Going Out in Style (3 page)

“Thank you,” he said, again with that curious dignity.

“Would you please tell me where you were last night?”

“Certainly,” said Albert Whitaker, and dropped his glasses again. He retrieved them quickly, muttered
“Damn!”
, wiped them with a corner of his sweater, put them back on, stared in a startled, inquisitive fashion at Janovy as if he had never seen him before, then said matter-of-factly, “I was out for the evening with a good friend of mine.”

Fish was ready with his notebook open and pen poised. Janovy said, “Your friend’s name?”

“Gretchen. Gretchen Schneider. She lives at forty-three ninety-five Fungus Grove. No, excuse me, it’s not Fungus, it’s that other word … I always get the two confused.…”

“That’s all right, Mr. Whitaker. We can look it up.”

Albert Whitaker was peering worriedly out the window. The winter sunlight, pale and clear, flooded in and lit up his face. He was handsome in a rumpled, mussed-up way; even his face looked curiously disarranged, the nose a little too big, the mouth too wide, the eyes moonlike behind the lenses. It was a pleasant, sensitive face. He said, “No, not
fungus
 … damn, what’s that other word?… I always forget.…”

Janovy glanced at Fish.

“
Fruitcake
 … no … I know, I have it, it’s
Palomino
,” Whitaker said at last in triumph. “Forty-three ninety-five Palomino Grove.”

Janovy regarded him doubtfully. “You get ‘Palomino’ confused with ‘Fungus’?”

Albert Whitaker gave him a sweet smile. “Yes … yes, stupid, isn’t it? It has something to do with something I read
once … something about cowboys galloping across fields of mushrooms … somewhere out west … I can’t remember now.…” He paused and squinted out the window again.

“Mr. Whitaker. Please go on. You were out with your friend—”

“Oh, yes. We had dinner at the Golden Eagle, you know, that restaurant in the center of town—”

Janovy nodded. Everyone in Ridgewood knew the Golden Eagle, famed for its hearty portions and low prices. “You went there straight from work?”

“Yes. We went together. I’m a professor of European history at Edgemont, the local college here, you know, and Gretch—Dr. Schneider, I mean—teaches English. We met after classes and went straight over to the Golden Eagle.”

“What time did you arrive there?”

This took a bit of figuring out. The class was his last of the day, the one on Florence and the Italian Renaissance, and it was usually over … let’s see now … around five-thirty, so that would mean he went over to the administration building to meet Gretch—he corrected himself, Dr. Schneider—around five forty-five, so they would have been at the restaurant by …

“Six-fifteen,” said Janovy. Edgemont College, a small unpretentious place which gave an excellent education, was no more than half an hour’s drive away, if that. “Thank you, Mr. Whitaker. Dr. Whitaker, I should say. And after dinner—?”

After dinner, around eight o’clock, they had walked over to the art gallery in the center of town, a little place called Happy Dreams. Thinking on this, Albert Whitaker became quite enthused. He ran his fingers through his hair, dropped several pencils from obscure pockets in his clothing, and unfastened his watch and fastened it on again.

“Fascinating show. Fascinating show of aboriginal art. The most amazing drawings I’ve ever seen. I would have loved to have bought some—in fact I’d have bought everything I saw, the whole show, except of course on a professor’s salary I couldn’t afford it. Still, Gretch and I are thinking of pitching in together—
oh!
”

He gazed, stricken, at the two detectives.

“Now you’ll think I wanted the money. Damned stupid thing for me to say to the police, I guess.
Damn
it. Oh, well.”

“How much money did your mother have, Dr. Whitaker?”

Janovy expected a startled stare and some obfuscations, perhaps some more pencils or pens dropping out of unexpected places, but instead Albert Whitaker merely nodded and came to the point with unexpected brevity.

“One hundred and twenty million dollars, Detective.”

It was Janovy’s turn to be stunned. One hundred and twenty million dollars! As luxurious as the Whitaker mansion was, he somehow had not expected them to be that rich. “Yes, well,” he said, casting a glance at Fish, whose impassive face and bulging eyes revealed nothing. “Yes. And who stands to inherit the money?”

Albert Whitaker said calmly that there were just the two of them: himself and his sister Susan. “There’s also my great-aunt Etta—she’s around here somewhere today, probably in the kitchen—but I’m fairly sure Mother didn’t leave her anything. My great-uncle left Etta very comfortably off.”

Janovy nodded. “Please go on, Dr. Whitaker. How long were you at the art gallery?”

Albert Whitaker said he and his friend were at the gallery until it closed, at ten o’clock. Then they went over to the bar in town, The Painted Man, for a drink or two. He drove Gretchen to her house and got home himself around twelve-thirty. He went into the house—

“Was the door locked?” interrupted Janovy.

Albert paused. Yes, yes, the door was locked, just like always. He used his key to get in.

“Who else has a key to the house besides yourself, Dr. Whitaker?”

Albert Whitaker looked baffled. Just his mother and his sister, he said. No one else that he knew of. Oh, and Mrs. MacGregor, of course.

“She’s our combination housekeeper and cook. She’s been here for years. You’ll find her in the kitchen if you want to ask her about it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Whitaker. Please go on. You were out for the evening with your friend.…”

Oh, yes, said Albert Whitaker. It was a pattern, you
see … he and Gretchen always went out on Friday nights, had dinner, took in a show or a movie, then ended up the evening at The Painted Man. He usually got home at around twelve-thirty. Last night, as he was saying, he had opened the door just like always and gone in.

At this point in the narrative he stopped abruptly and turned a delicate shade of green.

“Thank you, Dr. Whitaker. You don’t have to tell us any more. Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind. Was anyone supposed to come by and see your mother last night? Anyone at all?”

“No, not that I know of. You see, my mother was going into New York City last night, so naturally she hadn’t made any other plans.”

“New York City,” Janovy said thoughtfully. “Why? Was she meeting someone?”

“Yes, a young friend of hers. His name is Snooky Randolph. He comes in from time to time to stay with his sister, and always calls my mother to say hello. I must have his sister’s address around here somewhere … let me think.…” He gazed around him doubtfully. “Now I wonder where I could have put it …?”

“What’s his sister’s name?”

“It’s an unusual name,” Albert said helpfully. “Starts with an M, I think, or maybe an N. Sounds something like ‘Aztec.’ No, that’s not right … hmmmm … let me see now.…”

It took several minutes of wild guesses and random word associations before Albert managed to dredge up the name. “Maya,” he said triumphantly. “Maya Woodruff.”

“Thank you. Do you know where your mother and her friend were planning to meet downtown?”

“No … no, I don’t. All I know is she got all dressed up to go out. She was so excited about the date … she
hadn’t been to New York for such a long time.…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes,” said Janovy briskly. “Once again, Dr. Whitaker, you’re sure you don’t know of anyone who might have come by here last night—perhaps just dropped by?”

“Oh. No, I don’t. I was away all day, you see. You’ll have to ask Mrs. MacGregor about that. She would have been here until around six or six-thirty, I guess.”

“Fine. One last question, then. Was the money your mother’s absolutely?”

Oh, yes, Albert said. His father had made a fortune in pins, and had left everything to his mother.

“Pins?”

“Pins. Straight pins, safety pins, diaper pins—until they went out of fashion—all kinds of pins.”

“None of the money was left to you or your sister?”

Oh, no, Albert replied. His father had trusted his mother’s judgment implicitly on everything, including the distribution of his wealth. And his mother had not so much distributed as doled out her money in dribbles.

“But it’s not the way it seems,” Albert said earnestly. He moved forward with an expansive gesture, and the brass lamp tottered on its base. “We’re not murderers. You don’t know us, that’s all. You’ll see when you meet my sister. It’s not the way it looks.”

I’ll be the judge of that
, thought Janovy. Aloud he said, “Thank you very much, Dr. Whitaker. You’ll be hearing from us if we have any more questions.”

Detective Janovy ran Mrs. MacGregor to earth in the big old drafty stone-walled kitchen. The room was cold and damp, and MacGregor was mopping the floor with a lugubrious expression. At the big wooden table in the
middle of the room, someone who Janovy realized could only be Great-aunt Etta stood rolling dough around and around in her floury hands.

“Mrs. MacGregor?”

Mrs. MacGregor grudgingly stopped what she was doing and leaned on her mop. “Yes?”

“I wonder whether you would mind answering some questions about last night.”

Mrs. MacGregor looked more sour than ever and said she didn’t know. She cocked an unfriendly eye at him and said she didn’t cotton to having police in the house, if he got her meaning.

Janovy said yes, he did, but if she could only answer a few questions—

MacGregor announced that it wasn’t a matter of whether she
could
answer his questions; it was more a matter of whether she
would
, if he took her meaning.

Janovy said yes, but—

“Go ahead and talk to the man, MacGregor,” said Etta Pinsky with sudden vigor. “You’ve been dying to talk to the police all day.”

MacGregor was offended. That wasn’t true. She was just doing her job—

“She’s been talking about nothing else,” Great-aunt Etta said dryly. “Go ahead, MacGregor. Here’s your big chance.”

Detective Janovy said that he was very interested in finding out who might have come into the house the previous evening—say, around seven-fifteen or perhaps later? Was Mrs. MacGregor in the house then?

MacGregor gave a loud sniff and said she was not, she was home by that hour, as every decent soul would be. She had left the house a little after six-thirty. Although now that he mentioned it …

“Yes?”

MacGregor cast a sly look at Etta Pinsky, who was busily rolling the dough back and forth. Well, she had been in the back of the house, MacGregor said. In the kitchen, where they were now. And just before she left, she had heard the front door open and close.

“What time would that be?”

MacGregor looked sour and said she didn’t know. Around six-fifteen or six-twenty, maybe. Just before she left. But when she went out into the front hall to get her coat, there was no one there.

So the murderer came in earlier, thought Janovy. He or she came in and waited somewhere for Bella Whitaker to leave. “Did you leave by the front or the back door, Mrs. MacGregor?”

MacGregor looked upset and had to be calmed down before she would continue with the questioning. The back door, indeed! Who did he think he was, implying that she would sneak in and out the back door like—like a
servant
! Why, she had been here nearly ten years now.… She was like a member of the family. How
dare
he?

“I’m sorry,” said Janovy hastily. “So you left, naturally, by the
front
door. Did you notice anything wrong with the door, or the lock?”

MacGregor pondered this and said no. Everything was as usual.

“Who else besides yourself has a key to the house?”

Just the family, said Mrs. MacGregor. Mrs. Whitaker and her two children.

“Did anyone come into the house yesterday afternoon or evening that you know of—anyone at all?”

MacGregor was firm on this topic. No one, she said. No one at all. She and Mrs. Whitaker were the only ones
in the house, as far as she knew, and Mrs. Whitaker had spent most of the afternoon upstairs in her room.

“Would you be sure to hear if someone came in the front door—as you did around six-fifteen?”

MacGregor replied that she couldn’t be sure exactly. If she was in the laundry room or working hard in the kitchen (at this point Great-aunt Etta gave a muffled snort), she might not hear. It was a long way from the kitchen to the front door. If she was washing dishes, for instance, she might not hear.

“One more question, Mrs. MacGregor. When you left, you locked the door from the outside?”

MacGregor gave him a particularly unfriendly look. “Of course I did. I always lock the door. What’s the use of having a key otherwise?”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. MacGregor. You’ve been very helpful.”

Janovy’s interview with Etta Pinsky was short and very much to the point. She told him that she had been at home all last night. She lived in an apartment about fifteen minutes away. She was Bella’s maternal aunt and in the sixty-eight years since Bella had been born they had gotten along just fine. She was, she informed him, seventy-nine years old, and would be eighty very soon. If he thought that at her age she was capable of jumping around and strangling people to death, particularly her well-loved niece, then he was, she said flatly, out of his mind.