Father's Day Murder (7 page)

“I do, but they’re only suspicions, and I don’t think it would be right to say anything about them.”

Something had changed in him as he spoke. He sounded less rehearsed, less as though he were delivering a practiced monologue. He was talking now, not reciting.

“Thank you for being candid. What about the first row?”

“There isn’t much to say about the first row any more, is there? Fred Beller hasn’t shown up for years, Art’s dead,
George is dead. That leaves Joe Meyer. Joe is a musician, a very fine one. He’s a good man. He’s not well but he keeps up the good fight. I hope he lives forever and makes music for the rest of his life.”

“What was his relationship with Arthur Wien?”

“Probably closer than that of any of the rest of us. I believe Joe and Artie used to get together. I think Joe and Judy went out to California a few times to visit the Wiens.”

“Then they were pretty good friends.”

“I’d say so.”

“What did you think of Arthur Wien?”

He leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Even when we were in high school,” he said, adjusting himself so that he now looked at me, “you knew Artie Wien was going to make it. There was something about him, a sense of direction, of purpose. He loved to write and he was good at it. We would put on skits for one thing or another and he would write them, including the songs, and you knew he was good. I could have thrown a skit together, but it wouldn’t have had the wit; it wouldn’t have been as clever. He was a talented kid and he worked at it.”

“I gather his first book was a success.”

“It was phenomenal. Here was a young guy, not yet thirty, and he wrote a best-seller. We were all struggling in our professions, earning in a year what people now earn in a week or even a day, hoping we could pay our rent, and there was Artie Wien a great success. And he deserved it. He earned it.”

“Tell me about the old neighborhood.”

“Ah.” David Koch looked out the window. “You may think that this is a wonderful view, that this apartment is a fantastic location. I can tell you that where I lived as a boy
was more beautiful to me then than this is to me now. We had a big, beautiful apartment on Morris Avenue, two bedrooms, a kitchen with a dinette where we ate all our meals, a bathroom in white tile. My brother and I shared a bedroom that was big enough for two beds, the sun came through the window in the afternoon, the kids played in the street outside. Remember the old Robert Louis Stevenson poem about going to bed by day? How you could hear people’s feet going by in the street? That’s the way it was for us, a safe, happy home. There was nothing to fear. You could walk to school. We had parks nearby. My mother shopped at the stores on 174th Street. When we wanted to go into New York, we walked down to the Grand Concourse and took the D train.” He looked at me with a little frown. “Would you like to see where we lived?”

“My husband tells me it’s not a safe place to go any more.”

“That’s an exaggeration, and anyway, I can guarantee your safety. I have a driver who can take us. We could do it tomorrow.”

“I’d love to.”

“Good. I haven’t been back for a couple of years. Do me good to see it again. Give us a chance to talk some more. I’ll show you where everyone lived.” He turned as someone came into the living room. “Ellen,” he said, standing, “this is Chris Bennett.”

Ellen Koch came in and shook hands with me. She was a strikingly beautiful woman with a head of beautiful close-cropped gray hair. She was as slim as a girl and had a wonderful smile. “I see Dave has been telling you about his boyhood.”

“It’s very interesting to me. I didn’t grow up in a city.”

“Well, he did and he can’t ever leave it.”

“Did you know Arthur Wien?” I asked.

“I only saw him at reunions. He seemed rather full of himself but he enjoyed being with the old gang. I’ve read some of his books and I enjoyed them. His wife seemed quite nice.”

“Was last Sunday the first you’d met her?”

“Let me think. No, I think she came to the last reunion. They may not have been married then. Do you remember, Dave?”

“She was there last time. She wore kind of a—”

“Yes, that’s the one. Then I’ve met her twice.”

“Did you know his first wife?”

“Oh yes. We even ran into her at something a few months ago, some dinner we attended. A very nice woman.”

“Your husband has been candid. I’d appreciate it if you were. Who among the men in the group or their wives might have wanted Arthur Wien dead?”

She sat on a chair before answering and I glanced over at her husband to see whether his face might tell me something, but it was quite bland.

“Arthur had women,” she said. “I think he felt that it came with being the kind of success he was, a man who was interviewed on talk shows, that sort of thing. There was a rumor—”

When she stopped, I looked at her husband again but he made no move, gave no signal, to stop her.

“A rumor?” I asked.

“That he’d had an affair with the wife of one of the men in the group.”

“Do you know which woman it was supposed to be?”

“I don’t. I can tell you it wasn’t me. Can I get you some coffee?”

I looked at my watch. “No thank you. I have somewhere to go. But it looks as though I’ll be back tomorrow for a guided tour.”

“A tour through the past. It’ll be an eye-opener. When you see where people came from, you begin to understand them.”

It was an idea that appealed to me.

6

I felt that the two people I left behind had changed from the people who were there when I first entered the apartment. Ellen Koch seemed troubled and David Koch subdued. There was a lot rushing around in my head that I wished I had time to think about, but I was bordering on being late for my noon appointment with Fred Beller. I dashed over to Third Avenue and hailed a cab. When I got inside and said, “The Waldorf-Astoria,” I had the weird feeling that more than the two people I had just left had changed. Something had happened to me too.

The taxi dropped me at the Park Avenue entrance to the huge hotel. It would have been closer if he had left me at the Lexington Avenue side, but I think he hoped to pick up a fare at the front.

I had never been inside before. Beyond the doors was a short flight of stairs that led up to the enormous lobby. Fred Beller had said I should sit in the waiting area to the left. There were a number of people sitting there, reading or just watching the people walking by. I found an empty chair and took it. I had no idea what Beller looked like since he hadn’t been photographed, and I didn’t relish going up to strangers and asking them who they were.

It was a few minutes after twelve when I got there, and
as I sat, I looked around at the huge chandelier, the people coming and going. No one around me had made a move when I came in and sat down, so I assumed he wasn’t there. On the low balcony, a few steps above the foyer, people sat at tables enjoying drinks and lunch. None of them seemed very interested in me.

Finally a middle-aged couple came from the Lexington side, stopped under the chandelier, and looked in my direction. The woman was wearing a colorful summer dress and the man wore a short-sleeved knit shirt with tan pants. I stood so they would see me.

The man smiled, waved, and started over. “Christine Bennett?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Beller.”

“Sorry we’re late. This is my wife Marge.”

I shook her hand.

“I’ve got a table for us in Peacock Alley. Marge’ll join us later.”

We all walked back toward the restaurant and elevators, and Fred took a light jacket out of one of his wife’s shopping bags before she left us. She was carrying several from stores where it was easy to spend money.

“We’re leaving tomorrow, so this is our last chance to pick things up. Here we are.”

We turned to the restaurant and were seated quickly. Fred Beller was the third tall man I had met in the group. He was slimmer than either Dr. Horowitz or David Koch, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and had an open friendly face. He offered me a drink but I refused. When I left here, I would be driving home. He ordered Scotch on the rocks with a twist for himself, mentioning a single malt brand that I had heard of, Glenfiddich. The waiter brought a small bottle of water and Beller poured a very small amount into the glass.

I looked at the menu next to my place and felt palpitations at the prices. This was only lunch, after all. A dinner at these prices would be expensive.

“I guess my daughter told you I was here,” Fred Beller said.

“If that’s who answered the phone. I gather Dr. Horowitz knew you were here.”

“Yes, I talked to him earlier in the week. He didn’t think it was necessary to mention to you that I was in New York.”

So they had spoken last night. “Did he mention it to the police?”

He contemplated a moment before saying, “I don’t think so.”

“Were you at the restaurant last Sunday night where Arthur Wien was murdered?”

“I? No. What would make you think—”

“I’m just asking. It seemed a relevant question.”

“I haven’t seen any of those people for a long time.”

“Except Dr. Horowitz.”

“Mort and I are in touch from time to time. What brought you into this very unhappy situation?”

I told him.

“I hope you’re successful. The police don’t seem to be at this point.”

“If I learn anything important, I’ll turn it over to them. Could you tell me how you felt about Arthur Wien?”

“Arthur was a very successful man who earned what he achieved. I haven’t had a conversation with him for years. Like everyone else in the group, he would have given the shirt off his back for any of us. I didn’t like him very much.”

“That’s an odd sequence of statements.”

“It puts into a paragraph what I might otherwise spend an hour explaining.”

“Is there anyone else in the group you don’t like?”

“I always thought George Fried—who’s dead—was a suffocating bore. I never cared for Bruce very much. I guess I don’t sound like a good friend.”

“You were a large group of men. It would be hard for one of you to find all of them equally attractive.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

The waiter came for our order. I asked for a salad and Fred Beller asked for a sandwich.

“Could you tell me why you felt about Arthur Wien the way you did?”

“We didn’t hit it off. I loved basketball and he hated it. When we were in high school I think we had the hots for the same girl.”

“Who got her?” I asked.

He smiled. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“I think I did for a while, but she lost interest before I did.”

“Was he angry?”

“I never cared very much whether Artie was angry.”

“Did he ever try to borrow money from you?”

“That’s an odd question.”

“Did he?”

“No, he didn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever lent anyone more than five dollars so it wouldn’t make much difference.”

“Did he ever ask you for any other kind of favor?”

“Why would he? We weren’t close friends.” He looked at me. “I know. I’m being evasive. No, he never asked me for money or for any other kind of favor.”

“You knew about this reunion, didn’t you?”

“They always send me the notice.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“I think Bernie Reskin usually arranges these things. There’s a nice guy.”

“Why did you pick last weekend to come to New York?”

“Very simple. My son gave me the trip as a Father’s Day present.”

“Does he live here?”

“Yes, he does. And he said he’d rather have me come here than him go to Minnesota. He sent the plane tickets and made the reservation at the Waldorf and got us tickets for a couple of shows.”

“That’s a wonderful present.”

“He’s a wonderful son.”

I was starting to think that this was one coincidence that was fully explained by what I had been told, that there was nothing mysterious or evil behind Fred Beller’s motive for coming east.

“Are you retired?” I asked.

“Semi. I don’t go to an office every day any more.”

“What do you do?”

“I was a pharmacist for a long time, but I sold my store about fifteen years ago and I do other things now. I work for someone else part-time just because I can’t quite stop. And I dabble in the market.”

Our lunches came as I was wondering if there was anything else I should bother asking. Both dishes were very elegantly presented, almost too pretty to dig into.

But we did and just at that moment Mrs. Beller showed up. “My, that all looks so good I’m tempted to have something
myself.” She sat on the other side of her husband. “But I won’t.”

“Marge isn’t a lunch eater,” her husband explained. “Want a drink, honey?”

“Maybe something cold like lemonade.”

He signaled the waiter and ordered for his wife. She looked very fresh and cool, as though she had just washed in cold water. Her hair was blond, short, and curly and she wore large silver earrings with a pale blue stone.

“Did you know Arthur Wien, Mrs. Beller?” I asked.

“I met him a long time ago. Fred and I were in New York once, it must have been twenty years ago or more, and I met some of the men. They were all very nice. I was impressed with Arthur Wien because I had read his books. Didn’t we have him sign one for us, Fred?”

“We did.”

“So, you know, I was looking forward to meeting him. To me he was a celebrity.”

“Was he married at the time?”

“Mm, maybe not. I don’t think he had a wife with him.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He was very nice to me. Of course, I told him I had read his books. But he was friendly. I liked him.” She smiled. Her lemonade was set in front of her and she sipped it.

“Have you met any of the other men in the group?”

“Some. We were just talking to—” She stopped and looked at her husband.

“Just tell the truth,” he said. “Chris knows we’ve seen Mort.”

“Well, we got together with the Horowitzes the other night.”

“Did Arthur Wien ever visit you in Minnesota?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. I waited.