Friends till the End (14 page)

“It’s building to a crescendo out there,” he said. “Thought I’d take refuge while I could.”

“What are they saying now?”

“Marcia just called Jonathan a pighead, and Jonathan called her a mousy little ratface. Then she started to cry.”

“Oh,
dear.
” Ruth wiped her hands on a dish towel. She felt disturbed. Really, it was
just like
when they were ten and five … “And they were getting along so well, too,” she said in despair.

“Well, it had to break sometime. Can I help?” he said, looking at the pile of dirty dishes.

“No, Sam, just stay here and talk to me. How’s everything at work?”

He beamed at her. “Fine. Just fine. I’ve had a chance to try some new ideas that’ve been on my mind—oh, for years now. And they’re working out great, Ruth. I’m happy about it, I really am. Everyone else seems to be pleased, too.”

“Oh,
good.
”

“You know, it’s so different when Walter’s there. He keeps everybody in order, sure, but he’s so tyrannical. Constantly flying into one of his rages and screaming at everybody. Everyone hates it. With him away, the office is just so peaceful.”

“Oh, I’m glad.”

“And frankly, Ruth, I’m enjoying the new position. Lots more responsibility, and I don’t have to kowtow to anybody. It’s great. I’m enjoying myself.”

“Oh, Sam,” his wife said happily, “I knew you would. I always knew you would.”

Something in her tone made him look at her sharply. She was not watching him; her head was bent over the sinkful of dishes.

“Oh, yes,” she went on airily, “I always knew you’d love it!”

*      *      *

“Phone call for you,” said Maya, appearing at the door of Bernard’s study. “It’s Mrs. Crandall. You know. The one who gave that party.”

Bernard looked surprised. “Why is she calling me?”

“She wants to talk to you about your books. She’s a big fan, she says.”

“Which books? The rat ones?”

“No.” Maya glanced at him uneasily. “I think it’s—you know—Mrs. Woolly.”

“Good Lord, no. Not Mrs. Woolly. Maya,
please.
”

“I already told her you were in. I’m sorry, Bernard.”

He followed her into their bedroom and reluctantly picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Mr. Woodruff, this is truly a pleasure. My name is Heather Crandall, and I’m such a fan of your books, I’ve read them to all my children—well, actually, not all of them, Little Harry is too old, but Charlie, when he was younger, and now Linus is such a fan!” She ended on a thrilled squeak. “And I just learned from Isabel that her friend is actually your brother-in-law! Isn’t that
something
?”

Bernard remained impassively silent.

“Well,
anyway
,” said Heather, plunging on, “I know it’s a great favor to ask, and it’s probably a big intrusion, but I was wondering if I could bring Linus by to meet you? And perhaps you could autograph a copy of his most favorite book of all,
Mrs. Woolly Goes to Market
? It would be such a thrill for him, he’s only five years old but I’ve read all your books to him—”

“No.”

There was a startled silence. “Excuse me?”

“No. I’m sorry, Mrs. Crandall. I don’t let people come to my house. I don’t sign autographs, and I don’t like children. Good night.”

He hung up, to meet Maya’s frozen glare.

“Bernard, you are terrible. You are a terrible human being, do you know that? The poor woman just wants her child to meet an author—”

“I hate Mrs. Woolly,” said Bernard. He went into his study and closed the door.

“Now that’s interesting. That’s really interesting.” Voelker nodded approvingly at his subordinate, detective Rick Connors.

“I thought you’d think so, sir.” Connors was his junior in years and experience, and always deferred to him very gratifyingly. Voelker, who knew the scope of Connors’s ambitions, was not deceived.

“Two glasses with his fingerprints on them,” mused Voelker. “Both glasses also had Mrs. Crandall’s prints—and one had Mrs. Abrams’s as well?”

“Yes, sir. Badly smudged, but they were there.”

“And only the one with Mrs. Abrams’s prints had poison in it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Voelker pondered this. Why
two
glasses? Heather Crandall had been serving everyone at the party. Perhaps she had switched the glasses inadvertently, or—

Or perhaps she had deliberately tried to throw suspicion on her friend, Ruth Abrams?

Voelker considered Ruth Abrams. So vague, so muddle-headed—could she really have planned these crimes? Well, of course you never knew. It seemed unlikely, but … Heather Crandall had been serving everyone from the punch bowl, so naturally her prints would be on all the glasses. It made a convenient excuse for her. But now he knew that Ruth Abrams’s fingerprints were on the same glass that had contained the poison. It was odd … it was very odd.

It had taken a while to get permission to fingerprint everyone at the party. They had raised a squawk, of course—always did, these people—but in the end everyone had submitted. They all felt insulted at being considered suspects for murder. That professor, Harry Crandall, had gone all red and talked about calling his lawyer and about his constitutional rights, until his wife had calmed him down. But they got the fingerprints in the end. Funny.
The Abrams woman hadn’t complained at all, just sat meekly during the process. Perhaps she didn’t realize …

She wasn’t very intelligent.

It had looked bad for the Crandalls before this—having the man poisoned at their house, during their party. But now with this new evidence …

Of course, he realized that if the Crandalls had poisoned their friend, they wouldn’t have left the glass lying around where the police could find it. They would have been sure to wash everything up and put it away quite innocently. Instead, when Voelker arrived there, they had acted their parts very convincingly. Heather had been in tears, ranting something about her food, and her husband had been standing by her side, looking shattered and lost. Dishes and utensils and napkins and glasses were scattered about, just as they were at the end of any party, apparently undisturbed. Voelker had instructed that the food, the punch bowl, the glasses,
everything
, be taken away and analyzed.

Voelker did not smile. He never smiled. But inside he felt a growing sense of excitement. Before this—just gossip, innuendo, suspicion flying about. Nothing concrete, nothing definite. Now at last they had
something.
It was inconclusive, of course. There was no saying that the person who had slipped poison into Sloane’s drink had even touched the glass. Still, it was something.

He shuffled the papers in front of him and said to Connors,

“Let’s go have another talk with Mrs. Crandall.”

Heather was polite but definite.

“No, of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sure I didn’t switch anyone’s glasses during the party. I went to the punch bowl, filled it up and came back. How could I switch glasses? No, I’m quite sure, Officer.”

“Did you at any time see Mrs. Abrams handle Mr. Sloane’s glass?”

Heather’s gaze became frozen. “No. No, I didn’t,” she said. “No one was helping me—no one at all.”

That could be a lie or it could not, thought Voelker wearily. It was impossible to tell …

“
My
fingerprints?”

Ruth Abrams stared, frightened, into the eyes of Detective Voelker.

“Yes, Mrs. Abrams. Your fingerprints were found on the glass which poisoned Mr. Sloane.”

“But—but …”

Words seemed to fail her. She looked around blindly and her husband took her hand.

“That’s
impossible
,” said Ruth Abrams.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Voelker. “Please, Mrs. Abrams. I just want to ask you some questions. Did you at any time handle Mr. Sloane’s glass?”

“No … no, I don’t think so …”

“Are you sure?”

Ruth fumbled nervously with the hem of her skirt. Her husband handed her a tissue and she wiped her eyes hastily.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is so … so
sudden
 … let me think. No. No. I never once handled Walter’s glass. Why should I? Heather was handing punch all around. No, I never touched it.”

Voelker looked at her steadily. Next to him, Detective Connors was scribbling in a notebook.

“Are you sure of that?”

“If my wife says she’s sure, gentlemen,” Sam put in coldly, “then she’s sure.”

“I never touched it,” Ruth said firmly, with a kind of dignity. “Never!”

She stood up and, swaying as if drunk, marched out of the room without asking for anyone’s permission. The three men sat in embarrassed silence. After a minute the door opened and Marcia peeked in.

“Dad?” she said. “Mom’s crying in the kitchen, and Melvin just bit the cat.”

*      *      *

Later that afternoon Ruth recovered sufficiently to pick up the phone.

“Oh, Heather … Heather,” she sobbed, losing all self-control once she heard her friend’s voice.

“Ruthie? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Ruth told her—about Voelker’s visit, about the fingerprints on the glass. Walter’s glass! How could it be?

“Heather—
they think I did it!
”

“Ruth. Don’t panic. They’ve been here, too. My fingerprints were all over every single one of the glasses. They told me so.”

“But—but you were
serving.
”

“It doesn’t matter.” Heather sounded suddenly very tired. “It doesn’t matter. They still
think
things. Of course they do.”

“It’s just ridiculous,” fumed Ruth. “Absurd!”

“Well, of course it is. The important thing is not to panic. Remember that, Ruthie. Just don’t panic.”

“Yes … yes …”

“They asked me whether you had handed Walter some punch during the party,” Heather said. “I told them no. I don’t remember anyone else helping me serve. You didn’t, did you, Ruthie darling?”

“Certainly not,” said Ruth Abrams.

Bernard and Snooky were closeted together in Bernard’s study. Snooky was saying, “Isabel ran into Mrs. Crandall at the grocery store. She said Mrs. Crandall told her all about it. Honestly, if you hang around that store you eventually hear everything. The other day I was there and I heard this guy near the vegetable section talking about—”

“Snooky.”

“Yes?”

“Get to the point.”

Bernard sat silently as Snooky told him about the fingerprint discovery. When he was finished, Bernard said:

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“I thought so, too.”

Bernard mused for a moment. “Is she that stupid?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Abrams.”

“You mean, to leave her fingerprints on the glass?”

“Yes.”

Snooky considered this. “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s as stupid as everyone makes her out to be, if you want my personal opinion.”

“Hmmhmm. Interesting.”

“Yes.”

“However,” said Bernard with real regret, “I have work to do. So if you don’t mind—?”

“I’m leaving. And Bernard—”

“Yes?”

“You’re very welcome,” said Snooky.

“I won’t have chicken gumbo soup AGAIN!”

There was the sound of dishes shattering against the wall, and an angry cry from Richard.

“But, Dad, they said that you should—”

“I don’t care what the damned doctor said! I want food, I tell you—real food! I want a nice juicy steak! Now bring it to me, and bring it quick, damn you!”

Isabel ran up the stairs.

“Daddy—” she said, entering the sickroom.

Her father glowered at her from the bed. “I won’t have it!” he said. “No more chicken gumbo soup! I’d rather die than eat that stuff again!”

Richard muttered something and brushed past Isabel out of the room.

“Now, Daddy,” Isabel said in her most consoling manner. “Really, there’s no need to shout and break everything in sight, is there? All you have to do is ask. If you want a steak, then you’ll get one.”

Walter Sloane regarded his daughter suspiciously. “Really?”

“Of course. If you want one so badly, then your stomach must be ready to handle one. Who cares what the doctor says?”

“That’s right,” he muttered, leaning back against the pillows. “Damned right. Who cares what the damned doctor says? You’re a smart girl, Isabel,” he added approvingly. “You understand me, don’t you?”

“That’s right, Dad. Now just sit tight and don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll bring your dinner up as soon as it’s ready.” She twinkled at him and left the room.

“
Go
anywhere,” said Walter Sloane to himself. “As if that’s likely, in my condition!”

Nothing at all wrong with him,
Isabel was thinking as she went downstairs. Nothing wrong with him at all. He’s just enjoying playing the invalid. He loves his sickroom and having Richard and me wait on him hand and foot.

She felt the familiar surge of resentment.

She went into the kitchen and took a steak out of the freezer. She stood looking at it doubtfully. Could you cook a frozen steak without defrosting it first?

Richard came in. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“He threw the dishes at the wall,” Richard said. “Soup and everything. It must be a mess. I guess I should go upstairs and clean it up.”

“Oh, I’ll get it later.”

“No, I can’t have you doing everything. Even though you’re the only one he can stand. How do you handle him so well, Isabel?”

She was still looking at the steak with its layer of frost on the plastic wrapping. “What?” she said vaguely.

“How in the world do you handle him so well? I can’t be with him for three minutes before I want to strangle him myself.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Practice, I guess. I’m a lot older than you, you know.”

Richard shrugged, going out with the mop and bucket.

“I wish—” he said, his voice floating back into the kitchen, “I
wish
he had never come home!”

Isabel turned the package over in a vain search for directions. Perhaps if she put the heat up
really high …
?

*      *      *

“He won’t see anyone but Richard and me,” she told Snooky later on the phone. “I don’t know how he’s going to go back to work. He doesn’t trust anyone.”