Father's Day Murder

by Lee Harris

  “I know this is a difficult time for you,” I said after some polite conversation, “but I’d really like to know if you have any sense of who in the group might have had a falling-out with your husband.”

  “I don’t know them that well,” she said. “I’ve read Art’s book, of course—I’ve read all of them—and I feel I know them better from the book than from real life. He never said anything to me that might indicate an argument or a grudge or anything like that.”

  “Did anyone ever try to borrow money from him?” I asked, reversing my usual question.

  “Not that he ever told me. I think all the men do pretty well, don’t you?”

  “They seem to. Did your husband ever talk about the men to you? Tell you about love affairs they might have had?”

  “That sort of thing didn’t interest him after The Lost Boulevard. He set those memories aside when he went on to his second book. He was a person who always wanted to try something new, write something unique. The group was always there, but he didn’t talk about them, not in any negative way. He loved those men. It’s hard for me to believe—” She faltered and I heard her take in her breath. “I don’t know what to think. The police sound as if they believe that Mort Horowitz did it. It’s absurd. He’s a lovely man.”

  “Did your husband have a special friendship with Dr. Horowitz and his wife?”

  “Special in what way?”

  “Did he see them when he was in New York? Did he invite them over? Did he go out with them?”

  “We did that once in a while, with the Koches too and the Meyers until Joe’s illness got worse and it became hard for him to go out at night. It was too tiring.”

  “When did that happen?” I asked.

  “A couple of years ago, about the time we were married. But I had met them many times before that.”

  “Anyone else in the group he was especially friendly with?”

  “I think that’s it.”

  “Did he ever mention Mrs. Horowitz as a special friend, someone who might have helped him through a troublesome time?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Did your husband ever talk about the manuscript for The Lost Boulevard? Did he ever show it to you?”

  “Oh that’s a story. Alice demanded it as part of the divorce settlement. It was dedicated to her, you know, and she felt it was due her. They hadn’t been married long when it was published. Art couldn’t find it. He went through everything in his mother’s apartment, everything he had in storage. And Alice got antsier and antsier about it. She wouldn’t give him the divorce until he found it and gave it to her.”

  “Did he eventually find it?” I asked somewhat disingenuously.

  “Oh yes. And they settled right away.”

  “Did you ever see it?”

  “No. It all happened before I met Art. They’ve been divorced for quite a while.”

  “So he gave it to her after all.”

  “Of course he did. The marriage was over and he had agreed to it. He was a man of honor.”

  Except that he had lied about where the manuscript was. “The night of the reunion, was there any discussion about who would sit next to your husband?”

  “I think we were the last ones to get there and there were two empty chairs, but people started getting up and moving around. We were hugging and kissing people so I don’t remember what it was all about. We sat down and that was that.”

  “Well, I appreciate your time. If you think of anything, Mrs. Wien …”

  “Yes, I know how it goes. I’ll call the police.”

  “Or me. I’m really very interested in finding his killer.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  I talked to Jack about it. I had no doubt Alice’s story was the true one. Arthur Wien had put a positive spin on the story for his new love, but he couldn’t get away with that kind of lie to Alice. She knew him too long and too well. A tale of digging in his mother’s apartment and a storage bin might satisfy young Cindy after the fact, but he had been forced to tell Alice the truth. It wasn’t much of a lie and Jack agreed it didn’t make much of a difference, but it reinforced my feeling that money might be at the root of the murder.

  I went back to the phone and called the Greenes’ number. The woman who answered turned out to be Dr. Kathy Greene.

  “I hear you waylaid my husband the other day,” she said with humor in her voice.

  “I really needed to talk to everyone in the group,” I said. “I hope I didn’t keep him away from his work too long. He was very kind and spent a lot of time with me.”

  “He was glad to meet you. Do you have something else to ask him?”

  “Actually, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “As a suspect or an informant?”

  “I have no suspects. Everyone’s an informant at this moment, and I have to tell you, they all tell me the same thing.”

  “They love each other and no one could have killed Artie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I think they feel that way.”

  “How do you feel?”

  She uttered a breathy “Hmm. I think one of them must have killed Artie,” she said carefully, “but I couldn’t tell you which, and whoever it was, when I find out, I’ll be shocked and surprised.”

  No help there. “I heard that Mr. Wien was having or had had an affair with one of the wives. Had you heard that?”

  “Artie and one of the men’s wives? That sounds incredible.”

  “Why?”

  “Artie went out with young women. Look at Cindy. She must be thirty years younger than he. And there were others before her, probably even while he was seeing her.”

  “Do you know whether he had what we might call a friendly relationship with any of the women?”

  “Friendly? You mean sitting and talking about books and music? I think he had that kind of relationship with the Meyers. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d rather not say. I don’t want to break a confidence. Did you know Fred Beller and his wife?”

  “Haven’t seen them for years. But Fred always struck me as a very nice person, thoughtful and kind. He lives somewhere in the Midwest.”

  The same thing over and over. “Thank you, Dr. Greene. If something comes to you—”

  “We have your number. Have you spoken to the Kaplans?”

  “I have. Mrs. Kaplan gave me a copy of The Lost Boulevard.”

  “There’s something strange there. I assume you know by now that Bruce served time for stealing money.”

  “I know.”

  “Something about that was never right. I would tell you more if I knew more, but I don’t. And I have no idea whether it involves Artie.”

  And that was that. Were they all covering for each other or did they truly not know each other’s secrets? Except Robin Horowitz. She knew something and wouldn’t tell. I lay awake for a long time that night trying to figure out how to get her to tell me what she knew.

  20

  It was good to get out of the house and drive the pleasant drive to St. Stephen’s. Eddie sat in his secure seat in the back, and I narrated the trip until I realized he had fallen asleep, whether because my rendition was so boring or because the movement of the car simply induced sleep, I did not know. This was the trip I had made every month from the time I bought my car until I left St. Stephen’s to move into Aunt Meg’s house on Pine Brook Road in Oakwood. The purpose of those monthly trips was not so much to visit Aunt Meg but to visit her son, Gene, who lived at Greenwillow, the home for retarded adults that was then in a neighboring town. Gene and I had grown up as best friends, and it was he who named me Kix when he couldn’t pronounce Chris properly. He is fascinated by Eddie, and Eddie loves visiting him and playing with his collection of miniature cars. They do a lot of zooming together.

  The moment I wait for as I drive north along the Hudson River is when I first see the steeple of the chapel at St. Stephen’s in the distance and then the top of the Mother House, a building
that resembles a fortress more than anything else. It did no good to tell Eddie. He was fast asleep; this was OK with me. He would be bright and awake when we got out of the car, ready to charm the nuns, who hadn’t seen him for a while and would be delighted to be my baby-sitters while Joseph and I were talking.

  In fact, his eyes opened as I shut the car door and came around to his side. He was a little weepy so I held him on my shoulder away from the sun and patted him gently for a few moments before reaching in and pulling out the paraphernalia that comes with motherhood, the toys, the snacks, the food, the diapers, the tissues, the can of juice. Laden on both shoulders, I made my way from the parking area to the Mother House and was barely halfway there when Sister Angela burst out of the stone building and ran toward me, probably leaving the switchboard unattended, but it wasn’t exactly the busiest switchboard in the county.

  “Chris, Chris, it’s so good to see you. And my baby. Let me see my baby.”

  Obstinately, Eddie refused to budge his cheek from my shoulder. Angela dashed around to look at him from behind me.

  “You are the sweetest,” she said, “the most wonderful, the most adorable thing I have ever seen. Would you take your thumb out of your mouth just for one second? One little second?”

  “Eddie,” I said to the weight against me, “this is Angela. Do you remember Angela? You saw her last time we were here.”

  He giggled suddenly, and I knew Angela had done something to elicit it. As we got into the cool dark foyer of the Mother House, he allowed her to take him from me but refused to remove the thumb.

  “He doesn’t take orders very well,” I admitted. “I worry about spoiling him, but it’s probably too late to worry.”

  “Oh a thumb doesn’t matter. I just hope he doesn’t eat it up.”

  We got ourselves settled, and Angela called Joseph who came downstairs to see Eddie before she and I got together. Seeing her is always a bright moment. Joseph is a tall woman, now well into her forties. Little of her hair shows from beneath the veil and she has worn glasses for as long as I’ve known her, which is nearly twenty years. The habit, which all the nuns wear, is the brown, long-sleeved Franciscan dress that comes to midcalf, and the brown veil. On her left wrist she wears a large round watch whose numbers can be seen from a distance. Her hands are very beautiful, strong with long, slim, unadorned fingers. She is distinctly uncomfortable around babies and small children, preferring people with whom she can converse on an equal footing. She met Arnold Gold the Christmas after Jack and I were married, and they ask after each other frequently, having enjoyed each other’s company enormously.

  After we greeted each other, she went to the table on which Eddie was sitting somewhat precariously, courtesy of Angela, and talked to him for a while. “I know you hear this all the time, Chris, but what a difference a month or two makes in the growth of a little child like this one.”

  “Eddie,” I said, “this is Joseph. Remember Joseph?”

  He pointed at her and smiled. “Doess,” he said. “Doess.”

  “Well, he’s getting there,” Joseph said. “Pretty soon there’ll be a second syllable.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Angela said. “Come with me, Eddie. I’ve got the loveliest cookie in the whole world waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  Cookie was a word he knew well. His face lit up, and he scrambled to go with Angela as Joseph watched, shaking her head and smiling.

  We then went up the wide stone stairs to the second floor and on to her office, which was at the far end of the hall. The ceiling sloped along one long side of the room, and there were windows on the sloped side as well as the back of the room where Joseph keeps her desk. As usual, we sat at the long heavy table that takes up most of the room, one of us on each side, as though this were part of the ritual of our talks. On Joseph’s side lay unlined paper and several pens and pencils. I knew that lunch would be brought up on a tray for both of us when the time came, and as always, I looked forward to sharing the meal with her.

  “Well, I am absolutely trembling with anticipation, Chris. It’s so many months now since I visited you and Jack on Fire Island last year when you were working on that interesting situation and I found myself part of the Chris Bennett investigating unit.”

  I laughed at the description. “I’ve done a lot of leg work on this one. I’ve talked to what feels like countless men and their wives, and most of them say exactly the same things.”

  “Leading you nowhere.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But some of them have said some things that were different.”

  “That’s true, and I’ve discovered a dead man who’s alive.”

  “Well, if that isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is. Start at the beginning.” She pulled the paper in front of her and picked up a pencil.

  So that’s what I did, going back to the phone call from Janet Stern over a week ago and the lunch with her and her mother at Maurice’s. I tend to tell Joseph what I have learned in the same order in which I learned it. That way, I don’t inadvertently stress something that has impressed me. I want her to listen and make up her mind without my influence. And I listen carefully to her questions, which often point to facts I haven’t realized were missing or to incidents that need elaboration.

  These retellings of mine tend to take a fair amount of time, and this was no different. I showed her the snapshot of the little boys, told her what each of them was doing now, how he had spent his life professionally, who his wife was. I handed her the photographs of the Father’s Day dinner and paused while she went through them, attempting to identify each person.

  Then I started with my lunch with Dr. Horowitz at his office and my subsequent visit to the crime scene, the restaurant where the murder had taken place. I didn’t tell her at that point that the Bellers had been in the restaurant, saving that for my lunch with them the next day. I related my first conversation with Dave Koch, in his apartment, at the end of which I had met his wife, Ellen, who had sprung the mysterious rumor on me, that one of the wives had had an affair with Arthur Wien.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Joseph said. “I suppose it’s possible that this woman, whoever she is, resented his marrying the new Mrs. Wien.”

  “Anything is possible,” I said.

  Joseph laughed. “You sound as if you’re near the end of your wits over this.”

  “Very near.” I continued with the lunch with the Bellers at the Waldorf-Astoria, a place I had never imagined entering, much less dining in.

  “Very elegant,” Joseph commented.

  “And tasty. It was really good food.” I made sure to tell her about the Bellers’ meeting with Arthur Wien in California and the subsequent visit in Minnesota that never took place, Mrs. Beller’s sudden silence when I asked what had happened to prevent it. I took out the photo of the two of them at that point and handed it across the table.

  “A pleasant looking couple,” Joseph said. “They look like they’re enjoying themselves.”

  I went on to relate the trip to the Bronx, the business street cut in half and the noisy highway below, the old homestead—apartment houses and school and shops—that no longer included a kosher butcher or a delicatessen but was the heart of all the memories of the Morris Avenue Boys. I told her about that afternoon I had visited the Meyers, and that night the Kaplans who mentioned the fuss over the seating arrangement.

  “And what did Mr. Kaplan say about the alleged embezzlement?”

  “I didn’t ask,” I admitted.

  “But it might be important, Chris.”

  “It was too embarrassing.” I felt embarrassed to say it.

  “That’s understandable, but if nothing else points to a killer, I think you’ll have to do some more digging there. It would be interesting, at the least, to hear what he has to say about it.”

  I wrote a note for myself, knowing this was going to be one of the hardest things I had ever had to do. Then I moved on to Monday and my talk with Ernest Greene at hi
s research institute followed by my discovery that the Bellers had indeed been at the restaurant the night of the murder.

  “That’s quite a discovery, Chris. Are the police aware of it?”

  “I doubt it. They may not even know Fred Beller exists.”

  It was Joseph’s turn to make some notes.

  And then there was my first meeting with Alice Wien when she told me the circumstances of her meeting with her husband while she was nearly engaged to Fred Beller. I watched Joseph’s eyebrows rise and saw her nod. And then there was the story of The Lost Boulevard’s being used as collateral for a loan.

  I had shown her my copy when I talked about the Kaplans. Joseph opened it and noticed that it was signed, and I explained that Mrs. Kaplan kept several such copies around for gifts.

  “It certainly sounds as if Arthur Wien and the Kaplans were on good terms.”

  “It does, yes. I imagine a writer would be very happy to have someone stock his book to give to friends.”

  I then told her how I discovered that George Fried was still alive.

  “Chris, this is amazing. You know something that no one in the group knows.”

  “That’s right. I don’t think it’s worth very much, and I don’t intend to give that information to Dr. Horowitz or anyone else unless I find out that Mr. Fried was somehow involved in the murder. It sounds as though he just wants to be rid of them as friends and this is how he chose to do it.”

  “Well, go on. This is very interesting.”

  My next fact was from Jack: Mrs. Horowitz had been seen visiting Arthur Wien several times at his New York apartment. This was followed by my meeting with her and her denial of any affair and her refusal to explain the visits. Later that day I had spoken to the Reskins. Bernie Reskin was the first person I talked to who thought that Bruce Kaplan had actually stolen the money that he went to prison for stealing.

  On Wednesday I had gone through the pencil manuscript and the typescript of The Lost Boulevard and found pages missing.