“He’s a good boy.”

—MAE QUESTEL

Scott Towels commercial

9

SHE SAT ON A GURNEY in the emergency room of St. Mary’s Hospital in Stamford, smiling at us and talking as if she were entertaining us in a living room.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming. I do so want to talk to someone. I’m so embarrassed, and I must look a fright.”

She didn’t look close to a fright. She wasn’t as polished as she might ordinarily be—the bandage on her hand covered a good forty or fifty stitches from where she’d punched through the glass in Richard Bentyne’s kitchen door, and there were a few consequent spots of blood on her frilly white silk blouse and her lavender suit. A few wisps of soft gray hair had escaped her chignon. She was pale, partly from shock, partly from loss of blood, and partly, no doubt, from painkillers.

She definitely looked as if she’d been through something, but she didn’t look a fright. She looked like a bright (blue) eyed, ever-so-slightly plump, wrinkle-free, attractive lady in her mid-fifties. Give her brown hair, and she could have been the model for the Betty Crocker of my youth.

She definitely did not look the obsessive nutcase who had frustrated police forces across the country. But she was.

Her name was Barbara Bentyne Anapole, and she was originally from Akron, Ohio, an ordinary housewife and mother until about eight years ago. We learned her sad story from a Connecticut State Trooper who was more than glad to surrender her to the NYPD because (1) a murder case took precedence over a mere breaking and entering, (2) because she was currently a legal resident of New York, and (3) because Connecticut didn’t have the foggiest notion of what to do with her.

Nobody said so in so many words, but I got the impression that the guardians of the Nutmeg State would feel less sadness about the passing of a rising American superstar than they otherwise might because his death probably meant that they wouldn’t have to go on busting this unbalanced, but otherwise nice old lady.

You couldn’t even blame her for being unbalanced. Eight years ago, she’d been home, fixing Thanksgiving dinner while her husband drove around Akron in the minivan, picking up their two sons and their families. The vehicle was full of passengers and on its way home when they were broadsided by a drunk driver, and driven into oncoming traffic. The only survivor of the family had been a daughter-in-law Barbara had never liked anyway.

Husband, kids, grandkids, boom, gone. One second, family, next second, no family. I don’t know if I could face it.

Unfortunately, just about that time, a young comedian named Richard Bentyne was coming to prominence. It so happened that as a teenager, Mrs. Anapole had had a son out of wedlock, whom she gave up for adoption. With the logic of desperation, out of the aching need not to be alone, she decided that Richard Bentyne was the long-ago departed infant. He had her maiden name, didn’t he? He had blond hair and blue eyes like her family, didn’t he?

She denied or ignored everything that didn’t fit her desires. For instance, the fact that Richard Bentyne had a living set of parents all present and accounted for, or the fact that he was at least five years too old to be the child she’d put up for adoption.

When you tried to raise these facts, she’d just smile an indulgent, motherly smile and tell you that the press would say just anything these days, it was just a disgrace.

“There I was, just sitting in my apartment—” She lived in a high-rise across the street from Lincoln Center and went to the opera frequently. Insurance and her late husband’s investments had left her well fixed. “Just sitting in my apartment,” she said, “having a cup of coffee. I love a cup of fresh-brewed coffee in the middle of the morning, it perks me right up. In the afternoon, though, I like tea. Wouldn’t you gentlemen like a cup of tea? Young man!”

She stopped an orderly and gave him a tea order. “And plenty of cream, sugar, and lemon, now,” she concluded.

The orderly was about to be offended when Lieutenant Martin flashed him his shield and said, too quietly for the lady to hear, “Homicide investigation. Besides, I heard the doctor tell her to force fluids. Just do it, okay?”

The orderly thought it over for a few seconds, then said, “Uh, okay.”

She smiled happily at us again. “Now, where was I?”

“Watching television and drinking coffee.”

“That’s right.” She nodded at me like a second-grade teacher at a bright pupil. “Well, there I was, and they interrupted Phil Donahue, and came on with a news bulletin saying My Richard was dead.

“That was a very cruel thing to do, you know, even for the press. They might have known I’d be watching, or at least that I’d find out about what they’d said. Of course, I was shocked at first, but then I recognized it for the cruel joke it was.”

“How?” I asked.

I saw that indulgent smile for the first time. “A mother knows,” she said. “When the ... tragedy ... happened out in Akron, you know, I felt something at the moment it happened. I think I already knew when I saw the policeman coming up the walk.

“But let’s not talk of unhappy things. Are you religious?” she asked.

“I’m not an atheist,” I told her. It seemed to make her happy.

“Well, I firmly believe that the Lord doesn’t try us beyond our strength. I lost many people I loved, but then I found Richard. Now, I know how busy and successful he is, and that he doesn’t have a lot of spare time to spend with me, but I’m not one of those possessive mothers you read about. I understand he’s a grown man, now, and needs to spread his wings and make his own decisions.

“Still, on a day like today, with the media telling such nasty lies about him—Can’t you do anything about that, Mr. Martin?”

Lieutenant Martin looked as uncomfortable as I felt. “Um, no, ma’am. Unfortunately, the media gets to say pretty much what it wants to.”

Especially, I thought, when it’s the truth. Eventually, somebody was going to have to tell her that she’d lost her (delusionary) second family as well as her first. I was just glad it wasn’t going to be me.

“It seems disgraceful they can get away with that. However, I decided that after dealing with something like that, I would do something I’d never done before. I’d go to Richard’s house and let myself in and make him a good home-cooked meal. It would be something comforting to come home to.”

“How did you know how to get there?”

“Oh, I’ve been there many times. Sometimes I just like to take the train up from the city, get a taxi at the station, and just sit in the car awhile and admire how far my boy has come. Why, even the taxi drivers know him personally.”

Which explained, I thought, how Barbara Anapole found the place in the beginning—undoubtedly, Bentyne had used taxis around here sometimes, and the drivers had, understandably enough, remembered where the star lived. I had no trouble believing Mrs. Anapole could have convinced them that she was Richard Bentyne’s mother; I had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t true.

“Today, when I came, I didn’t just sit in the taxi and look; I got out and paid him and sent him away. And then I realized I’d forgotten my keys.”

“Your keys,” the lieutenant said.

“Yes,” she said. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Richard gave them to me after he first moved in here. At one of our secret meetings. We have to have secret meetings because of That Woman.” For the first time, Mrs. Anapole didn’t seem so nice.

“You mean Vivian Pike?”

She gave me a grim nod. “That’s the one. She’ll do anything to keep my son and me apart. She wouldn’t even let my phone calls go through. And it’s all so unnecessary. I’m not one of those jealous or possessive mothers. I’m the kind of mother who wants her son to find a nice girl.”

I detected a little extra emphasis on the word “nice.”

“I would be happy if he were married, though. Young people today mock marriage, but in a marriage, you know where you stand.”

“Did you make the chicken, Mrs. Anapole?”

She smiled brightly. “What chicken?”

“The chicken,” I said, “that Mr. Gambrelli, the driver, drove into New York with for your—for Richard’s lunch.”

“Oh, I’m glad he’ll have at least one good meal today. No, I didn’t make any chicken. I never even got inside. I tried to force the door open, and the glass broke, and I cut my hand horribly. It was such a foolish thing to do, but I wanted to be there for my son.”

“Yeah,” the lieutenant said. “Will you excuse us for a moment, ma’am? We’ll be right back.”

“But we haven’t had our tea!” she protested.

I’d forgotten all about it, but sure enough, at the moment, the orderly returned with a tray on which sat a pot of boiling water, some tea bags, some foam cups, sugar, lemon, and little plastic things of nondairy creamer. He smiled like a waiter, told us his name (Vernon), and even poured for us.

All I could figure was that he’d been hypnotized by the flashing of the lieutenant’s tin, and was now convinced he was Nick Carter undercover on the trail of Dr. Quartz. Or maybe he knew that Mrs. Anapole would go for her purse and tip him two bucks, which she did, and he needed the money.

In any case, we had our tea now, and we stood there sipping it exactly as though we actually wanted it, while trading remarks about gardening. Rivetz, it turned out, grew roses in his garden out in Queens, and Mrs. Anapole had been a prize rose grower in her day. My eyes glazed over, but I fought to keep from showing it. As a Manhattanite, I feel the only place vegetable matter really needs to be is floating next to matzoh balls in a good chicken soup.

Finally, after I’d heard more about fertilizers and aphids than I ever cared to, we were done, and the lieutenant again made our excuses. She graciously granted us leave.

We withdrew to a little supply closet.

“Jesus,” Lieutenant Martin said, “what are we going to do with her?”

“Bust her,” Rivetz said, “She’s a loon. She probably did it. Maybe she was aiming for the girlfriend.”

“What’s the matter,” I said, “don’t like the way she grows roses?”

“Her roses are fine. I just think when you have a homicide on one hand and a nut on the other hand, they just naturally go together.” The seams in his face got smaller, tighter, and more numerous. “Besides, I know you’re a TV expert and the lieutenant’s known you since you were a baby, but that don’t make you a cop, and never will. All right?”

“Take it easy, Rivetz,” the lieutenant said.

“I’m taking it fine. I just don’t need to be razzed by an amateur in the middle of a homicide investigation.”

Fair is fair, and he was right. “I’m sorry, Rivetz. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

His small dark eyes looked disappointed, as though he’d not only been expecting a fight, but wanting one, too.

Still, he nodded at me, and said, “Just so we know where we stand.” A few seconds later, he added, “Hospitals. God, they make me depressed.”

It was as close to a conciliatory gesture as he was ever likely to make.

“Is that all you have against her?” the lieutenant demanded. “Just a hunch?”

“Yeah,” Rivetz said. “For now. What the hell, check into it, right? I mean, she could have a motive, easy. Maybe she’s faced the fact that he’s not her son, or that he’ll never admit it. Or maybe it was aimed at the Pike woman, the one she saw coming between her and Bentyne.”

“Means? If it’s arsenic, the way we figure—”

The lieutenant shook his head. “I’m going to be glad when we get that lab report.”

“I know what you mean,” Rivetz said. “But look, if it is arsenic, well, you can get that anywhere. Rat poison, roach poison. When I was a kid, there used to be flypaper.”

“There still is,” I said. “I heard about some today.”

“You did?” Rivetz said. “Where?”

“At the studio. Bates sent the producers of the show a bunch of stuff he uses, living out in the mountains like that. Kerosene lamp. Snowshoes. Flypaper, a few sheets of which disappeared, things like that. I think they were going to have a sort of show and tell on the air, with Bates being picturesque about what each thing is used for.”

Mr. M stared at me. “Matty?” he said softly. “You suspected arsenic poisoning?”

“Right.”

“And you knew they had this flypaper?”

“Uh huh.”

“And it never occurred to you to tell me about it?” His voice was no longer soft.

I had to admit that in retrospect, it did seem rather dumb. I defended myself by pointing out that I was younger than Rivetz, and had never seen flypaper, at least the poisoned kind, actually in use. In fact, my only exposure to the stuff had been a Dashiell Hammett story.

“Call the studio on that gadget of yours. I want to tell them to find that stuff and latch hold of it, get some to the lab.”

I did so. When Mr. M was done and had handed me back the phone, I said, “If it was the flypaper, that lets the mother off the hook.”

Rivetz reminded me that she wasn’t the mother.

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Anyway, she’s pretty clean on the opportunity issue, too. As far as I can make out the times from back at the studio and from the hospital log, Mrs. Anapole was having her hand sewn up here just about the same time the basket of chicken was showing up at the studio. I grant you it sat around for a while, and anybody there might have gotten to it, but it would have been awfully hard for her—she wasn’t there.”

Rivetz shook his head. “There’s no problem there. I talked to the Pike woman. Somebody named Frances Jarmy comes on a daily basis to clean up and to make Bentyne’s lunch—wouldn’t you think a guy getting paid as much money as your Network was giving him could eat at a goddamn restaurant?”

“There were dietetic considerations,” I said. “Go on.”

“Yeah. Try and stop me. Anyway, Jarmy would make the lunch and hand it over to Gambrelli when he showed up. If Jarmy had to go out before Gambrelli showed up, the stuff was left on the front porch with a note. Tell me why Mother Machree over there couldn’t have switched baskets.”

“I think,” I said, “that I would really treasure a talk with Frances Jarmy about now.”

The lieutenant grunted. “Me, too. The state cops are looking. Local boys in the Weston area, too.”

“In the meantime, I want to have a look at Bentyne’s house,” Rivetz said. “We’re out of state—do we need a warrant?”

“No,” I said.

“Don’t tell me—you’re a lawyer, too.”

“No, but I am an officer of the Network. We own the house. A free house to live in was part of Bentyne’s deal.”

The lieutenant just grunted again, but Rivetz couldn’t stand it. “Free houses. Multimillion-dollar salary. For what? For bullshitting on television. There’s no justice at all in this goddamn world.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “You’re the one with the dangerous job, ducking bullets and all that, right?”

“Yeah?”

“But Bentyne is the one who’s dead.”

Rivetz pursed his lips. “Good point,” he said.

“I want to get out there, too,” the lieutenant said. “But what are we going to do with Mother Hubbard over there? Nobody in this state is willing to bust her or commit her, but I’m damned if I’m going to let her run around loose.”

The answer was obvious to me, and had been for some time now, but I would be damned if I would be the one to say it, as touchy as everybody was lately.

There was silence for a long time. When Rivetz finally broke down and said, “I guess we have to take her with us,” I suppressed a smile.