by Deaver Brown
Amidst all this dross there were gleanings of gold. But it was at NOBBY that the police struck pay dirt. Cheryl Zimmerman, alone in the office, was caught in the middle of an elaborate makeup ritual prior to departure.
“The office is closed,” she announced.
Even the production of police ID failed to impress her.
“I’m just the receptionist here. Everybody else left fifteen minutes ago. If you want to ask about the riot, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“It’s more serious than the riot. Mrs. Underwood was murdered several hours ago.”
Cheryl stared, sank into a chair and burst into noisy sobs. After several minutes it developed that her shock was due more to the simple fact of Madeleine’s death than to its grisly circumstances.
“I’ve never known anyone who actually died,” she explained in awe-struck tones.
Handing her a box of tissues, the detective marveled that she was still young enough to be surprised by human mortality. But when asked about the last time she had seen Madeleine, Cheryl began putting two and two together.
“I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. Everybody’s been trying to find her, but she never told me where she was going when she stormed out . . .” She straightened and her voice caught on a half-gasp. “So that’s what this is all about.”
“And what’s that?”
“The big fight she had with Sean Cushing. They were going at it hammer and tongs.”
“And I’ll bet you heard what it was all about.”
“Not all of it. But I could tell they were both madder than I’d ever seen them before.”
The detective was struggling not to be diverted by Cheryl’s clownish appearance. She was not one of those who decked out her eyes in tandem. Accordingly one side of her face, still untouched, presented to the world naked brows and lashes while the other half boasted the full array of shadow, liner and brow pencil. To make matters worse, the combined action of tears and tissues had played havoc with her mascara.
“Still, you must have heard something,” he persisted.
“Of course I wasn’t listening,” she said perfunctorily. “But the way they were screaming at each other I couldn’t help catching some of it.”
Leaning forward eagerly, she began to recapitulate.
Inspector Reardon was impressed enough to go himself to the small apartment on the Upper West Side. At the very least, NOBBY’s administrator would be a fount of information about the organization. At best he might be the end of the trail. Cushing answered the third ring of the bell in a rumpled T-shirt and sweat shorts.
“Sorry,” he explained after the visitor introduced himself. “I was in the middle of my workout.”
Automatically Reardon assessed the figure before him. Genetics had provided Sean Cushing with a small, narrow frame, but there was nothing frail about the ropy muscles encased in that whippet body. Unfortunately, a child could have killed Madeleine Underwood with the aid of that heavy bookend.
“What can I do for you?” asked Cushing, heading into the living room where a barbell lay on the floor.
“I’m here about Madeleine Underwood.”
Cushing stopped in his tracks. “Sweet Jesus, what’s she done now?” he exclaimed in dismay. “Not another riot?”
“She’s been murdered.”
There was a moment’s silence as Cushing revised his tone. “Oh, my God. Was it a mugging?”
Fair-mindedly Reardon acknowledged that all New Yorkers were so concerned with random violence that a targeted murder demanded readjustment even from homicide detectives.
“No.”
The bald negative had its effect. A blanket of caution descended on Cushing’s face, as he took time out to mop his glistening brow.
“It’s almost unbelievable,” he said at last. “Madeleine exasperated a lot of people, but that’s not enough to get herself killed.”
“So you’d think,” Reardon agreed. “But maybe something happened. When was the last time you saw her?”
“To talk to? That would have been yesterday. Of course I saw her at the hearings this morning, but we never actually spoke.”
Reardon allowed himself to be mildly incredulous. “You mean you spent a couple of hours in the same place and never said a word to her?”
“Not the way she was acting. When I saw her in the middle of a set-to with the Kichsel people, I decided to steer clear.”
On the principle of first extracting any information that would be volunteered, the inspector demanded more details about the encounter with Alec Moore and Claudia Fentiman. Almost without knowing it, Cushing was then led into a recital of Elmer Rugby’s reaction to the riot, Madeleine’s appointment with Congressman Hull, her response to the adjournment.
“That’s an odd kind of public spokesman for any organization,” Reardon commented.
“Oh, she was out of step with everyone at the hearings, but that’s because she didn’t understand the basic question. She thought the anti-Quax campaign was about good and evil, with Madeleine Underwood the symbol of virtue.”
“And I suppose Kichsel and the Soft Drink Institute saw it as pure and simple competition?”
“Sure. And the committee members had still other ideas. But Madeleine didn’t see it that way. If Congress was starting to investigate Quax, that meant they’d signed up as recruits in her army and she was in charge. With that twisted idea she was ready to tell Leon Rossi how he should run his hearings. Hell, she had a few words of advice for Roger Vandermeer too.”
“Who’s he?”
Relaxed by now, Cushing was happy to supply general background. “He’s the front man for SDI. I introduced them the first day of the hearings and right away she was suggesting ways SDI could help NOBBY, instead of the other way around. Madeleine’s biggest problem was that it never occurred to her other people came with their own agendas. It was a one-way street as far as she was concerned.”
“And if she didn’t understand that about people outside NOBBY, I suppose the same was true for those inside.”
“You mean the staff?” Cushing asked, puzzled.
But Inspector Reardon was still exploring the larger field before zeroing in on his target. His next sentence caused an explosion of protest.
“No! You’ve been listening to those morons on TV. We don’t have a radical wing at NOBBY. We’re not the anti-abortion movement.”
“I’m not saying you people at headquarters are fanatics. But plenty of way-out types have been swept up by the anti-abortion movement. What makes you think it couldn’t happen at NOBBY?”
“Use your head, Inspector,” Sean urged. “This whole campaign is about a soft drink. Who’s going to throw bombs or murder someone because of that?”
“Apparently they’re willing to start riots and send people to the hospital.”
This was so unanswerable that Sean Cushing groaned. “That was all Madeleine’s idea. She’d messed up so much, she decided on a show of force, and things got out of hand.”
Reardon shook his head gently. “Just listen to yourself. You’re saying she was capable of making people lose their heads. Suppose some borderline freak thought she was promising more than she could deliver—like organizing bomb-throwing at Kichsel. That kind of disagreement could turn nasty.”
“For Chrissake, our members aren’t like that.”
“How would you know?”
For the first time Cushing hesitated in his special pleading. “I don’t have anything to do with them,” he admitted at last. “But talk to Iona Perez, she’s the woman in charge of volunteers, she’ll tell you the same thing. Nobody at NOBBY was gunning for Madeleine.”
“Oh, yeah? That lady had a pretty short fuse and tangled with everyone in sight. But you’re claiming it was all sweetness and light in the office. Like hell it was. Suppose you tell me about the fight you had with her yesterday morning.”
Stiffening, Sean deliberately fortified himself with several deep breaths before launching
into explanation.
“It was a real beaut,” he said defiantly. “I was mad as hell and she was throwing out a lot of crazy accusations.”
“You were mad? What did you have to be mad about?”
Cushing was impatient. “Come on, Inspector. By Monday night Madeleine had messed up the hearings and our court case. I was getting calls from donors and members threatening to pull out. Madeleine was flushing NOBBY down the tubes.”
“Sounds as if you had a grievance all right,” Reardon said peaceably. “So how come she was the one throwing around accusations?”
“That was just a smoke screen. She knew she was in hot water and she was trying to change the subject.”
“Funny way to do it. I hear it was all about your handling of NOBBY’s finances and those funds she didn’t know about. Maybe they were funds going into a separate account?”
The implication was clear and a dull stain mottled Cushing’s face.
“Oh, for God’s sake, you don’t think . . .? But it was nothing like that. She was trying to raise Cain about the donation from SDI!”
“Why should she go ape about that?”
“You have to understand Madeleine. She had a vision of herself leading a crusade. Large anonymous corporations didn’t fit in, so she ignored them and she never understood our financials anyway. But somehow she’d found out that SDI was providing the lion’s share of our funding, so she claimed that I’d sold her out, handed NOBBY over to SDI. In fact, I was surprised she had the brains to realize how much leverage they had, but I suppose she was beginning to feel vulnerable. It was all her own silly fault, but that didn’t stop her trying to pretend it was mine. That’s why she was yakking about disloyalty and betrayal on every side.”
This was an element that had escaped Cheryl.
“And who besides you was being disloyal?”
“Everybody, according to her,” Sean said sourly.
“And so she ended up by firing you. That must have made you feel great.”
“It didn’t mean a damn thing.”
“Sure, jobs are a dime a dozen these days.”
Cushing waved the comment aside. “Look, Madeleine was the one in trouble, not me. She already had two strikes against her before the riot. By yesterday night the board was fed up with her. I didn’t have a thing to worry about.”
“Then you won’t mind telling me what you did after the adjournment.”
The voice was totally devoid of inflection. “I went to that health-food place a block south and had lunch. Then I walked to the Fifty-third Street stop to catch the subway home. Once I got here I tried to call Peggy Roche—she’s head of NOBBY’s board of governors—but I had to leave a message.”
“And when would that have been?”
“I guess it must have been between two-thirty and three.”
“That’s a lot of time for lunch and a short trip.”
“The subway was a mess.”
Reardon fell into a short reverie from which he emerged with a brisk announcement. “I’ll be sending police auditors into your office. You’d better get everything ready.”
“Not so fast,” said Sean, summoning up a show of resistance. “I can’t let you do that, not until you have permission from the board.”
“Get real, Cushing,” Reardon said pityingly. “I’ll spell it out for you. You had a big fight with Mrs. Underwood about NOBBY’s finances. It ends by her firing you and maybe threatening jail. Twenty-four hours later she’s murdered and you don’t have an alibi. I can get a court order in five minutes, so expect my people tomorrow.”
Sean had risen from the sofa and thrust his jaw forward. “And you won’t find a penny missing,” he said pugnaciously.
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?”
By the time Reardon left, Cushing’s healthy glow had given way to ashen pallor.
Chapter 13.
Beer and Skittles
All that day the feeding frenzy of the press had been intensifying. On the previous evening Rugby’s riot had been handled as a local feature, yet another example of the zany tribulations accompanying life in New York City. Overnight, however, the networks had decided to go national with the story. The spectacle of Americans being deprived of their God-given right to buy hamburgers would, they calculated, hit home everywhere. Besides, more than fast food was involved, as hastily summoned moralists were swift to explain on the early-morning programs.
“Once again we are confronted by a small minority determined to impose its will on the majority,” pontificated the statelier opinion shapers. “Finding that educational programs work too slowly, that the public does not endorse their cause, extremists—whether they are pro-lifers, animal-rights activists or NOBBY supporters—resort to harassment and intimidation. Too often legitimate protest escalates into violence. No ends justify such means . . .”
By noon, special-interest groups were seizing the moment. MADD, DARE and a host of other acronyms gave their views on the problem of Quax. Only the Vegetarian Society of North America chose to attack the hamburger instead.
“Science proves that red meat disturbs the body’s natural balance,” declared a spokesman. “Flesh eaters find it impossible to maintain mental and physical harmony within themselves. We do not carry clubs like cavemen. Why are we still eating like them?”
Four hours later, when word of Madeleine Underwood’s murder flashed across their desks, every news director in the business congratulated himself on his foresight.
“Thank God we started running the story this morning. We’ve already told them about Quax and NOBBY. Now we can concentrate on what they really want.”
It went without saying that this desideratum consisted of violence and personalities. The violence was taken care of by the shrouded stretcher being wheeled across the sidewalk and the recollections of the unfortunate cleaning man. The creation of personality began, naturally enough, with the victim. The networks raided the archives of their local affiliates and even stooped to public access stations in order to provide footage of Madeleine at the hearings, Madeleine outside the courthouse, Madeleine at a parents conference in Buffalo.
At dinnertime the cast began to be enlarged. There was a tight-lipped Dean Kichsel trapped at the entrance to the Plaza and looking, in his offended hauteur, remarkably like a stag at bay. Peggy Roche was seen fighting her way grimly to a taxi while the unidentified man at her side announced that NOBBY would have no statement until morning.
Elmer Rugby chose to go a different route. Displaying that sturdy common sense approved by Charlie Trinkam, Elmer decided to get some mileage from the press dogging his steps. Accordingly he went to Spanish Harlem and was then filmed escorting the middle-aged Mrs. Dominguez into the hospital and presiding over the reunion between mother and daughter. As Theresa raised a hand from her wheelchair to pat her mother consolingly on the cheek, Elmer spoke directly into the camera.
“The doctors say she’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. At least that’s something for her mother to cling to.”
Asked for his views about Mrs. Underwood’s murder, he shook his head.
“It was a shock,” he said gravely, all traces of yesterday’s anger vanished. “But I don’t really know anything about Madeleine Underwood, or about NOBBY, for that matter.”
But the networks, in spite of their experience, were overlooking one fact. Violence and personalities do not fill the entire field of American preoccupation. As any of their sponsors could have told them, consumer products are also of general interest, and constant repetition reinforces that interest. With footage of Madeleine on public platforms, of Alec Moore announcing Kichsel’s latest introduction to the market eighteen months ago, of Elmer and Rugby signaling their alliance, Quax was fast becoming a household name and public response to newscasts was turning into an informal referendum.
As evening spread from the Atlantic to the Pacific, the East Coast was the first to react.
“There ought to be a law,” said
Kim Wendt in her suburban kitchen outside Boston. Kim and the kitchen being products of their time, the succulent aroma of home cooking was absent. Tonight’s dinner was chicken grilled by Star Market and vegetable medley courtesy of Del Monte.
On the screen of the counter Magnavox, the personable anchorwoman had yielded to the personable sportscaster, but Bill Wendt knew that his wife was not referring to the Red Sox.
“You mean that murder?” he guessed, thinking back. “Down in New York?”
“More the riot,” said Kim. “That’s what got me thinking. Of course I’m opposed to their tactics, but still, Bill, making something that tastes just like beer and then advertising it on the Muppets . . . That shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Probably not,” Bill replied, although not sure she had her facts right.
“Maybe we should write to the governor,” she mused.
Bill’s enthusiasm for firing off letters in his novel role as responsible householder had waned some time ago, so he consulted his wristwatch. “Say, if you want a couple of hours at Bloomingdale’s—”
“Or better still, Rugby’s,” she interrupted, “Just a dignified note to tell them that we won’t patronize them until they stop serving Quax . . .”
She broke off suddenly. “There are Rugby’s in Massachusetts, aren’t there?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” he said. “Look, Kim, it’s half past.”
“Well, then, what about the people who make this Quax stuff?” she persisted. “Do you know who they are?”
“One of the big breweries. They wouldn’t—”
“We’ll write to them!”
Subconsciously Bill Wendt was developing considerable antagonism to Quax, Rugby’s, and even Madeleine Underwood.
At Paddy’s Pub in Forest Hills, ten miles from the Babcock Auditorium, they had local knowledge and lifelong habits to shape their response. At the bar, beer drinkers sat shoulder to shoulder while couples, most of them middle-aged, occupied the tables behind them. Conversing or silent, watching or withdrawn, all of them were canted to face the giant television set spanning a corner over the cash register. Usually it delivered baseball, basketball or football. Tonight the spectator sport was different. Habitues would have preferred a play-off game but they accepted the cards they were dealt.