Murder in the Ball Park

by Robert Goldsborough

  “The police give criminal suspects the third degree,” I replied, “but private investigators ask deep and probing questions of clients.”

  “Well, probe away, sir,” she said as I moved to one of the yellow chairs and faced her, our knees almost touching.

  “Okay, for starters, do you have any prime suspects?”

  “You go right to the point, don’t you, Archie?”

  “I don’t believe in wasting anyone’s time, ours or that of a potential client,” I said, grinning.

  She made a face. “So I am still only a potential client?”

  “For the moment, you are. Of course, it is possible that may change.”

  “Our conversation is confidential, isn’t it?” she asked. “I would not want to be sued for libel.”

  “If there were a charge, it would be for slander, not libel. And this is a fine time to be asking such a question. It should go without saying that everything discussed here is confidential. And, after all, you told us you have already given names to the police. Do you trust them more than you trust Mr. Wolfe and me?”

  “No, of course, I don’t. You are absolutely right. All right, here goes, and—wait, I see that you don’t have something to write on, Archie.”

  “I almost never take notes. Believe me, it’s all kept up here,” I told her, tapping my forehead with a finger.

  “Mark me down as being impressed.”

  “As you should be. Okay, it’s time to talk suspects. Fire away.”

  Elise crossed her legs, her dark blue eyes locked on to me as if daring me to look down at those shapely gams. I resisted the impulse, grinning and holding her gaze. “You were about to say?”

  “Where to start?” she said, exhaling. “Does the name Jonah Keller mean anything to you?”

  “A big-shot real estate operator up north of here, isn’t he?”

  “That is putting it mildly, Archie,” she sniffed with a toss of her head. “He is the big-shot real estate operator up north of here, at least on the east side of the Hudson. He has had his own very successful real estate operation up there for years, and now he is even more powerful as the head of the Northland Realtors Association, which he rules like an iron-fisted dictator.”

  “Iron-fisted, eh? So noted. I will try to look more impressed. Please go on.”

  She drew in air and let it out, not softly. “Keller is a bloated and obnoxious windbag.”

  “So, should I put you down as undecided about him?”

  That got a laugh. It was a pleasing laugh.

  “All right,” she replied, lifting her arms in surrender, palms toward me. “So I don’t like the man. But then, over time, he has said some very nasty things about my husband.”

  “You have my attention.”

  “When Orson made it known—and made it known very clearly—that he was opposed to the so-called Northern Parkway, Keller began a smear campaign against him, suggesting that he was under the thumb of Franco Bacelli, the Mob boss. For instance, he called Orson a ‘crime-syndicate toady’ at a meeting of realtors up in Putnam County, and the comment got picked up by a local newspaper that had a reporter covering the meeting.”

  “I seem to remember that a couple of the New York dailies also glommed on to the quote,” I put in. “But then didn’t he—your husband—begin to change his position on the issue of the road?”

  Elise shifted in her chair, pursing her lips. “Yes, he did . . . well, alter his stance somewhat. He allowed as to how there might be a way to shift the planned route of the parkway so as not to cut through . . . certain areas.”

  “Meaning in particular the estate of one Franco Bacelli?”

  The color rose in her cheeks as she tensed up. “Orson knew that voters were beginning to drift away from him. His personal pollster, a strange little man named Keith Musgrove, told us that one canvass—this was about six weeks ago—showed that his popularity in the district had dropped by about seven percentage points since he had proposed the idea of an alternate route for the parkway. At that point, Musgrove became grim about his reelection chances.”

  “How did Bacelli like the new proposal?”

  “Even though the road in the revised plan would still miss his estate by at least a half mile, he was damned angry and he let Orson know it. He felt that he had been betrayed.”

  “Not the kind of enemy most people would like to have,” I observed.

  Elise nodded. “And, of course, the original opponents of the project were even angrier than the Mob boss. They felt betrayed as well.”

  “You try to make everybody happy, and then you end up making nobody happy. Tell me about the anti-parkway crowd.”

  “Some of them, like Bacelli, have these sprawling properties, estates with horse farms, swimming pools, bridle paths, vineyards, forests, formal gardens, fountains, and the like. But there’s also a group that calls itself CLEAR—‘Citizens Looking to Enjoy Arboreal Nature.’ ”

  “Arboreal?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I think that means trees and woods and countryside. Pretty hokey, isn’t it?”

  “Nero Wolfe would probably be able to rattle off at least three definitions of the word,” I said. “I can guess just how this group must have felt about your late husband’s switcheroo.”

  “They called Orson a turncoat and all sorts of nastier names. CLEAR’s leader, an eccentric naturalist named Howell Baxter, branded him the most infamous traitor in the history of good old New York State since Benedict Arnold sold out to the British in the Revolutionary War.”

  “Tough words. But for all the mudslinging over this road, it doesn’t seem like there’s a motive for murder here.”

  “Really? What about Bacelli, Archie? From what I know about the man, he’s never been charged with murder, but chances are that he has ordered killings over the years, lots of them, don’t you think?”

  “I am not about to quarrel with you on that subject. The man is a lowlife, there’s no question about it, but I can’t see him orchestrating your husband’s death. He’s has got hands full right now fighting this hotshot young federal prosecutor who wants to make a name for himself by bagging the New York syndicate’s big kahuna on a fistful of different charges.

  “If half of what I read and hear from a highly placed friend at the Gazette is true,” I continued, “Franco Bacelli has been forced into a defensive posture as the law begins to tighten the screws on him. He’s got a lot bigger worries than some new road passing a half mile from his baronial homestead. If the Feds have their way, he may not even be able to enjoy that palatial estate of his much longer.”

  Elise DuVal folded her arms across her chest and raised her chin. “All right, Mr. Archie Goodwin, if you are correct in this assessment of Bacelli, just where does that leave us?”

  I took a breath and prepared to jump into deep water. “What should we know about Orson Milbank’s personal life?” I asked.

  The initial answer was a glare, followed by the silent mouthing of a word I choose not to repeat, followed by an attempt to stand. “I’m not going to stay and—”

  “Sit, sit,” I told Elise softly, placing a firm hand on her arm. “You came here to hire Nero Wolfe, and by extension me, to investigate your husband’s death. If you are serious about finding the killer, as I certainly believe you are, then all avenues must be explored. Didn’t the police ask you the same question I just did?”

  “No, not at all,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “They concentrated on the people and groups that have been for and against the parkway.”

  “Interesting. Well, I suppose one or more of those people might be tempted to commit murder if they felt the stakes were high enough. But, right now, I’m ranging more widely than our law enforcement representatives did. Talk to me.”

  Elise ran her tongue over her lips. “Well, I assume you know that I am Orson’s second wife.”


  I nodded.

  “His first wife is in a mental asylum someplace upstate,” she went on. “They got divorced years before I met Orson. I’ve never laid eyes on her, but I know that neither of the children he had with her—a son, now in his late twenties, and a daughter, a year or two younger—has anything to do with her.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yes, it is, although for me, this is ancient history. Orson had put it behind him long before he and I got together.”

  “How do his children feel about you?”

  She shrugged. “We—Mark and Irene and I—have always gotten along pretty well. I like to think they both came to realize that I have made their father happy.”

  “Happy enough that he wouldn’t stray?”

  “I suppose you’ve heard rumors?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “This town is always full of rumors.”

  “As in Orson and Mona Fentress? I assume that is the direction where you’re steering the conversation, Archie. Go ahead and say what’s on your mind. I’m a big girl.”

  “Look, it gives me no pleasure to put the squeeze on you, but if we are going to push ahead with an investigation of Senator Milbank’s death—and Mr. Wolfe will be the one to make that decision—then we have to have all the cards out on the table. I believe you understand that.”

  That got a nod from an unsmiling Elise. “All right,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of course, I’ve heard talk about Mona and my husband. I got a snide comment from a neighbor of mine—not Lily Rowan, just so you know. Anyway, I was at a benefit luncheon at the Plaza several weeks ago when this woman, whom I’ve never liked, came over to me and said ‘Oh, Elise, it is ever so nice to see you again. I ran into Orson just last night at Toots Shor’s. He was having dinner with that lovely assistant of his, the attractive blonde . . . oh dear, I just can’t seem to think of her name.’ Of course, she did know the name, Archie, but she wanted me to say it, so I did.

  “ ‘Ah yes, Mona Fentress, what a lovely woman,’ my neighbor purred. ‘She’s married to that Madison Avenue executive, isn’t she? And our mutual acquaintance, Arlene Webster, was up in Albany a couple of weeks ago, and she saw Orson and Mrs. Fentress dancing in the ballroom at the Ten Eyck Hotel. Certainly, a small world, isn’t it?’ ”

  “Not very neighborly,” I said. “Did you ever ask your husband about Mona Fentress?”

  “Certainly, several times, even before I got approached at the Plaza by that catty gossip. Orson always laughed it off. ‘Mona is absolutely invaluable to me,’ he would say. ‘She can charm newspaper reporters and editors, the governor, fellow senators, and constituents—even a lot of those who think I vote wrong. You don’t have to worry about her. After all, she’s got that handsome, wealthy husband who is minting money over on Madison Avenue.’ ”

  “Did you believe him—about you not having to worry, I mean?”

  “I am . . . not totally sure. You asked me to be honest, Archie, and I’m trying to. This is hard for me.”

  “I know it is, and I’m sorry—up to a point. Let me turn the question around: Did your husband have any reason to be suspicious of you?”

  “In what way?”

  “You tell me.”

  “To a large degree, we lived our own lives. Orson spent a lot of time in Albany. I joined him up there sometimes, but frankly, that town bored the daylights out of me. Hard to believe somebody made that burg the state capital way back when. I grew up in California, but I’ve long since learned that I’m a New York City girl through and through.”

  “But what if your husband had become a United States senator? I understand that was his goal.”

  “Move to Washington? Compared to Albany, I would have liked that, although maybe not as much as living in New York.”

  “Let’s go back to my question: Did Orson Milbank have reason to be suspicious of you?”

  “I was very fond of him, and I planned to stay married to him, Archie,” Elise said. “That is all I care to say.”

  “All right, let’s move on. You mentioned that Mona Fentress’s husband has made big bucks over on Madison Avenue. I assume that means he’s in the advertising business.”

  “It does. Although Charles Fentress is hardly what you would call self-made. He hasn’t earned all those big bucks himself. He owes his fortune almost entirely to his father, who cofounded the agency Powell and Fentress. The late Papa Fentress was a creative genius, or so I’ve been told. The son doesn’t have half his brains, and he’s arrogant and hot-tempered to boot.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  She nodded. “I’ve run into him a few times, and it’s never been terribly pleasant. Once, he was particularly nasty to me.”

  “Go on.”

  “This was at a fund-raising dinner for Orson at a hotel up in White Plains. He and Mona were moving through the crowd, glad-handing supporters, and Charles came storming over to me in a foul mood. ‘I wish you’d tell that husband of yours to stop working Mona so damned hard,’ he snarled. ‘I feel like I need an appointment to see her, for God’s sake. I’m sick of it.’ ”

  “A jealous husband talking?”

  “I guess so, as well the liquor talking. He was more than just a little bit drunk. He ranted on loudly about how Orson was a slave driver until it seemed like everyone in the room was staring at us. I thought he was going to get violent until finally Mona came over, calmed him down, and led him away.”

  “Was that common behavior for him?”

  “I later learned it was,” Elise said. “He apparently flies off the handle a lot. Orson referred to him as having a ‘short fuse.’ ”

  “Interesting. Did you mention that episode to the police?”

  She shook her head. “Fentress is a grown-up spoiled brat. He’s apparently always angry about something, so at the time I didn’t attach much significance to that outburst of his.”

  “Should I assume you don’t see the advertising man as a murder suspect?”

  “Yes, you should, surly as he is. Archie, I’m still sticking with Bacelli, despite your argument against it. The man is capable of anything, including hiring a sharpshooter and somehow sneaking him into a stadium.”

  “You may be right after all; I’m not about to argue the point. Let’s get back to the baseball game. Had you been asked by your husband to be part of the group attending the game?”

  “No, and as I said earlier, I was on my way up to Albany at the time because of that fund-raiser the next night. I was always picking and choosing the events that I attended with Orson. He thought I was good for his image, but that day at the game, Mona was going to be along, and she has more than enough glamour to go around,” she said, an edge in her voice.

  “Who were the others in the party?” I asked.

  “Mona, of course. And let’s see . . . there was Keith Musgrove, his pollster—”

  “That ‘strange little man’ you mentioned earlier.”

  “Yes, and he is strange. Myopic and jittery. It made me nervous just being around him. Then there was Ross Davies, Orson’s longtime campaign manager and speech writer, and Todd Armstrong, an intern just out of college who helped out wherever he was needed.”

  “Seems like that’s a large staff for a state senator.”

  “It was, but Orson had big dreams,” Elise said.

  “So it would seem. Is there more I should know?”

  “I can’t think of anything at the moment. Do you think you can persuade your Mr. Wolfe to take me on as a client?”

  “I can’t make Nero Wolfe do anything he doesn’t want to. For that, you need a miracle worker, which I’m sorry to say does not fall within my job description. But I’ll go over everything you’ve said with him.”

  “Also, please give him this again, Archie,” Elise said, squeezing my arm and handing me the chec
k with all those zeroes that Wolfe had earlier rejected. “Maybe it will help.”

  “It sure can’t hurt,” I told her, grinning and placing the check under a paperweight on Wolfe’s desk. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

  Chapter 5

  At lunch in the dining room, Wolfe and I attacked Fritz’s broiled shad with sorrel sauce, which was worthy of attack. Wolfe does not discuss cases or prospective cases at meals, except in very rare instances. This apparently did not qualify as a rare instance. So while I continued to internally process my conversation with Elise DuVal between bites of the shad, Wolfe held forth on the impact of Charles Dickens’s writings on the reforms made in England during the Industrial Revolution of the nineteenth century. As one who last read Dickens when I was in high school, and then only Oliver Twist, I mostly nodded and chewed.

  Later, in the office with coffee, Wolfe spotted Elise’s check on his desk and glared at it. “Well, report,” he growled.

  “Yes, sir.” I proceeded to give him a verbatim account of my session with the one-time actress. He leaned back in his chair, interlaced his hands over his middle mound, and closed his eyes.

  “So, Mr. Milbank’s stance on the road had shifted,” he remarked when I had finished. “It is a very hard undertaking to seek to please everybody.”

  “So I said to Elise DuVal.”

  “Not in those words, I am sure. They were spoken by Publilius Syrus in the first century before Christ.”

  “Okay, so now you’re being picky,” I told him.

  “No, precise. Did you feel Miss DuVal to be truthful and forthcoming?”

  Years ago, Wolfe got it into his head that I was an expert on women, and nothing I have said since to shake him from that conviction has had any effect.

  “I think she believed everything she told me,” I said. “Where she was not forthcoming, as I reported, was on the subject of any romantic life that she may have with someone other than the senator.”

  “Indeed? Your opinion?”

  “I give three-to-one odds that she has had some, er . . . involvement outside of her marriage.”