi, Arnold was delighted to have me get to know her. Now he’s acting like a dragon guarding a cave from me.”
Frowning, Walter shook his head. “It’s not about you. I was watching that fella. He appreciated your concern for the girl. It was when you mentioned having her up to your studio that he got real upset.”
I closed my mind and replayed the conversation in my head, as though it was an exchange in a scene from one of our shows.
“You’re right,” I said. “I wonder why he’s so against her visiting again.”
“That goes on the list of questions that need answers.”
“Matt’s convinced he’s arrested Veronica Rose’s killer. As far as he’s concerned, his job is done, but I know he’s wrong. I can’t leave Nancy’s fate solely in the hands of a defense attorney, no matter how good he’s supposed to be.”
“Finding the real killer’s the one sure way to clear your friend.” Walter stood up, stretched, and rotated a kink out of his neck. “I wanna do some research on the dead woman. Show me where to plug in my computer.”
“Use mine,” I said. “I’ll make us fresh coffee.”
While Walter rode the Internet through public records and the New York and Boston newspaper archives, I worked at the kitchen table on white legal pads, roughing out future story. I needed to get far enough ahead in my work to take a few days off to go investigating.
COPIES OF THE New York Times and the New York Post were delivered to my door before dawn every morning. On this Sunday, the Times had the usual headlines about the Middle East, but when I picked up the Post I was shocked to see Nancy’s photograph staring at me from the front page, under the headline “Lawyer Accused of Murder.” My stomach muscles clenched in distress as I realized that in Nancy’s awful situation, it was probable that every aspect of her private life would be turned into entertainment reading for millions of strangers.
Fur brushed against my ankle. I looked down to see Magic peering outside, poised to go exploring. “No, no. Not out there.” I steered him gently back into the apartment and closed the door.
Returning to the paper, I followed the headlines to the story on page three. There was a photograph of Veronica Rose, looking stunning in gown and jewels, taken at an art museum gala she had chaired in Boston earlier this year. At the bottom right-hand corner of the page was a smaller photo of Arnold, with the somewhat snide caption: “Object of their affections.” The Times had the story, too, with pictures of Nancy and Veronica, but the text was written less sensationally and appeared at the back of Section A, in their New York Report section under the headline: “Wife of Prominent Attorney Found Dead.”
SUNDAY EVENING, WALTER got up from the computer. A scowl of disgust creased his broad face, and his drooping gray mustache seemed to bristle. “The late Mrs. Rose was a husband stealer,” he announced.
That piqued my interest. “What husband did she steal?”
Walter corrected me. “Husbands, plural. An investment banker named George Reynolds and Ralph Hartley. Hartley’s CEO of a Massachusetts utilities company. There might be more, but these happened during the last fourteen months.”
He handed me printouts of several newspaper articles and social columns. Reading the material, I saw that the Boston Chronicle’s gossip columnist, Cathy Chatsworth, had managed to get the most vivid details of the moral frailties of the socially elite.
“Cathy Chatsworth—that has to be a made-up name,” I said, “but she’s probably got a phone.”
Boston Information gave me a number for her, but it turned out to be for her voice mail number at the Boston Chronicle. I left a message, but then called the newspaper’s switchboard operator, and asked her to try to call the columnist at home and deliver a message.
Half an hour later, Cathy Chatsworth called me back. Judging from her accent, she was either British or pretentious. After identifying herself, the Boston columnist said, “So, you want to do a TV movie about dear Veronica’s murder?”
That had not been the message. I’d told the operator to give her my name and tell her that I produced a television show. The columnist had jumped to the wrong conclusion. I didn’t want to lie to her, but Nancy’s life was at stake, and this woman might be able to help her. Before I could frame an ambiguous answer, she got to what was clearly her point of interest. “You pay consultants, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. Consultants are well compensated. You’ll be paid for background information, and again if the movie is produced. If our company produces it, of course you’ll get an on-screen credit.”
On her end of the line I heard a gasp. “Oh, no! You can’t use my name! My involvement must be strictly confidential—but I will expect to be paid.”
“However you want to work it, that’s fine,” I said. “But I wonder if you actually have any information about Veronica Rose’s personal life that might shed some light on her murder.”
“I thought they caught the killer.”
“The investigation is ongoing,” I said. That was the truth, in that I was continuing to investigate, even if the police were not.
“Hmmmmm. This is delicious. If your movie needs suspects, there certainly were people who wanted her dead. Four in particular. Interested?”
I certainly was! We made a date to meet for lunch the next day in Boston.
Replacing the receiver, I turned to Walter. “Now we have a place to start.”