Pushing Murder (3 page)

“—and she understands that your meals will be brought up from the cafeteria by your family or the person guarding you.” Dr. Cullen suddenly stopped, briskness gone, and came back to my bed. “I wish there were something I could do.”

I held out my hand. “You've done it, Doctor, and we thank you. May I call you in the middle of the night if need be?”

She reached for a pad on my bedside table and scribbled. “Here's my number at home. Call it whenever you please.”

“You're a peach.”

She went out, and as he opened a brown paper bag, Henry said, “Let's have some wine and then a conference.”

A corkscrew was produced, Tina and Paula emerged from the bathroom, and I asked them to collect the plastic glasses and rinse them.

“You've been tippling already?” said Tina.

“Yes. Sal and Dwight were here with champagne.”

“How's the store going?” asked Henry.

“Super, I'm glad to say.”

“Clara's just had a pill, so she'll pass.” Sadd accepted a glass from Tina.

“Like fun I will.”

“Mom!” Paula had always been my vigilant child.

“And give some to Dan,” I said.

“He's on duty.” Henry looked severe. “Do you want him disbarred or unfrocked or stripped of his buttons or branded or flogged—”

“And that reminds me, dear, you are not to spend your own money on Dan. I'll take care of him. Actually, guard duty is not what a private investigator does. After all, he's a detective—”

“He offered to do this, Mom.” Henry looked around, wine bottle poised. “He said his grandparents used to talk about the favors you and Dad did them. And don't worry”—Henry corked the bottle, looking grim—“he'll get a chance to detect. Everybody set? Then I have the floor.”

They settled into chairs, Paula beside the bed clinging to my hand. In the darkness outside the window great flakes descended whitely. Henry leaned back in the plastic armchair and stretched out his legs in a manner achingly like his father. Gazing at me, he said, “Somebody who knew you were at the party for Pushing Murder and who also knows you take saccharin in your coffee wants you dead.” He cleared his throat. “Let's tackle the party first: who was there that you knew?”

“I knew practically everybody.” It was an unsatisfactory answer but the truth. “They were all Sal's friends and mine. Most of us had been in and out of the store all week helping her.” I thought for an instant, then added, feeling injured, “You'd think some of them would have been in to see me. They must all know what happened.”

“They've been flooding in here,” said Tina.

“What?”

Henry said, “First you were in too much shock to see them, then after the second poisoning attempt we didn't dare let anybody up.”

“Henry! They're my friends!”

“One of them may not be.”

There was a brief silence, then I grumbled, “You let Sal and Dwight up.”

Henry shrugged. “They're like us—above suspicion.”

We were silent again. Sadd took a book from his pocket and put it back again. Tina looked at her watch and then at Paula, who shook her head and clung tighter to my hand. Looking at the runny window, I said gently, “Leave plenty of time. La Guardia will be a zoo.”

“We'll make it.” Henry sat forward. “Now, Mother!”

When my son, to whom I'm always “Mom,” says “Mother” in that tone, I know I'm on the carpet.

Feeling guilty for absolutely no reason I could think of, I said, “Yes, dear?”

“Has anyone approached you lately for help?”

Fourth time, wearily, “No.”

“You haven't even had a conversation that has touched on a, shall we say, sensitive area?”

“Not even a conversation.”

“You're certain? Think hard.”

“I've thought. For the past year my life has been boringly undisturbed.”

“No one has—even indirectly—uttered a cry for help?”

“No cry for help.”

“Then,” said Henry, “I can only think of one thing.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “Someone is about to. And someone else knows it and doesn't like it.”

And the next day the cry came.

4

It came in the form of a phone call to my home, where Sadd had gone at my request to collect mail and sundries.

I'd spent a miserably restless night, having declined a sleeping pill because I wanted to think, then found that all I could think about was whether I'd get out of this place alive. “The readiness is all,” I quoted to myself but wondered if Hamlet would have been that cool if he'd found himself in my situation; at least he could walk around while he philosophized.

I lay listening to the doleful sounds of a hospital at night. Calls and cries, sobs and snores, nurses' feet responding … St. Victor's was a very old hospital formerly staffed, I'd been told, entirely by nuns, now more by lay persons. I'd passed and repassed it often in the last few weeks on my way down to help Sal and Dwight. I'd always loved this part of New York. I'd bought my wedding dress at Wanamaker because Aunt Robbie, the beloved woman who raised me, said my mother, whom I never knew, had bought hers there. Greenwich Village, familiar and fascinating. Who had spoiled it for me and why?

I wiped dampness from my eyes and moved my foot gingerly. Not bad. It hardly hurt at all. A nice young orthopedist had been in to ask me how I was doing and say I might even take a spin down the hall in a wheelchair tomorrow. What did the hall look like? Equipment on wheels, busyness, possibly a small commotion, a face known (or unknown) to me—and even with Dan at my side—

I sat up in bed and snapped on the reading light. Kit Schenck, Dan's wife, had been seated outside my door since eleven o'clock. I'd asked her to leave it open, hating the enclosed feeling. I half called, half whispered, “What time is it, Kit?”

“Two thirty.”

“Come in and talk.”

“Okay.”

Kit was a wiry young woman with short, curly hair and a wide smile. She wore the ubiquitous jeans and a black sweater. She put a chair between my bed and the door, and we chatted. I discovered that her name had been Gail Kitenski, that her son and my grandson were both in the fifth grade and both having trouble with arithmetic. Then Kit wanted to talk about my “case,” but I said this was no hour to discuss anything but pleasant, solvable problems like what ten-year-olds might want for Christmas. I suppose I fell asleep because the next thing I knew the room was bright with sun and Kit was walking through the door with a tray. She said, “I hope you like French toast.”

“I love it.”

“Dan will be in shortly. I'm here till he comes. Sorry, but I think the door should be shut. See you tonight.”

Kit left, and I poured syrup, my spirits brightening with the morning. The door was pushed open, and Sadd backed in carrying a tote and a cup of coffee. He was wearing an old red parka of my husband's.

“Good.” I looked fondly at the thing. “You found it.”

“And thank heaven. The snow has stopped, but it's absolutely freezing.”

“Sadd, I know how you hate the cold. You're a saint to be here.”

“Am I not?” He hoisted the tote onto the bed. “I hope I've remembered everything. You got a phone call while I was at your place.”

I froze, fork in midair, remembering my son's words. Sadd put his coffee down and shrugged off the parka. “Who is Janet Folsom?”

Relieved, I completed the bite. “Oh, dear Jan. Not even remotely sinister. She used to be a nun.”

“Why would that preclude her being sinister?”

“Look at these Christmas cards!” I dug into the tote. “And I haven't even finished writing mine yet.”

“I'd say your priorities were elsewhere this year.” He sipped his coffee. “Don't you want to know what your nonsinister friend Janet had to say?”

“Of course.” I dug deeper. “Address book, cards, stamps, hairbrush, bathrobe, slippers. You dear thing, I believe you've remembered everything.”

“She said she was upset and frightened about something and needed your help.”

I sat back—jerked, actually—against my pillow. Dan put his head in the door.

“Reporting for duty.”

Sadd said, “Come in, Dan. You'll want to hear this.” Dan was in like a flash. Sadd took a banana from my tray. “May I have half of this?”

I nodded, and he sat down, peeling it. “I went to Mrs. Gamadge's home on Sixty-third Street this morning to fetch some things for her. I was just getting out of the elevator—it opens directly into her living room—when the phone rang.” Sadd took a bite of banana. “It was rather eerie—that sudden ring in the empty room.”

“Who was it?” asked Dan.

I said, “An old friend of mine named Janet Folsom.” I looked at my fork. “She's a widow. She's frightened about something and wants my help.”

Dan pulled up a chair and sat on the edge of it. “Did she know—or did she say she knew—that Mrs. Gamadge was in the hospital?”

“No.” Sadd ate more of the banana. “I told her, and she seemed distressed. She wanted to know why, and I said you'd had an accident but didn't elaborate. She asked if she could come see you.”

“No,” said Dan.

“But, Dan, Janet is an old and dear—”

“At least not till I see her first. Where does she live?”

“Fairfield, Connecticut.”

“But at the moment,” said Sadd, “she's in Room Three-twelve at the Plaza.”

“The Plaza,” I said dreamily. The name still conjured up memories of its dear, old elegance. I'd spent my wedding night at the Plaza in July of 1941 and vividly recall catching a glimpse of the bill and gasping at my bridegroom's extravagance. “Mr. and Mrs. Henry Gamadge, Tenth Floor Suite, $22.50.”

Dan stood up. “I'll go see Mrs. Folsom tonight. Did you tell her what hospital, Mr. Saddlier?”

“I'm afraid I did.” Sadd looked remorseful. “She asked, and before I could stop to think—”

“Not a problem.” Dan reached for the phone. “I'll call her. But two to one she's on her way down here now.”

How right he was. There was no answer in Room 312 at the Plaza, and Dan had scarcely hung up when the phone rang. A second instrument had been put in the room, and Dan or Kit listened to calls. I'd chatted with solicitous friends, but “No Visitors” was still enforced.

Dan picked up his receiver, and I picked up mine.

“Clara! It's Jan Folsom—my God, are you all right?”

“Well, yes and no, Jan. My cousin told me you called the apartment. How are you?”

“How am
I?
How are
you?
He wouldn't tell me a thing. Did you fall or something? I'm down at the desk, and they won't let me up. Please tell them to! I promise not to talk about my trouble—that can wait. I'd just like to see you!”

I looked piteously at Dan. He nodded and pointed to Sadd.

“All right, Jan. My cousin is here now, and he'll come down for you. His name is Charles Saddlier.”

“Yes, he told me. I think I knew his wife. Was she Harriet Ames?”

“Sure was.” I hung up. “She knew Harriet, Sadd.”

“Almost as reassuring as having been a nun.” He stood up. “I've eaten your whole banana. Do you want another?”

“No.” My appetite had sharply diminished. “Will you take the tray, please?”

Dan picked it up and followed Sadd to the door. He said, “I'll wait for them at the elevator. I want a word with the lady first.”

I lay back trying to remember everything I knew about Janet Folsom.

She'd been beautiful, still was. How old was Janet? Some years younger than I, maybe sixty. Her mother had been a friend of Aunt Robbie's. Janet was an intriguing combination of great beauty and deep religious faith. In her early twenties she had entered a Benedictine convent but, never strong, had suffered a breakdown and had been reluctantly and lovingly released by that order. Almost at once, a shy young millionaire, Lewis Folsom, who had hoped to marry her, reappeared on the scene, and Janet was swept through what Evelyn Waugh once called “the hundred and one horrors of a fashionable wedding.” Within a year the robust Lewis died of hepatitis, and the delicate Janet survived to perform endless good works and support innumerable good causes. For a few years she'd been a member of my bridge club along with Sal. But Janet's life became more and more devoted to her charities, and we saw less and less of her.

I'd last seen Janet about a year ago at a banquet in her honor given by St. Francis Seminary in Fairfield, marking the thirtieth anniversary of the Lewis Folsom scholarship fund. She had looked stunning in an azure blue silk gown created for her by some giant of the designing world, and Sal, sitting beside me, had remarked glumly that Janet's figure was as good as ever. Her ash-blond hair, expertly maintained ash-blond, brushed the great diamonds in her ears, her fingers glittered with the same, and around her neck was a little square of brown burlap on a string. It was, a priest at our table told us, the scapular of the Order of St. Benedict, which she never removed.

Who on earth would want to frighten or upset Janet Folsom?

I heard the elevator door open, then voices—Janet's and Dan's—and Sadd appeared at my door looking over his shoulder. Janet's voice grew agitated.

“What's up?” I said.

Sadd gave a puzzled shrug and stood looking toward them. The usual traffic of nurses and berobed patients passed, some looking curiously back toward what was now the sobbing sound of Janet's voice.

This was intolerable. “Dammit, Sadd, tell Dan to let her in!”

But Janet let herself in. She streaked past Sadd weeping and gasping, “My fault! All my fault! I did it, Clara, I nearly got you killed!” And now I was in her throttling embrace, damp from the snow still clinging to her coat. “And look—I've soaked you! Nice work, Janet—give her pneumonia, too!” She dropped the coat, a lovely cashmere one, to the floor. “Oh, Clara, what have I done? Are you still horribly sick? And let me see your poor ankle!”