Brewing Up a Storm

by Deaver Brown

  “You mean you’re claiming that Underwood’s death has solved all their problems, that everything’s suddenly hunky-dory for them?” demanded Reardon, projecting skepticism.

  “I’m just betting that there are a whole lot of changes going on at NOBBY right now.”

  As always, whenever the inspector encountered resistance, he immediately shifted ground.

  “And then there’s the geography,” he said blandly. “None of you strayed very far. The Plaza where you were all staying, the Dorchester where some of you were eating, Saks and that library. All of them in the Fifties, all of them in a tight little circle around the committee building.”

  Dean Kichsel was affronted. “Naturally,” he said severely. “As you well know, it’s much easier to walk a few blocks in New York than to find a cab. And we chose our hotel to cut down on distance.”

  “Give us a break,” Benda rumbled. “We were doing what everybody in the city does between twelve and two. We were eating, shopping and doing chores. Probably you’re getting the same story from the others. There’s nothing suspicious about it.”

  Examining his witness from beneath half-closed eyelids, Inspector Reardon was interested in the dynamics of the situation. Upon his entry Dean Kichsel had elected himself spokesman, trying to erect a defensive wall around his team with the authoritativeness that usually stood him in good stead. But insensibly leadership had passed. Kichsel was now merely a basso accompaniment in the background while Theo Benda went on the offensive, using low-keyed common sense to direct suspicion elsewhere.

  And, the inspector had to admit, he wasn’t doing a half-bad job.

  As Reardon had been reminded, only one of Madeleine Underwood’s recent adversaries claimed to have cleared the entire midtown area immediately upon Chairman Rossi’s adjournment.

  “Come on, John,” Charlie Trinkam urged. “It’s the least we can do for poor old Elmer. He spent the morning being grilled by the cops. It’s bad enough he told some people at the hearing that someone should strangle our Madeleine, but then he comes up with this way-out alibi.”

  “What does he say he was doing?”

  “The poor guy’s story is that he went to some zoo in the Bronx. He claims he spent four hours there and nobody noticed him.”

  Trinkam, a confirmed bachelor with a zestful approach to life, was the Sloan’s acknowledged expert on the glossy aspects of Manhattan life. But occasionally he stupefied his companions with a display of ignorance about more mundane matters.

  After a moment’s thought, Thatcher identified the problem. “It’s not like Central Park, Charlie,” he said gently. “The one in the Bronx is much larger.”

  Having escorted children and grandchildren to the New York Zoological Garden, he was in a position to expatiate on the vast acreage, the thousands of visitors roaming at will. It was perfectly possible, he announced, for a solitary male to spend a long time communing with the polar bears or participating in the joys of the Monkey House without attracting attention.

  “If you say so,” said Charlie, willing to accept but not pretending to understand. His own bottomless interest in the human animal left him no time for the consideration of lesser vertebrates.

  “Never mind about that now. I still don’t understand why this meeting is taking place here.”

  Charlie explained that Elmer Rugby did not have a New York base. When representatives of NOBBY had asked for a conference, he had arranged an appointment in Trinkam’s office.

  Thatcher nodded his comprehension. Rugby was unwilling to surrender the advantage gained by forcing the opposition to come to him.

  “Still, I’d expect this to be a lawyer-to-lawyer meeting.”

  “NOBBY wants to get a few things settled first.”

  “And Rugby wants our advice?”

  “Hell, no! He wants witnesses.”

  Another Sloan officer might have pleaded the interests of his client. But Charlie knew a better argument.

  “This is too good a chance to miss, John. One of this bunch may have knocked off Madeleine,” he urged irresistibly.

  The NOBBY delegation arrived within minutes of Elmer. Peggy Roche introduced herself as head of NOBBY’s board of governors. She was supported by Jeremy Pfizer, another governor, and the interim director, Mrs. Iona Perez.

  Peggy was eloquent about the deep regret experienced at headquarters for the totally unjustifiable conduct of the NOBBY protesters.

  “Easy enough to say now that it’s gotten you a lot of bad press,” Elmer grunted.

  Unabashed, she swept on. NOBBY realized that it was responsible for the damage caused and the hospital bills incurred.

  “Damn right!”

  Without a flicker of discomfiture, she soldiered on. “Court cases are notoriously expensive. We could both save a good deal of money by reaching a settlement without litigation.”

  Court cases also produced punitive damages, Rugby was swift to remind her. Particularly when inspired by wildly irresponsible conduct.

  It was now Jeremy’s turn to take up the banner.

  “Very true. But let’s be realistic. I checked with my lawyer this morning and he tells me there wouldn’t be a hope in hell of getting this thing to trial in over two years. The publicity will have died down by then. Besides, getting an award for damages doesn’t do you any good unless there are assets to pay them. Most of our members were deeply shocked by what happened. Unless we settle this quickly on the basis that it was a one-time aberration, we may go down the tubes.”

  John Thatcher was pleased to see that there was nothing wrong with Elmer’s powers of reasoning. “Trying to have it both ways, aren’t you?” he asked. “The whole thing will die down, but still you’re going to bleed to death.”

  “It’s a matter of timing,” Pfizer insisted. “Our objective is to make it clear to you, as well as to the public, that this outrageous behavior was due to the sudden insanity of Mrs. Underwood.”

  “So you’re planning to blame it all on her, while the rest of you are as pure as snow?”

  So far quiet, Mrs. Perez now leaned forward. “The fact is, Mr. Rugby, you’ve lost your trump card for punitive damages. You don’t have Mrs. Underwood anymore.”

  “You mean because someone knocked her off?”

  Iona did not blench. “That’s right. I’ll admit that I was furious when Madeleine was unavailable for comment after the riot. Now I’m grateful that she never got near a microphone. If you had her on the stand she’d insist that what she did was right. But that isn’t going to happen now.”

  “You people can’t put that much distance between her and you,” Rugby retorted. “If she was so crazy, why the hell didn’t you yank her?”

  Peggy Roche was prepared for that one. “Twenty-four hours after that riot I was having lunch with Mrs. Perez to discuss the removal of Mrs. Underwood. Before the announcement of the murder I’d already called an emergency meeting of the governors to implement her ouster. As soon as there was evidence of instability I did act.”

  “She’d been after Quax a long time.”

  Mrs. Perez seemed to prefer specific items to generalities. “Since its inception NOBBY has conducted almost a hundred protests. The record will show that, with this single exception, they were all orderly and peaceful. We can prove we had no reason to expect anything else.” Pausing to take a deep breath, she plunged ahead. “That is why we feel justified in asking that the criminal charges pending against some of the demonstrators be dropped. And, in order to avoid unpleasant discoveries, you should know that I am one of those defendants.”

  Elmer’s jaw tightened. “And this is your choice for a new director?” he said ironically to Peggy Roche. “Congratulations!”

  As Rugby looked prepared to develop this theme, John Thatcher felt honor-bound to bear witness.

  “I myself saw you arrive on the scene, Mrs. Perez, and try to stop the violence,” he said hastily. “But, by then, disarming one protester wasn’t going to stem the tide.”

 
; Surprised by this unexpected support, Iona immediately turned it to good advantage. “I had just snatched a big piece of two-by-four from one of my volunteers when the police arrived,” she explained to Rugby. “The wood was heavy, I was off-balance and the two-by-four was waving around. I suppose I can’t blame the police. I must have looked like the original Neanderthal woman to them.”

  “Bad luck for you,” Elmer muttered.

  On this tentative note of forgiveness the coffee tray arrived and the real talking began.

  Jeremy Pfizer, disclosing that he was an accountant, immediately collared Elmer Rugby and produced a preliminary list of medical charges. “I thought we could get some idea of the order of magnitude of the property damage.”

  Charlie, who had been surreptitiously examining Peggy Roche for some time, swam easily to her side.

  Thatcher, offering cream to Mrs. Perez, said, “It’s a shame that you didn’t arrive at the riot a little later. Your timing was certainly unfortunate.”

  “What I should have done was arrive earlier,” she corrected him. “But of course Madeleine knew I had to take my son to the doctor that morning. That’s why she chose her moment.”

  From the tone of her voice Madeleine Underwood was not included in the general amnesty extended to the New York City Police.

  “But I see you haven’t let your experience dim your commitment to NOBBY.”

  “That could never happen. I know some people don’t appreciate our work. But just think how much easier it would have been for everyone if some group had been alert to the dangers of nicotine before the entire nation became cigarette smokers.”

  Some quality in her voice made Thatcher glance up in time to catch the glint in her eye. No, he realized, there would be no faltering dedication here. Whatever the press might claim, it was becoming abundantly clear that Madeleine Underwood’s activities at NOBBY had been restricted to those promising personal gratification. It was Iona Perez who performed the thankless tasks and, of the two, she was the true believer.

  “And if there are no dangers?” he asked.

  “All that NOBBY wants is to end the aggressive marketing of Quax until a proper study has been made of its possible consequences,” she said soberly. “As long as it’s being sold only in bars and liquor stores, I can feel that my children are reasonably safe. Once it’s in vending machines and supermarkets, I can’t. Nowadays, Mr. Thatcher, all mothers have to accept the fact that, from the day school starts, they don’t know what their children are up to.”

  Among those parents who were not up-to-date on their children’s activities was Alec Moore. When a detective rang the bell at an apartment several blocks from Columbia University, the door was opened by a young woman.

  “I’m looking for Peter Moore,” he announced, showing his credentials.

  “Pete’s out. And he’s got a lab this afternoon, so he won’t be back until after five.”

  “You live here too?”

  “I moved in last week.”

  “Then you may be able to help me.”

  Sighing softly, she fell back. “I hope this won’t take long. I’ve got a real backbreaker of an exam tomorrow.”

  The detective was old enough to remember an earlier age, a time when college students welcomed any confrontation with the police as an opportunity to anathematize the establishment and to enlarge on the decay of society to all at endless length. But these days the problem was getting them to lift their eyes from a book long enough to answer questions. Intent on getting into business school or becoming computer wizards, they were self-absorbed and incurious. This girl was a case in point. Undeniably attractive, she possessed a glorious figure, a mass of wavy blond hair and a beautiful even tan. But she was also wearing a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses and had obviously just risen from a table that boasted a computer, a pile of yellow pads and a collection of open tomes.

  “What’s this all about?” she finally asked as she sank effortlessly into a low beanbag chair.

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  She chuckled. “I know that. Pete is as straight as they come.”

  “I’m just checking out somebody else’s story. It’s about a phone call to Peter Moore last Wednesday lunchtime.”

  “Last Wednesday? At noon? Then I can help you. Pete has a twelve o’clock class on Wednesday. He wasn’t here.” The detective had already snapped shut his notebook when she continued.

  “He stayed late to talk to his professor about his term paper. I know because I’d ordered in a pizza for us and by the time he got back it was cold.”

  He sank back into the sofa from which he had half risen. “That means you were here at noon. So you took that call.”

  “There wasn’t any call. I was already studying for this exam and I was doing it here to avoid interruptions. I’d remember all right.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  She favored him with a blindingly sunny smile.

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 16.

  Designated Driver

  At the Sloan, NOBBY had looked lean, mean and in charge of its destiny. But on home territory it was otherwise. Here Sean Cushing felt as if he were under enemy occupation. Police auditors were probing every nook and cranny against a dismal obbligato of telephone calls from members ringing to express indignation, demand explanations, and threaten to resign. To make matters worse, Jeremy Pfizer had hotfooted uptown the moment Elmer Rugby’s conference was over.

  “We thought I could be of more use to you than Mrs. Perez,” he had explained tactfully on arrival.

  Clever Iona, Sean thought with gritted teeth. In her new role she was already establishing superiority and distancing herself from NOBBY’s internal accounting.

  Today Cushing sensed slights and suspicion on every side. For over three hours he had been manfully trying to redirect his thoughts into a more rational course. Given knowledge of Madeleine’s outburst, the police were bound to look for financial skullduggery. And it was only natural that the board should want a representative on the spot. As for Iona, she would simply have been in the way.

  But his good intentions crumbled under the first onslaught when Pfizer came storming out of Madeleine Underwood’s office, a folder clutched in his hand.

  “Did you know about this, Cushing?” he demanded, his lips twisted in distaste.

  This proved to be a report from a firm of private investigators about Dean Kichsel, Alec Moore and Claudia Fentiman.

  “So that’s what Madeleine was yammering about at the hearings,” Sean murmured. “It’s news to me.”

  Pfizer was skimming the first letter in the file. “She was referred to them by our lawyers,” he said, as if that were further cause for indignation.

  “If you remember, I had objections to the whole Ludlum business.”

  “Dammit, we approved a lawsuit, not some personal vendetta.”

  They were standing toe to toe, glaring at each other.

  “It’s the board’s job to oversee the director, not mine,” Cushing snapped. “Madeleine was flying solo a lot.”

  “Then there could be other things we don’t know about,” Pfizer said, aghast.

  “Damned right.”

  Sean was frankly enjoying his companion’s anxiety while Pfizer, conscious of past laxity, was defensive. Hostilities would have escalated if they had not been interrupted by Cheryl Zimmerman. Cheryl had been in her element all day. Unbidden, she had provided coffee nonstop for the auditors, conducted Pfizer on a tour of the premises and listened with deep interest to every exchange. Now she was producing, from some hitherto untapped resource, a large supply of doughnuts.

  “I thought everybody would like a nosh,” she said brightly, proffering the open box. Then, eager to be a participant in all the bustle, she went on, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Cushing, what I should do about Mrs. Underwood’s tape. I mean, now that she’s dead.”

  His eyes still locked on Pfizer, Sean said shortly, “What tape?”


  “The one she left in my basket.” Stepping over to her desk, Cheryl produced a cassette with a showman’s flourish. “I’ve got it right here.”

  Three members of the police department raised their heads to look expectantly at Sean Cushing. For one sickening moment he read accusation in those shuttered eyes before realizing that it was up to him to coax further information from NOBBY’s flighty receptionist.

  “Uh, Cheryl,” he said in the thunderous silence, “exactly when did she leave it?”

  Furrowing her brow, Cheryl pondered. “Let’s see . . . I found it in my basket when I came back from my lunch break. And that was . . . God, that was the day she was killed. In all the excitement yesterday I forgot about it. Do you want me to type it?”

  Reflexively Sean reached out, but the police were ahead of him. Plucking the tape from Cheryl’s hand, one of them said,

  “That’s all right, I’ll take care of it. Now, Cheryl, who was covering for you while you were out to lunch?”

  “The idiot relief girl never thought to mention it,” Reardon’s assistant said wearily. “Underwood grabbed a sandwich after the adjournment, then came back to the office because she wanted to dictate something before her appointment with Hull. She was only there about twenty minutes.”

  “And she might just as well have spared her breath, for all the use this thing is,” Reardon growled. “But let’s give it another try, Dave, and see if we’ve overlooked something.”

  Punching the play button, he locked his hands behind his neck and tilted back in his chair to listen once again to the shrill, tight voice Madeleine Underwood had brought to her last communication.

  “Cheryl, I want this set up as the announcement of a press conference on Friday morning at ten o’clock, to be held here. Have copies sent to all the media offices on our list and, if you get any calls wanting further information, just tell them this will be a real blockbuster. Ready? Then, quote—