Final Edit (26 page)

Still, one makes every effort—especially if the woman in question is Margo Richmond.

The following weekend included the Fourth of July, which meant the usual round of pomp and ceremony: parades, patriotic oratory,
grand firework displays, and all the trimmings—as unavoidable in Connecticut as anywhere else in America. I can’t say I find
any of this foofaraw thrilling enough to clear away all the blemishes on our national escutcheon—but it’s relatively harmless,
and almost certain to bring out the small boy in more than one otherwise mature male.

Margo, Herbert Poole, Joe Scanlon, and I rode out to Weston in the Mercedes, with Oscar at the wheel. We didn’t talk much
on the way out—groused a bit about the weather; the thermometer had reached 98 degrees by noon that Saturday, with enough
humidity to turn the entire tri-state area into the country’s largest tropical rain forest. For the most part, we settled
back in air-conditioned comfort and listened to Mozart on the stereo; the Piano Concerto Number 26 (”Coronation”), and the
Rondo for Piano and Orchestra in D Major, both played by Murray Perahia with the English Chamber Orchestra. Nobody complained
about that, although
I did notice that Scanlon fidgeted a bit at the beginning. However, he ultimately succumbed to Mozart’s celestial genius,
and was nodding his head in tempo with the rest of us. Afterward, he said the Rondo reminded him “of the movie
Hopscotch.”

“Quite right, Joe,” I said. “That was the movie’s score.”

When we arrived at the Kellogg Hill Road house, Mother was waiting for us in the conservatory, busy watering her plants and
flowers. She pulled off her work gloves and the floppy straw hat she wore whenever attending to her gardening chores, and
patted her coils of faintly blue hair back in place. She was especially pleased to see Margo. I knew she would be; Margo was
a particular favorite.

“How good to see you two children together again,” she said, embracing us both in word and gesture. With Scanlon and Poole
she was her regal self: gracious and imposing, with just a touch of coquettishness for Scanlon (”Lieutenant, I’ve wanted Nicholas
to bring you out to the country for the longest time.” Untrue, but I wasn’t about to correct her.), and properly respectful
of Poole, who was, after all, a Bestselling Author. To Mother, in retirement as well as in the days when she played an active
role in Barlow & Company, authors were privileged beings.

I remembered how much she enjoyed playing a card game called Authors with Father, Tim, and me. It was the only card game my
father ever played. He thought bridge was a game for idlers and poker a pastime for the dissolute, but Authors he enjoyed.
I can still remember the pleasure both he and Mother took in matching up mustachioed Robert Louis Stevenson and Nathaniel
Hawthorne with their four respective books. And there was Dickens with his chin whiskers, Thackeray with his tiny round spectacles,
and, of course, James Fenimore Cooper and Washington Irving—
and the token female author, Louisa May Alcott. All the old masters that nobody reads anymore unless compelled to do so by
a school teacher. Today, if we were to re-create the game for the 1990s, it would have to include rock stars, serial killers,
minor statesmen and stateswomen, unindicted coconspirators, and aged movie icons. Still, to Mother, Herbert Poole was the
Real Thing.

“How shall we go about this sleuthing game of ours?” Margo asked when we had all gathered in the living room. Though none
of us had forgotten the purpose of our trip to Connecticut, it had after all been her suggestion, and I had pretty well decided
to let her play the leading role in our mystery weekend.

“I suggest,” I said, “that we enjoy our cocktails and dinner without taxing our little gray cells, get a good night’s sleep,
and then, when our brains are revved up, that we tackle ‘The Case of the Fair-Haired Editor.’

“I second the motion,” said Tim. He was always ready for a good game of Trivial Pursuit, Clue, or 22 IB Baker Street.

The rest of the party murmured their agreement to my proposal—and the evening passed in a pleasant flow of food, drink, and
conversation.

When bedtime rolled around, Margo and I headed for the room we had always occupied during our married life. Mother had made
no objection to this, and had, in fact, arranged it before we even arrived. In matters of this kind, she was quite Catholic
in her opinions. Once married, always married—in her eyes, as well as God’s.

Nothing arouses my amorous inclinations more than the cool night air of Connecticut, which did not let us down that night,
I’m happy to say. When we had reached that point where smokers light up their cigarettes, and nonsmokers
roll over and sink into their pillows, we decided to get out of bed and go out on our balcony. There, hand in hand, we watched
a vivid display of heat lightning overhead, vast yellow flashes which made their own lovely works of fire in the cavernous
sky. We were happy just to stand there and breathe in the perfume of a New England summer in full bloom.

“We’re getting to be a habit again, aren’t we,” said Margo. “That’s not in any way a complaint, darling.”

“Have you thought at all,” I said, “that perhaps it’s our destiny?”

“Destiny.” She considered this for a moment or two. “That’s a rather large word, isn’t it?”

“Well, we do seem to be Elected Affinities, don’t we?”

“Elected Affinities. Whose term is that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It just… floated into my mind. It’s from one philosopher or another, but damned if I can remember
which one just now.”

“For my part,” said Margo, “I’m just going to take it day by day, see what happens. You understand, Nick?”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s the only way to live.” That’s one thing, I thought, that Alcoholics Anonymous got absolutely right.

“And you won’t rush me, will you?”

“Certainly not. I shall backpedal my way straight into your heart.”

“Idiot,” she said, and after giving me a kiss that awakened any lust I might have sacrificed to the night air, she steered
me back into the bedroom.

Before we had all separated the night before, I’d laid down one inflexible rule: “No work without nourishment first.”
When we gathered downstairs again next morning, we found the buffet table laden with platters of cold ham and turkey; both
of them I’d smoked myself on my last visit to Connecticut (a minor talent, but one I take pride in). The sauce was a mayonnaise
and Dijon mustard. Alongside the meats was a huge serving of
pasta e pesto
on a bed of romaine, and a bowl of mixed fruit on ice. Bottles of Taittinger champagne, and pitchers of fresh orange juice—for
anyone who wanted a mimosa—completed the feast. I stuck to straight champagne myself, as did most of the others. Poole alone
drank only the juice.

“The champagne might make it hard for me to concentrate,” he said, “and I’m really looking forward to—what’d you call it,
Margo—the sleuthing game?”

“That’s right.”

It took Joe Scanlon to remind us that “murder was a serious business. Not a game,” he said. “And there are two murders here,
or aren’t we planning to tackle the second one?”

“Wouldn’t you all agree,” Tim interjected, “that the two are connected—that the second one is simply a sequel to the first—committed
by the original murderer to cover up the first crime in some way?”

As the fortunate survivor of what might have been a double murder (thank God I can’t abide pink wine), I could only agree.
Susan must have known something—or the murderer
thought
she knew something, that would somehow be incriminating.

“Shall we begin?” said Margo.

We had finished our brunch and were now in the solarium, like the conservatory, banked with so many of Mother’s
flowers and plants that it suggested southern Florida. But it was cool, with all that oxygen pumped into the air, and with
stone tile underfoot, and comfortable wicker furniture.

Margo stood at the entrance to the room with an easel and a large pad of white paper; the rest of us sat in a semicircle around
her. Each time she finished filling out a sheet, she tore it from the pad and fixed it to the back wall with scotch tape.
In the end the wall was festooned with sheets, each one a suspect.

“We’re looking for motive, opportunity, and alibi,” she announced. “Facts first, from whoever has them, and then speculations.
Our first suspect…”

She turned to me, leaving me no choice but to splutter “But… but…” and rise half out of my chair. Then I fell back. Of course
Margo was right. Didn’t the police still have me on their shortlist?

“Nick,” said Margo, “you can tell us what your motive might have been.”

I could hardly refuse to play along. “Well, I wanted to get rid of Parker, but I didn’t want to buy out his contract. I’m
a well-known tightwad, you see.” If I’d hoped to provoke a laugh with this line, or even a titter, I was disappointed. “Also,”
I added, “Parker was a disruptive force in my company. People were quitting, or threatening to quit, because of his antics.”

“Opportunity,” said Margo. “You found the body.”

“He was already dead when I did,” I pointed out.

“If you’d killed him, it would have been natural for you to
pretend
you’d just found the body,” said Tim.

My own brother, for Christ’s sake.
“Whose side are you on?” I muttered, too softly to be heard.

“But I saw someone leaving the office, someone who almost knocked me down,” I protested.

“You’re the only one who did see anyone else—and,” said Margo, scribbling furiously on the pad with a magic marker, “you have
no alibi. You were also the last one to talk to Parker.”

“The phone call I got at The Players was from Parker, but the calls I made to him in the office—well, the voice could have
been anyone’s, even a woman.”

“Don’t you think we’ve taken this one far enough?” It was Joe Scanlon.
Thanks, Joe, heartfelt thanks.

“I agree,” I said. “Unless you’re hoping I’ll confess, so we can end the exercise.”

Next Margo ran through the people in the office, one by one.

“Harry Bunter,” she said. “Motive: his wife was having an affair with Parker.”

“He also disliked Parker on general principles.” My contribution. “As did many another.”

“Opportunity?” said Margo. “I assume he had a key to the office.” I nodded. “But,” I pointed out, “the office was unlocked,
at least when I got there.”

“We don’t know who unlocked it,” said Tim. “Could have been Foxcroft, could have been the murderer.”

“As for alibi…” Margo was determined to keep us on track.

It was Joe Scanlon’s move. “I have gotten enough information from my friend Falco to fill in those blanks,” he said. “Bunter’s
alibi was that he was in a gin mill on the Lower East Side, drowning his sorrows. He had never been in this particular joint
before, no one there knew him, and nobody, not even the bartender, remembered seeing him.”

Under Margo’s expert direction, we rapidly ran through the other members of the staff. Lester Crispin was a prime suspect;
he had the opportunity—a key to the office. A
motive of sorts: an intense dislike of Parker, who threatened his career. As for alibi?

“None,” said Scanlon. “Said he was at home. No one to back up his alibi—or to deny it.”

Having exhausted the insiders, myself and the two other likely Barlow & Company staff, we turned to the outsiders. Claire
Bunter was first.

I reported what I knew about her motives. We had no specific facts about her opportunity to kill Parker, and Scanlon again
came up empty. “She claims she was home alone, writing,” he said.

“And her husband at the time was in a gin mill somewhere on the Lower East Side, drowning his sorrows, you said.”

“Right.”

“Too bad they can’t even alibi each other,” said Poole.

Next came Frederick Drew. We spent some time on his motive and opportunity, which were strong, or the police would not have
hauled him in.

“But he’s out on bail now,” I said, “and I suspect that when he gets to the A.P., he’ll be turned loose.”

“The A.P.,” said Margo. “And what is that? Not the Associated Press, certainly.”

“It’s called ‘the All-Purpose part,’ “ I said. “From what Drew’s attorney told my attorney, I gather it’s where Drew appears
with his lawyer before a judge, to determine if there’s enough evidence against him to bring up before the grand jury for
indictment. At that time, his bail could be renewed or revoked. Or he could be freed.”

“Mighty complicated, the judicial system,” Margo remarked in passing.

Finally we took up the case against Judith Michaelson. Her motive was perhaps the strongest of all: she had nursed a hatred
of Parker for more than a year, a hatred that might
well have driven her beyond the edge of sanity. As for her alibi—we knew nothing. Zip.

Mother, who had been uncharacteristically silent through the proceedings, spoke up at last.

“I think the Michaelson woman is our best prospect,” she announced. “And the Bunter woman is second best.”

Tim chimed in. “Oh? Do you mind telling us why you think so, Mother?”

“I don’t see any of the other motives as being at all strong enough,” she said. “Hatred and revenge—what motives could be
stronger? And a woman scorned—”

“I can’t speak about Mrs. Bunter,” said Poole, “but I’ll repeat what I said to Nick about Mrs. Michaelson. I don’t think she’d
have showed up at Foxcroft’s funeral if she’d murdered him. I doubt that any woman would have the stomach for that.”

“But she spat in his face,” Margo protested.

“Revenge taken too late,” was Poole’s answer to that. “Her last chance to make a gesture, to strike back at the man who had
driven her husband to suicide.”

“But where are we now?” Margo spoke almost in a wail, as though ready to throw up her hands in despair. “Who do we accuse?”

“No one yet,” I said. “Somehow we still don’t know enough.”

It was Tim who brought us around again. “Nick, you and Poole researched Parker’s hard drive and went through his papers, right?”