Father's Day Murder (17 page)

He stood and smiled at her. She opened the glass door and the dog bounded in. He didn’t need to be invited to nuzzle Eddie, who laughed gleefully.

“She’s an old dog,” Mrs. Horowitz said, “and she’s wonderful with children. Just watch she doesn’t knock Eddie over in her enthusiasm.”

It was good advice. I let them play for a couple of minutes, then told Eddie it was time to go. He knew how to say no and he said it with feeling. When I finally got down and picked him up, he cried bitterly and kicked. To make matters worse, the dog barked at me. I felt I had made everyone in that room unhappy, including myself.

“He’ll get over it,” Mrs. Horowitz said comfortingly. “The trouble is, I won’t. I never dreamed anything like this would happen. I feel as if everyone’s life has been ripped apart. And I don’t know who can sew it back together again.”

We walked through the house to the front door and she came outside with me. “What did you know about George Fried?” I asked, largely to change the subject to something less inflammatory.

“Oh George,” she said dismissively. “He was a bore. He died years ago. I never blamed Iris for leaving him.”

“Iris?”

“His first wife. She was a fool but she came to her senses finally.”

I put Eddie down on the walk. His tears had stopped, but they remained in streaks on his face, reminding me of how I had deprived him. He walked toward the car, pointing at it. When I got the back door open, I picked him up and put him in the car seat.

“You come visit me again, Eddie,” Mrs. Horowitz said. “You can play with the dog, OK?” She reached in and gave him a loving pat. When I had closed the door she said, “I didn’t have an affair with Arthur Wien,” and she turned and strode back to the house.

15

We got home in plenty of time for Eddie’s lunch, my lunch, and a short breather before I had to call George Fried. I was very troubled about my conversation with Robin Horowitz. She seemed as believable as all the rest of them, but it was obvious that she was hiding something that could bring her or someone else great embarrassment. It might also result in the arrest of her husband.

I knew exactly what Jack would say if I told him she had denied having an affair with Arthur Wien: What else could she say? And it was true. Whatever had taken her to his apartment was very private and sensitive enough that it was still a secret from her husband. It would come out, I knew, as soon as the police decided to move in and arrest him for the murder. It made me feel that I had to get to the bottom of this before that happened, assuming the doctor was innocent.

Eddie was fast asleep when I finally dialed the California number and heard George Fried pick up on the first ring. He had been waiting for my call.

“So what can I tell you?” he said when the formalities were over. “You know I haven’t been involved with the boys for a long time, and unless you’ve told them, they think I’m dead, which is how I’d like them to think of me.”

“Why is that, Mr. Fried?”

“They’re a boring group of people. I just don’t want to spend three hours asking them what they’ve been doing since the last time I saw them. I don’t care what they’ve been doing, and I don’t think they give much of a damn what I’ve been doing. And the last thing I want is people dropping in on me and telling me stories about guys I haven’t seen in twenty years.”

“But telling people you’re dead, it seems so extreme.”

“OK, you’re right. I got a bug in my head and did something crazy, but it’s done. Let’s leave it.”

I agreed. “What can you tell me about Fred Beller?”

“Freddy had a tough childhood. He had a mother who was depressed and eventually took her life. Then he met a girl he really cared about, and Artie Wien batted his eyelashes at her and she left Freddy for Artie. It wasn’t a pretty situation. Besides, who would live in New York if he had a choice?”

“Not you, I guess.”

“Not me and not Freddy. Not Artie either, from what I hear. He bought himself a house in California.”

“He kept an apartment in New York too.”

“Well, what do you expect? He’s a big shot author. He’s got to play the intellectual scene; gives him points with important people or so he thinks.”

“Mr. Fried, do you know that Arthur Wien is dead?”

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t know till yesterday. His obituary didn’t make the local paper. My wife picked up a magazine and saw a notice.”

“Did he ever ask you to lend him money or do favors for him?”

“He could have.” He said it as though he attached no importance whatever to it. “It couldn’t have been much
because I didn’t have much in those days. Why? Is his estate paying back his debts?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I’ll put in a claim for two dollars, how’s that?”

“That’s pretty reasonable. What I’m interested in is the relationships of the men to each other, of their wives, that kind of thing.”

“You a detective?”

“An amateur with experience. I’m looking for a motive.”

“OK, Chris. That’s your name, right?”

“Yes, I’m Chris Bennett.”

“I’m off to Chicago this afternoon on business. On Thursday I’m flying to Newark Airport. I’ve got business in a town in Jersey. You want to meet me at Newark Airport for an hour and we’ll talk? I’ll try to think up all the dirt I know on the flight.”

“That would be great—sitting down with you.”

He gave me his flight number, and we agreed to meet at the baggage carousel at noon on Thursday. He began to describe himself, but I told him I would make a sign with his name on it, as if I were a taxi driver picking up an incoming passenger. He laughed and said that was a good idea. When I got off the phone, I went looking for Jack’s shirt cardboards.

That left me with a free day tomorrow after having spoken to everyone in the group and most of the wives. I called Alice Wien and asked if I might come into New York in the morning and spend as much of the day as I needed to look through the original handwritten manuscript and the typewritten copy that she made from the original.

She said that would be fine, and she would be ready for me at nine-thirty or nine forty-five although I didn’t think I’d make it till ten. I decided I would ask her to send out for lunch for both of us, my treat, so I could get as much work done as possible before leaving for home. I checked with Elsie, and she said she’d take Eddie both Wednesday and enough of Thursday so that I could meet George Fried at the airport and have an hour’s conversation with him.

Then I sat for a while and thought about my next call. Ellen Koch was the only person who had indicated there might be an affair between Arthur Wien and one of the wives. I was sure she and Robin Horowitz knew each other well. Their husbands were best friends and the couples would surely spend much time together. If Robin Horowitz had confided in Ellen Koch, would Ellen tell me? I didn’t think so, but if she saw that I had figured it out, maybe she would add something that might be useful.

“Chris,” she said when I identified myself, “are you getting any closer?”

“I’ve learned a lot but I don’t know if I’m closer. I wanted to ask you about that tantalizing nugget you tossed out on Saturday.”

“What was that?”

“That one of the wives of the Morris Avenue Boys had had an affair with Arthur Wien.”

“Oh yes, that.”

“I have reason to believe that Robin Horowitz is the person you were referring to.”

“Robin?” She spoke the name as a simple question, with no surprise or shock, no anger, no derisive humor.

“Yes.”

“What can I say? I told you I didn’t know who it was.”

“Would you be likely to know if it was Mrs. Horowitz?”

“Only if she told me, and she hasn’t.”

“Do you think it’s a possibility?”

“I don’t know what to say. Anything is possible but I don’t think that’s probable. Robin and Mort are a happy couple, they have a nice family, they live enjoyable and satisfying lives. I can’t think why Robin would have an affair with anyone.”

“Can you think of any reason why she would visit him by herself and keep the visits a secret?”

“None.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention to her or to anyone else that I asked you these questions.”

“They didn’t lead anywhere,” she said. “I have no reason to mention them.”

“Chris,” Melanie Gross called as I pushed the stroller by her driveway. “You going anywhere?”

“Just going,” I called back. I leaned over to Eddie and said, “Look, there’s your friend Mel.”

He returned her smile and wave and said something which I recognized as his version of Mel but which I could not reproduce myself.

“Let’s walk.” She came to the curb. “We never do our morning thing any more and my muscles miss it.”

“So do I. Where are your kids?”

“Doing after-school things. I’m a free woman for the next hour and I really feel the need of a walk. And I want to hear about the case.”

I started by telling her that the dead man was alive.

“Chris, how do you find these things out? That’s incredible.”

“I just called the number, he answered, and he owned up to who he was.”

“Why haven’t the others in the group found out?”

“Because they’ve never called his number. He thought they were pretty boring, and I gather they thought the same of him. Why would they call his widow, who was his second wife and no one knew her very well if at all? What would there be to talk about?”

“I see. So he lives out in the open and no one sees him.”

“That’s the way it looks to me.” I brought her up to date and then said, “Tomorrow I’m going through the pencil manuscript of
The Lost Boulevard.”

“Pencil, gee. Do they still make pencils?” Mel laughed.

“I guess they did in the fifties.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a line that didn’t get printed that says something telling about someone.”

“Chris, that’ll take you days, weeks.”

“Well, I’ll start by glancing at every page. Something may leap out at me. There should be things he crossed out, things that never got in the final manuscript. Maybe those were sensitive things that it would be in bad taste to publish.”

“You really have quite a job cut out for you.” We turned a corner and kept moving. “I hope it all comes together.”

“They all know things they’re withholding, Mel. I talked to a woman this morning who visited Arthur Wien at his apartment several times a couple of years ago, and she denies they had an affair but won’t say what the visits were about. She said she gave her word to keep it secret.”

“So there really have been things going on.”

“Oh yes. And Wien borrowed money that he didn’t return. One lender insisted on having the manuscript as collateral.”

“So they knew his reputation.”

“But they all say nice things about him anyway,” I said. “They stick up for each other.”

“Sounds like one guy didn’t.”

“But which one? Come, let’s give Eddie a run for his money.”

16

Jack is, of course, the best baby-sitter I have, except for the first time I left him with Eddie, when Eddie was very young and Jack very inexperienced, even more inexperienced than I. Now I rely on him completely. Although he doesn’t get to see Eddie in the evenings as we are a morning family, rising early, he sees him every day from getting out of bed till leaving for work, a couple of good hours. That will change in the next few days when Jack’s schedule changes with his new assignment, but I know their relationship will not suffer.

Anyway, I dashed out of the house for my evening meeting with Bernie and Marilyn Reskin as soon as we had finished dinner. These were the last people on my list, and I had been told that they were gossipers so there was still hope I could get something new and useful out of them.

Marilyn Reskin opened the door and greeted me with great enthusiasm. She was a small woman wearing a colorful cotton skirt, a short-sleeved shirt, and sandals, comfortable clothes that were far from showy. Her husband appeared as we were walking toward the back of the house, and he greeted me just as warmly. He then introduced
me to a tall young man who was apparently a student and who was now leaving.

“I hope we’ve got him straightened out,” he said when he joined us on the enclosed porch where we had seated ourselves. “That boy is right on the line. If he tips the right way, the world is his.”

“This is Bernie’s life,” his wife said and I could feel pride emanate from her.

“I hope you’re successful,” I said. “It must be very hard for you when the scales tip the other way.”

“Harder than you can imagine. I’ve visited boys at Riker’s Island. I don’t recommend that to anyone.”

Having made one visit to Riker’s myself to see an inmate, I could only agree with him. “I’m afraid I’m here to talk about something that’s also quite painful.”

“Artie’s death, I know. Morty said you were working on it, and I know he’s worried because the police think he could have done it.”

“Why would they think that?” I asked as unassumingly as I could.

“He found Artie. They figure he killed him, then walked out and told us he’d found a body. Morty couldn’t kill anything. He’s a healer in the truest sense of the word.”

“Someone killed him,” I said.

“Sure, someone killed him. Maybe someone in the restaurant walked into the men’s room while Artie was there, and they got in a fight.”

“And the other person just happened to have an ice pick in his pocket?”

His wife leaned forward. “Bernie and I have been through this a hundred times. These men are friends, many of them since kindergarten. Why would one of them kill Artie?”

“You tell me.”

“How far back do you want to go?” Bernie asked.

“That’s an interesting question.”

“Well, everybody knows that Artie took Freddy Beller’s sweetheart away from him. That was over forty years ago, and Fred is married to a wonderful woman and lives in Minnesota. You think that’s too far back?”

“I don’t think it’s too far back. I think it’s not a motive.”

“OK, that sounds reasonable.”