Father's Day Murder (21 page)

I left it at that till after dinner. Jack came home a little late—he still had a lot to clear up—and I told him about the dead man I’d interviewed. He seemed very taken with my discovery of the second life of George Fried, even if it had yielded little.

“He could be right,” Jack said over dinner. “It could have been a woman who killed Wien. I know you have no motive, but you don’t seem to have a motive for any of the men.”

“Except Dr. Horowitz.”

“NYPD’s favorite. You know, they may not get their man every time, but they’re not bad.”

I smiled. “I know. And what you told me about Mrs. Horowitz’s seeing Arthur Wien came from them. I didn’t dig it up myself. So I’m in their debt.”

“If it leads anywhere.”

“I’m going to see Joseph tomorrow.”

“Well, that should do it,” Jack said with a grin. “She’ll see something you didn’t and she’ll pull out the killer.”

“I hope you’re right. I’d like to see this settled, especially if the police are about to move on Dr. Horowitz.”

Joseph had never quite “pulled out a killer,” but she had the knack of seeing things that were right in front of me that I somehow failed to see or failed to take seriously. I’ve learned that there’s a great value in presenting information to an intelligent and perceptive human being who is interested in the intellectual challenge as well as wanting to get a killer off the street. Rather than point to a suspect, she tended to ask questions that I had overlooked
or not thought worthy of asking. Of course, she entered every case after I had done the bulk of the information gathering, whereas I began with nothing. But even if it all came to naught, an hour or two in her company was a bonus in my life.

When we had finished our dinner, our coffee, our talk about tomorrow’s being Jack’s last day at the Six-Five, I pulled a chair over to the kitchen telephone and dialed Cindy Porter Wien’s number. She had a pleasant voice, and she seemed to know that I was looking into the murder of her husband.

“I know this is a difficult time for you,” I said after some polite conversation, “but I’d really like to know if you have any sense of who in the group might have had a falling-out with your husband.”

“I don’t know them that well,” she said. “I’ve read Art’s book, of course—I’ve read all of them—and I feel I know them better from the book than from real life. He never said anything to me that might indicate an argument or a grudge or anything like that.”

“Did anyone ever try to borrow money from him?” I asked, reversing my usual question.

“Not that he ever told me. I think all the men do pretty well, don’t you?”

“They seem to. Did your husband ever talk about the men to you? Tell you about love affairs they might have had?”

“That sort of thing didn’t interest him after
The Lost Boulevard
. He set those memories aside when he went on to his second book. He was a person who always wanted to try something new, write something unique. The group was always there, but he didn’t talk about them, not in any negative way. He loved those men. It’s hard for me to believe—”
She faltered and I heard her take in her breath. “I don’t know what to think. The police sound as if they believe that Mort Horowitz did it. It’s absurd. He’s a lovely man.”

“Did your husband have a special friendship with Dr. Horowitz and his wife?”

“Special in what way?”

“Did he see them when he was in New York? Did he invite them over? Did he go out with them?”

“We did that once in a while, with the Koches too and the Meyers until Joe’s illness got worse and it became hard for him to go out at night. It was too tiring.”

“When did that happen?” I asked.

“A couple of years ago, about the time we were married. But I had met them many times before that.”

“Anyone else in the group he was especially friendly with?”

“I think that’s it.”

“Did he ever mention Mrs. Horowitz as a special friend, someone who might have helped him through a troublesome time?”

“Not to me.”

“Did your husband ever talk about the manuscript for
The Lost Boulevard
? Did he ever show it to you?”

“Oh that’s a story. Alice demanded it as part of the divorce settlement. It was dedicated to her, you know, and she felt it was due her. They hadn’t been married long when it was published. Art couldn’t find it. He went through everything in his mother’s apartment, everything he had in storage. And Alice got antsier and antsier about it. She wouldn’t give him the divorce until he found it and gave it to her.”

“Did he eventually find it?” I asked somewhat disingenuously.

“Oh yes. And they settled right away.”

“Did you ever see it?”

“No. It all happened before I met Art. They’ve been divorced for quite a while.”

“So he gave it to her after all.”

“Of course he did. The marriage was over and he had agreed to it. He was a man of honor.”

Except that he had lied about where the manuscript was. “The night of the reunion, was there any discussion about who would sit next to your husband?”

“I think we were the last ones to get there and there were two empty chairs, but people started getting up and moving around. We were hugging and kissing people so I don’t remember what it was all about. We sat down and that was that.”

“Well, I appreciate your time. If you think of anything, Mrs. Wien …”

“Yes, I know how it goes. I’ll call the police.”

“Or me. I’m really very interested in finding his killer.”

“That makes two of us.”

I talked to Jack about it. I had no doubt Alice’s story was the true one. Arthur Wien had put a positive spin on the story for his new love, but he couldn’t get away with that kind of lie to Alice. She knew him too long and too well. A tale of digging in his mother’s apartment and a storage bin might satisfy young Cindy after the fact, but he had been forced to tell Alice the truth. It wasn’t much of a lie and Jack agreed it didn’t make much of a difference, but it reinforced my feeling that money might be at the root of the murder.

I went back to the phone and called the Greenes’ number. The woman who answered turned out to be Dr. Kathy Greene.

“I hear you waylaid my husband the other day,” she said with humor in her voice.

“I really needed to talk to everyone in the group,” I said. “I hope I didn’t keep him away from his work too long. He was very kind and spent a lot of time with me.”

“He was glad to meet you. Do you have something else to ask him?”

“Actually, I’d like to talk to you.”

“As a suspect or an informant?”

“I have no suspects. Everyone’s an informant at this moment, and I have to tell you, they all tell me the same thing.”

“They love each other and no one could have killed Artie.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I think they feel that way.”

“How do you feel?”

She uttered a breathy “Hmm. I think one of them must have killed Artie,” she said carefully, “but I couldn’t tell you which, and whoever it was, when I find out, I’ll be shocked and surprised.”

No help there. “I heard that Mr. Wien was having or had had an affair with one of the wives. Had you heard that?”

“Artie and one of the men’s wives? That sounds incredible.”

“Why?”

“Artie went out with young women. Look at Cindy. She must be thirty years younger than he. And there were others before her, probably even while he was seeing her.”

“Do you know whether he had what we might call a friendly relationship with any of the women?”

“Friendly? You mean sitting and talking about books and music? I think he had that kind of relationship with the Meyers. Why do you ask?”

“I’d rather not say. I don’t want to break a confidence. Did you know Fred Beller and his wife?”

“Haven’t seen them for years. But Fred always struck me as a very nice person, thoughtful and kind. He lives somewhere in the Midwest.”

The same thing over and over. “Thank you, Dr. Greene. If something comes to you—”

“We have your number. Have you spoken to the Kaplans?”

“I have. Mrs. Kaplan gave me a copy of
The Lost Boulevard.”

“There’s something strange there. I assume you know by now that Bruce served time for stealing money.”

“I know.”

“Something about that was never right. I would tell you more if I knew more, but I don’t. And I have no idea whether it involves Artie.”

And that was that. Were they all covering for each other or did they truly not know each other’s secrets? Except Robin Horowitz. She knew something and wouldn’t tell. I lay awake for a long time that night trying to figure out how to get her to tell me what she knew.

20

It was good to get out of the house and drive the pleasant drive to St. Stephen’s. Eddie sat in his secure seat in the back, and I narrated the trip until I realized he had fallen asleep, whether because my rendition was so boring or because the movement of the car simply induced sleep, I did not know. This was the trip I had made every month from the time I bought my car until I left St. Stephen’s to move into Aunt Meg’s house on Pine Brook Road in Oakwood. The purpose of those monthly trips was not so much to visit Aunt Meg but to visit her son, Gene, who lived at Greenwillow, the home for retarded adults that was then in a neighboring town. Gene and I had grown up as best friends, and it was he who named me Kix when he couldn’t pronounce Chris properly. He is fascinated by Eddie, and Eddie loves visiting him and playing with his collection of miniature cars. They do a lot of zooming together.

The moment I wait for as I drive north along the Hudson River is when I first see the steeple of the chapel at St. Stephen’s in the distance and then the top of the Mother House, a building that resembles a fortress more than anything else. It did no good to tell Eddie. He was fast asleep; this was OK with me. He would be bright and awake when
we got out of the car, ready to charm the nuns, who hadn’t seen him for a while and would be delighted to be my baby-sitters while Joseph and I were talking.

In fact, his eyes opened as I shut the car door and came around to his side. He was a little weepy so I held him on my shoulder away from the sun and patted him gently for a few moments before reaching in and pulling out the paraphernalia that comes with motherhood, the toys, the snacks, the food, the diapers, the tissues, the can of juice. Laden on both shoulders, I made my way from the parking area to the Mother House and was barely halfway there when Sister Angela burst out of the stone building and ran toward me, probably leaving the switchboard unattended, but it wasn’t exactly the busiest switchboard in the county.

“Chris, Chris, it’s so good to see you. And my baby. Let me see my baby.”

Obstinately, Eddie refused to budge his cheek from my shoulder. Angela dashed around to look at him from behind me.

“You are the sweetest,” she said, “the most wonderful, the most adorable thing I have ever seen. Would you take your thumb out of your mouth just for one second? One little second?”

“Eddie,” I said to the weight against me, “this is Angela. Do you remember Angela? You saw her last time we were here.”

He giggled suddenly, and I knew Angela had done something to elicit it. As we got into the cool dark foyer of the Mother House, he allowed her to take him from me but refused to remove the thumb.

“He doesn’t take orders very well,” I admitted. “I worry about spoiling him, but it’s probably too late to worry.”

“Oh a thumb doesn’t matter. I just hope he doesn’t eat it up.”

We got ourselves settled, and Angela called Joseph who came downstairs to see Eddie before she and I got together. Seeing her is always a bright moment. Joseph is a tall woman, now well into her forties. Little of her hair shows from beneath the veil and she has worn glasses for as long as I’ve known her, which is nearly twenty years. The habit, which all the nuns wear, is the brown, long-sleeved Franciscan dress that comes to midcalf, and the brown veil. On her left wrist she wears a large round watch whose numbers can be seen from a distance. Her hands are very beautiful, strong with long, slim, unadorned fingers. She is distinctly uncomfortable around babies and small children, preferring people with whom she can converse on an equal footing. She met Arnold Gold the Christmas after Jack and I were married, and they ask after each other frequently, having enjoyed each other’s company enormously.

After we greeted each other, she went to the table on which Eddie was sitting somewhat precariously, courtesy of Angela, and talked to him for a while. “I know you hear this all the time, Chris, but what a difference a month or two makes in the growth of a little child like this one.”

“Eddie,” I said, “this is Joseph. Remember Joseph?”

He pointed at her and smiled. “Doess,” he said. “Doess.”

“Well, he’s getting there,” Joseph said. “Pretty soon there’ll be a second syllable.”

“I’ll work on it,” Angela said. “Come with me, Eddie. I’ve got the loveliest cookie in the whole world waiting for you in the kitchen.”

Cookie
was a word he knew well. His face lit up, and he
scrambled to go with Angela as Joseph watched, shaking her head and smiling.

We then went up the wide stone stairs to the second floor and on to her office, which was at the far end of the hall. The ceiling sloped along one long side of the room, and there were windows on the sloped side as well as the back of the room where Joseph keeps her desk. As usual, we sat at the long heavy table that takes up most of the room, one of us on each side, as though this were part of the ritual of our talks. On Joseph’s side lay unlined paper and several pens and pencils. I knew that lunch would be brought up on a tray for both of us when the time came, and as always, I looked forward to sharing the meal with her.

“Well, I am absolutely trembling with anticipation, Chris. It’s so many months now since I visited you and Jack on Fire Island last year when you were working on that interesting situation and I found myself part of the Chris Bennett investigating unit.”

I laughed at the description. “I’ve done a lot of leg work on this one. I’ve talked to what feels like countless men and their wives, and most of them say exactly the same things.”