Death on Deadline (15 page)

“I’d say that was a foregone conclusion,” David said. “I didn’t talk to Scott after he saw Harriet that afternoon, though I know he also had been approached by MacLaren and had decided to sell. But you’ll get a chance to ask him yourself; rumor has it he’s coming here later today.” He took a malicious pleasure in the word “rumor.”

“That’s correct.” Wolfe nodded, turning toward Carolyn. “Madam, I haven’t forgotten you. What were the circumstances of your presence in the
Gazette
Building on Friday?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but David was faster. “Carrie was there because I asked her to be—we make all our big decisions jointly. We’re a team, and I consider her completely equal on that team.” She’s a damn sight more than your equal, I thought as my eyes moved to Wolfe for his reaction.

“I’d like to hear what Mrs. Haverhill has to say,” he replied testily.

Carolyn liked being the center of attention. She struck a pose that would have warmed the most jaded fashion photographer and cleared her throat. “As Dave said, we’re a team on matters affecting either of us. Several times in the past, he’s asked me to sit in on family conferences involving the
Gazette.
It looked like this would be an important occasion, and of course he wanted me there.”

“When did you arrive?”

“In the building? Let’s see, it was about six-fifteen, wasn’t it, dear?” she asked David. Her smile was stingy and studied.

He looked at her adoringly and she went on. “I came right up to Dave’s office—he was just finishing up a small meeting—and we talked for maybe five or ten minutes before going down the hall to where Donna was working. I hadn’t seen her since she’d gotten back and was anxious to hear about her trip.”

“Mrs. Haverhill, how did you feel about what was happening at the
Gazette?”

“You mean the sale to the MacLaren Organisation? Oh, I was sorry to see the paper passing out of the family’s hands. But you know, as impressive and decisive as Harriet could be, she also was rigid. And I think that rigidity was what ultimately would have cost her the paper.”

“By rigidity, I assume you mean her unwillingness to delegate authority to others, specifically members of the immediate family?”

Carolyn’s smile was glacial. “Of course, that and her dictatorial ways in general. Whenever either Dave or Scott came up with an idea on how to improve some aspect of the operation, she invariably belittled or dismissed it. She just couldn’t bear the idea of letting go.”

“How did you and she get along?”

Carolyn struck another pose that would have looked swell in
Vogue.
“We respected each other,” she said, running a well-maintained hand along her slender neck.

“Harriet had many fine qualities, I don’t mean to suggest otherwise, and I always enjoyed her company in social situations. She adored the
Gazette,
she was witty and well-informed, always interesting to be around. And I think she enjoyed seeing me; she always seemed to.”

Wolfe shifted uncomfortably. I knew he wanted to ring for beer, but was resisting because he’d already downed two in front of his guests and they weren’t drinking. I hoped he could hold out for another few minutes. David wasn’t doing as well. “Madam, earlier you stated that you had some thoughts but preferred to hear me first. You have heard me.”

That brought a smile, a real one that showed white teeth. “I wouldn’t have left without saying my piece,” she replied. “Dave will tell you that I’m far from reticent in giving my views. Mr. Wolfe, there’s no question in my mind that my mother-in-law killed herself. And I know the reason.” She looked at Wolfe as if waiting for him to react, but he refused the bait.

When Carolyn saw she was going this one alone, she licked her lips and leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “Harriet knew that Ian MacLaren had outflanked her and probably had the shares necessary to control the
Gazette.
She hated MacLaren, which is hardly a revelation. So she did the single thing that she felt would turn both the shareholders and the general public against him. She made the ultimate statement by destroying herself.”

“That ultimate statement of which you speak surely would have included a written corollary,” Wolfe scolded. “She would have listed specifics about Mr. MacLaren’s excesses, perhaps, or something of the consequences that would result from his accession to the helm of the
Gazette.
To my knowledge, no such missive exists.”

“I don’t know about that—all I know is that I’m convinced Harriet killed herself to call attention to what she saw as a tragic event. She was capable of intense passions. And two of those passions were her love for the
Gazette
and her hatred for MacLaren. Isn’t that right, Dave?” Her husband nodded mechanically, apparently unimpressed by her blinding logic.

“Mr. Wolfe, I realize both Donna and Dave were related, at least in a sense, to Harriet, and I wasn’t,” Carolyn continued. “Despite that, I think I knew her better than they did, maybe because in so many ways we were similar. I won’t claim we were terribly close, but I know what drove her. And I’ll say it again: she killed herself.”

Wolfe had been studying Carolyn during her oration. When she finished, his eyes moved to David and then to Donna. He made a production out of drawing in air and letting it out. “I have nothing more to ask any of you. Thank you for coming,” he said, reaching under his desk to ring for beer.

“Mr. Wolfe, before we leave, I have a question.” It was Donna, who stood and rested one arm on the back of her chair. “Are you still convinced Harriet was murdered?”

He eyed her sharply. “Madam, nothing has been said here to change my mind.”

With that, he picked up his book and opened it while his visitors were still in the room. I made a mental note to remind him later that Miss Manners would probably call that a flagrant breach of etiquette, and then followed them to the front hall. When I held the door, Donna and David marched out without a word, just about the way they had come in, but Carolyn favored me with a fashion-magazine smile.

I returned to the office just as Fritz was rushing two more bottles of beer to the patient. “Well?” I said to Wolfe as he set down his book and poured. “Your reactions?”

“The man actually contends that MacLaren would be a lively addition. He’s a witling.”

I wasn’t sure whether Wolfe meant David Haverhill or Ian MacLaren was a witling, and I didn’t ask. He was in a funk, and I knew why: he always avoids work, and when he has to do it on a Sunday, he gets particularly grumpy. To make matters worse, he wasn’t even through for the day. Scott Haverhill, alias The Nephew, was due at four o’clock, now a mere twenty minutes away. That meant there was no time for any of life’s simple pleasures, such as harassing Fritz about next week’s menus or zipping through the Sunday
Times
crossword puzzle.

For a moment, I was tempted to feel sorry for him, but I’m happy to report that the feeling quickly passed. “Work is a tonic,” he once told me when I grumbled about some chore. Right now, a little more tonic might be just what he needed.

W
HEN THE DOORBELL RANG AT
five minutes after four, I wheeled to face Wolfe. “Maybe we should have a turnstile put in,” I said. All I got for my trouble was a scowl. So much for trying to lighten things up.

Through the one-way glass, I sized up our third Haverhill visitor of the day. Scott was considerably better-looking than Cousin David. He was about six-one and had blond hair and a well-arranged face. He could have used a few hours a week at a Nautilus machine, though. He didn’t appear as unhappy as David to be at the brownstone, and he beat me to the draw with a firm handshake as I let him in, which threw me off; when I’m on my turf, I like to be the one who offers the paw. I’m never one to be judgmental, but he impressed me as a good deal of a wart.

I introduced him to Wolfe and he at least had the good sense not to try shaking hands, but homed in on the red leather chair, which probably was still warm from Donna. “Carl said you wanted to see me,” he said, unbuttoning his herringbone sport coat to display a pink-striped sea island cotton shirt. “I wasn’t sure I’d come at first, but then I thought, why not? What’s to lose?” He had one of those New England accents, but which one, I couldn’t be sure.

“What’s to lose indeed, sir?” Wolfe answered. “Will you have a drink?”

He asked for Scotch and water, and I filled the order. “So, you think Harriet was murdered?” he said in a conversational tone. “After reading the piece about you in this morning’s
Gazette,
I must say that I still can’t figure out why.”

“Call it intuition if that pleases you,” Wolfe said, turning a hand over. “I gather you’re convinced Mrs. Haverhill was a suicide.”

“Well, she had been under a hell of a lot of pressure over the MacLaren business, and she seemed pretty tense when I saw her the day she died. But I have to say I’m surprised she pulled the trigger.”

“Why?”

“She just wasn’t the type,” Scott said, taking a sip of his drink. An appreciative look crossed his face. “She seemed too … self-possessed, too stiff-necked maybe. I’m not expressing it right, but I’m surprised anything could drive her to that. Especially after the meeting we had.”

“Tell me about it,” Wolfe said.

“She had asked me to see her in her office at three o’clock last Friday. I knew what it was about, of course. MacLaren had already made me an offer for my
Gazette
shares.”

“What did you tell him?”

We were treated to his self-deprecating smile. “I liked the price he offered, and I wasn’t going anywhere at the paper. I’ve been general manager for ten years now; I’m forty-one, and I thought I’d better make a career change if I was ever going to. Also, I didn’t know if my stock would ever again be worth what MacLaren was willing to pay.” As I looked at him in profile, I thought of Lon’s “oily bastard” description.

“You had accepted Mr. MacLaren’s offer?” Wolfe asked.

“Not officially.” Scott examined a manicured fingernail. “But I had told him that I very likely would.”

“What was holding you back?”

Scott smirked, although I’m sure he probably thought it was a boyish grin. “I wanted to talk to Harriet one more time, to see … what could be worked out.”

“By that, you mean a better position for yourself at the company?”

“You’re very direct, Mr. Wolfe.” Smirk two. “Yes, I thought perhaps she might offer me something more. I feel I’ve earned it.”

“So you went to see her Friday—at three?”

“Yes. She’d already talked to my cousins, as I’m sure you know. From what she told me, they both were ready to throw in with MacLaren, if they hadn’t actually done so.”

“Had you discussed this with them previously?”

Scott shifted in his chair and took another sip of Scotch. “Yeah, we’d talked about it some, at least David and I had. Donna isn’t around much, and she’d been away the last few weeks. But—well, as you may already know, David and I don’t get along that well. And we don’t talk a lot, except of course in meetings and such when business warrants it.”

“What is the source of this animus?”

“No one thing, really. We just haven’t gotten along for years. Even as kids, we didn’t like each other.”

“Jealousy exacerbated by competition?”

Scott shrugged virtuously. “That’s probably part of the reason. It’s no secret that we both would have killed for the chance to run the paper. Er—let me rephrase that. Each of us thought we could run it better than the other. I
know
I would be a better chief executive than David. Harriet knew it too.”

“Indeed? Did she tell you as much?”

Scott nodded. “I guess maybe I should get back to my Friday meeting with her; that will explain a lot. What happened was, I went to her office and could see right off that she was upset. She wasn’t crying or anything like that—I don’t think Harriet ever cried. But her face was white and she was having a little trouble talking. The first thing she said to me when I sat down was, ‘Well, I suppose you’re going to sell out to that damn pirate too.’

“I told her I’d certainly been thinking hard about it, but that I was glad we were having this chance to talk first. I started to mention my hope that I might still have a future at the paper, when something odd happened.”

“Go on,” Wolfe prodded.

“She cut me off in mid-sentence, before I could even begin to make my pitch, and said point-blank: ‘How would you like to be publisher of the
Gazette
?’ I was so stunned I guess I just sat there looking stupid. Here was the job I’d wanted for years, and had almost totally given up on ever having. When I finally recovered, I think I said something like ‘I can start tomorrow.’

“She went on to say that Carl Bishop had been talking about retiring for some time, which I had been aware of. She also said—she always was very frank, often brutally so—that she had some reservations about my abilities, but that she was willing to take a chance if it would keep my shares out of MacLaren’s paws, thereby denying him control of the paper. The price for my getting the job would be that I would sell my shares to the trust she was setting up, at a price well below MacLaren’s offer.”

“What were your thoughts about that?” Wolfe laced his hands over his center mound.

“Obviously I’d lose the chance for a big profit, but I’d get something that was worth far more than that to me.”

“In the long run, you’d also more than make up for the loss with an increased salary and benefits,” Wolfe remarked dryly.

“True,” Scott conceded smoothly. “But in all honesty, that didn’t enter my mind as I sat there. I was so excited about becoming publisher that nothing else mattered.”

“Did Mrs. Haverhill establish a time frame for your accession?”

“Not definitely. She said she’d speak to Carl Bishop later that day to work something out that was agreeable to him. But she did talk in general terms about having me take over sometime around the first of next year.”

“Have you told anyone about this conversation?”

“No one—not even my wife. Harriet asked me not to, said that she wanted to announce it herself. I’m sure that’s the reason she sent around the memo later that afternoon asking me, and I think the other stockholders, to meet with her in her office after she’d talked to MacLaren. Did you know about that?”