by Chris Knopf
“Can I split infinitives?”
“Think passive voice. Like literally.”
“That’s a mission not accepted lightly.”
Worldwide Loventeers looked out on its global territory from about fifty stories above Sixth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan. Expecting something more like a battered townhouse in the Village, it took a moment to adjust, and presented a challenge getting Eddie past the two guards at the security desk and into the elevator.
“Service dog,” I told them.
“What’re you blind or something?” one of them asked.
“Not that kind of service. More spiritual. He’s here to interview Worldwide Loventeers.”
They exchanged glances, as if they’d heard it all.
“I gotta call up there.”
“Sure.”
I gave them Eddie’s full name, Eddie Van Halen.
“Like the musician?” he asked.
“Sort of. No relation.”
He announced that Sam Acquillo and Edward Van Halen were in the lobby requesting entry. No distinct species identified.
“Go on up.”
The office, like the building, was made of glass. Everything visible, inside and out, floor to ceiling. I noted that to the receptionist.
“We believe in transparency,” she said, happy to repeat the joke for the thousandth time. “Who’s your friend?” she asked Eddie. “Does he want a treat?”
“I’m all set, thanks,” I told her.
Eddie knew that going to the city meant the indignity of a leash, the constraints of which he tested every few seconds. Though when I wrestled him over to the waiting room couch, he took it well, and even sat in front of me as if trained to do so.
The only thing floral about Milton Flowers was his complexion. A squat little guy, with a balding head sprinkled with oily dew, he reminded me of a materials fabricator I used to work with back at the company. His tie was loosened at his throat as if to relieve the pressure welling up from a pot belly well-defined under a straining dress shirt. Made me think he could lose twenty pounds with the prick of a pin.
“Mr. Acquillo?” he asked, walking up to me.
“Acquillo. With a C. Sounds like quill.”
Eddie stood up and sniffed his trouser leg.
“Must smell my wife’s cat. Thing’s always trying to trip me. I’m a dog person myself,” he added, adeptly scratching Eddie’s ear as if to prove his bona fides.
“Sorry about Mr. Darby,” I said. “Must be a shock.”
“Freaking terrible. Let’s go sit down. Bring the dog, unless he can help out on the phone banks. We take all volunteers.”
He led me through the crystalline halls to a conference room staring into the building next door, also glass-walled, though opaque. Seemed like an unfair advantage.
“Joshua Edelstein told me you’d be stopping by,” he said, as we settled at the conference room table. “I’ve already been through everything with the police.”
“Sorry about that, but I’d like to hear for myself.”
“I used to be a firefighter, so I get it. The insurance guys always wanted to get their own take on things.”
He sat with his hands clasped on the table top, ready to serve. His glasses were too small for his face, which was too small for his head. He might have shopped at Ross Semple’s favorite clothing store, a polyester-based holdout against the surging tide of natural fibers.
“Tell me about Elton Darby,” I said.
“You’re not recording this? I don’t care if you do. For recollection’s sake.”
“I’ll remember.” I pointed at my head. “Steel trap.”
“Mine’s a sieve.”
I didn’t tell him that I liked to look at people’s faces when they talked. Often said a lot more than their words, and more worth remembering.
“Darby worked for me, but we were basically on par with each other,” he said. “I’m the inside guy, focused on the service providers; he was the outside guy, raising the money. I do phones okay, but he was Mr. Face-to-Face. Liked going to events and traveling around visiting people. Frankly, I’d rather pluck out my eyes with a fork than do that stuff, so there’s your perfect team.”
“So you got along.”
His expression said they did, with reservations. He took off his glasses and dug a handkerchief out of his back pocket. As he wiped them off, I noticed how part of his thumb was covering a lens. I wanted to lean across the table and gently move the thumb out of the way. When he put the glasses back on, they still looked slightly glazed, as if the whole effort was meant to dim, or diffuse, the vivid, glassed-off surroundings.
“I got my CPA after quitting the department. Darby studied drama at Juilliard, so there you go. Not a lot in common, but there was mutual respect. Based on the fact that we hated doing what the other one had to do.”
“So Darby was short on administrative skills.”
Flowers chuckled.
“What administrative skills? Did he know what the word administrative meant? His assistant did everything but wipe his nose for him. Otherwise we’d never know what he was up to.”
“But a good fund-raiser.”
“Oh, yeah. Sometimes I had to close the sale for him, like when a victim sobered up and found the receipt for a one hundred K pledge stuffed in his shirt pocket.”
He chuckled again, though with little humor.
“So a party boy.”
He shook his head.
“Yeah, but not in the way you mean. I hate words like schmoozer and glad-hander. Undermines the seriousness guys like Darby put into their jobs. He was always on, always working the crowd. It’s exhausting, never letting down. Even extroverts need a break.”
“Did he ever take any?”
“Breaks? I don’t think so. I made him go on vacation, but he just kept working. You could tell by looking at his expense reports, which I did with a magnifying glass.”
“Padded?” I asked.
He unclasped his hands so he could point a finger, the former fireman emerging from his body language.
“No, Darby was sloppy, but honest. The fine-tooth comb was for his sake, not mine. He didn’t know from auditors.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Mistaken inference.”
He relaxed a little, but not much.
“This was an accident, right? Darby falling out a window,” he said. “Edelstein didn’t tell me much. Just that you were stopping by and I should talk to you. He’s our biggest donor,” he added, explaining the only reason I was sitting there.
“The cops haven’t confirmed cause of death, but that’s what it looks like. To me.”
“What else could it be?”
I didn’t see the point in keeping anything from him. Eventually he’d find out anyway.
“He went through a closed double-hung window. A six-over-six, it’s called. Six lights top and bottom.”
“With the wood things.”
“They’re called muntins. Make up the grid that holds the individual pieces of glass. People usually call them mullions, but that’s a different thing. Point is, not that easy to just fall through. Takes some doing.”
I could see him picturing it in his mind.
“For sure. So probably not an accident,” he said. His expression changed again as he thought it all the way through. “Unless somebody pushed him.”
“Nobody’s saying that. Darby was the only one in the room when it happened.”
“Ah,” said Flowers. “I get it. You think Darby took the big leap. You’re asking me about his mental state.”
“I guess I am.”
He started nodding, as if agreeing with his own thoughts.
“What’s your interest in this? Protecting Loventeers? I think we can handle that pretty well on our own.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“My wife’s sister killed herself last year. Looked to everybody like she had a nice life. Family, good job, no financial pressures, faithful husband, house in Montclair. W
ent to church, drove the kids to music lessons, big smile all the time. Went to a hotel and ate a bottle of sleeping pills. Left a note apologizing to housekeeping for the imposition. Nobody saw it coming, including my wife and all her friends. So don’t ask me about Darby. I didn’t know a lot about his personal life, and even if I did, it wouldn’t mean a damn thing.”
I tried to look through the smeared glasses for a better view of his mind. I felt like he meant everything he said, I just didn’t think he was saying all he thought. Not surprising for a guy, who like he said, had an organization to look after.
“You work for Edelstein?” he asked.
“Indirectly.” I didn’t mention the finished carpentry I’d done on his house. “A mutual friend was at the house the night it happened. You could say I’m working for him.”
For the second time, I seemed to confirm one of his suspicions.
“Reputation management,” he said.
“I don’t know what that is,” I said, with all honesty.
“Sure you do. Your friend was around when Darby made a mess. You want to make sure none of it splashes up his leg.”
Now that I knew what he meant, I guessed he wasn’t wrong, exactly. Though Burton’s reputation wasn’t the only thing I was worried about.
“Darby had a date that night. A guy named Mercado. Ever meet him?”
Flowers gave an indifferent nod.
“Sure. I guess you’d call him a date. They were living together on the West Side. At least Johnnie was there the last time I dropped by with some paperwork for Darby. Looked pretty moved in. I met Johnnie last year at the Christmas party. Darby had his picture on the credenza.”
Flowers pulled out his smartphone.
“Just checking the time,” he said. “I should probably get going. You can always call me if you want more.”
Sensing the change in dynamics, Eddie stood up from his spot in the corner and went to the door.
“You’ll probably hear from me,” I said. “Or maybe Eddie.”
He took me all the way to the elevator banks before asking another question.
“This friend of yours at the Edelsteins’ place. Wouldn’t be Burton Lewis, would it?”
I hesitated, wondering if Joshua had spilled the beans. But then confirmed it.
“You asked me about Johnnie Mercado,” he said. “I did see Darby at a restaurant with Lewis not that long ago. I figured he was just schmoozing an important donor, but now that I think about it, the whole thing looked kind of intimate, and you know, given Darby’s and Lewis’s batting preferences,” his voice trailing off, but not his implication.
I just thanked him and took advantage of a waiting elevator to slip out of there.
CHAPTER FIVE
Elton Darby’s funeral took place on a grass-covered hill somewhere deep in Nassau County. There were no trees within a thousand yards and the temperature was in the mid-nineties, simulating the prospects some of us had for the afterlife. Apparently not Darby, who according to the priest had led an honest and giving life, exemplary in every way imaginable, if you had a better imagination than I did.
I had no reason to doubt it. I’d never met him, in the strictest sense, and so far, the murmured commentary that reached my ears seemed uniformly grieving and sympathetic.
I was glad Amanda hadn’t talked me out of wearing my off-white linen suit, a relic of Abby’s enthusiasm for fitting me out for tedious garden parties. Though I stood out among all the black outfits, I could sense envious glances cast my way. Amanda wore something flowing and black, comfortable, flattering, and appropriate. That could have been the cause of the furtive glances, at least from the men.
The priest had an Irish accent and didn’t hesitate to claim a deep kinship with the departed at hand, even though he’d never had the pleasure of knowing him personally. Apparently people of Irish ancestry also had special accommodations awaiting them in the hereafter, which made me wonder what was in store for Frenchmen like me. I guessed the cheap seats for all eternity, if I got that far.
Amanda gripped my arm tightly throughout the ceremony, either to keep her steady on those spiky black pumps, or to encourage me not to huff or snicker, reactions any religious service tended to bring out in me. Though I was pretty content, knowing that the whole procedure would be handled there on top of the hill, without the crushing tedium of communion or any of the other baffling rituals inflicted on the Roman Catholic bereaved.
My attention drifted away from the solemn priest toward the faces in the crowd. I spotted Joshua and Rosie Edelstein, who had a front row view. Milton Flowers was there standing with a woman who looked like a medicine ball with feet, presumably his wife. Next to them was a long-limbed guy in a silk suit that hung on him like a runway model’s. He occasionally gripped Flowers’s shoulder as if to give comfort, which Flowers didn’t look like he needed. I caught Mrs. Flowers frowning at the two of them.
It took a while to locate Johnnie Mercado, who seemed to be hanging back, stone-faced, but clearly pained. I made a guess at Darby’s mother, who stood staring into the grave, supported by another old woman who wore a matching veil. Most of the others were people around Darby’s age, adults in the prime of their lives, looking fit and unsure how to comport themselves with death all around.
We all held individual flowers handed out at the beginning of the service, and I was relieved to see the congregation tossing them onto the casket, which I took to mean the ceremonies were all wrapped up. Even more encouraging, the priest invited us to gather back at the cemetery’s front entrance where a tent had been set up with big fans and an open bar.
“You did very well, Sam,” Amanda told me as we traveled across the sweltering lawn toward the tent.
“Thanks, though I’m feeling dehydrated. Anything with ice will do.”
I lost Amanda along the way, but found what I wanted at the bar, really just a regular table covered in a white tablecloth. The bartender looked too young to be legally dispensing drinks, but maybe they broke the rules for funeral receptions.
“What do you got in a vodka?” I asked.
“Whatever you want, pal. Good stuff, not so good stuff.”
“Family pays either way?”
“Yeah. I think you want the good stuff. Rocks with that or are you a straight-up guy?”
“Straight enough. Throw in lots a rocks.”
The kid poured a small lake of Grey Goose from the neck of the bottle.
“You grow up in a bar?” I asked him.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Sam’s very intuitive,” said Amanda, showing up behind me.
“What can I get the lady?” he asked her.
“If you mean me, ice water and a gin and tonic,” she said. “In separate glasses.”
“The good stuff,” I told him.
He looked pleased with that, or maybe it was the five I stuffed in the tip jar.
“Where you been?” I asked her as we moved away from the bar.
“I was thanking Joshua Edelstein for letting me tag along. It’s not every day I crash a funeral.”
“I’m mostly a crasher myself. Jackie wanted me here to look over the crowd.”
“And did you?”
“To the best of my ability.”
The tall guy who’d been standing next to Flowers came up to us.
“Milt told me you’d be coming,” he said to me, though he stuck his hand out for Amanda to shake. “Art Reynolds. Chairman of the board. Friends of the Edelsteins?”
“He is,” said Amanda. “I’m just a hanger-on.”
His grip had plenty of meat on it. I let him squeeze, not wanting to get into a contest when I was wearing my nice linen suit.
Closer up, he still looked comfortable in the million-dollar threads. Lots of reddish-brown hair, too reddish-brown, and fewer lines around the eyes than his face warranted. Unlike Rosie Edelstein, it looked like he’d had a little work, as they say out in the Hamptons, if you talk to people who care about those t
hings.
I don’t know what women consider attractive in men, it’s always eluded me. But he did have one of those dimples in the middle of a heavy chin, like Cary Grant, who everybody thought was a handsome guy.
“Whose board do you chair?” asked Amanda.
“Worldwide Loventeers. By day I’m an attorney. And you?”
“Carpenter,” I said for her. “We’re both carpenters.”
He didn’t seem to believe me, which was okay, since Amanda was more of an all-around builder, though she could frame up a wall with the best of them.
“Quite a thing about Darby,” he said. “He was a good man.”
“That’s what I keep hearing,” I said.
“Joshua said you were a private investigator. You must do carpentry on the side.”
“More the other way around. I did a lot of work on the Edelstein place.”
“I’ve seen it. Impressive.”
“Not too much flattery, please,” said Amanda. “He‘s impossible enough.”
“And what do you do when you aren’t swinging a hammer?” he asked her, moving slightly between us, as if that might encourage me to go find another conversation.
“I do a lot of cleaning up,” she said. “Especially at the end of the day. I suppose a lawyer would know something about that.”
“Other people’s messes?” he asked.
“Preferably.”
“Are you replacing Darby?” I asked, trying to get Reynolds’s attention. “I guess you have to.”
“Unless I quit my job and do fund-raising full time,” said Reynolds.
“You might consider that,” said Amanda. She turned to him. “The messes and all that.”
His smile was broad and pitched to engage, though not with me.
“I have another question for you,” I said, still trying to retake the floor. “Will Darby have that whole hill to himself?”
It took a lot of Reynolds’s self-possession to force out an answer.
“The hill is full of graves,” he said. “Just no grave markers. It’s cemetery policy.”
“How do they know where everybody is?” I asked.
“Geo-location. Every grave has its own homing beacon.”
“Get the heck out of here.”
“How peaceful,” said Amanda.