Brewing Up a Storm

by Deaver Brown

  “In our campaign against Quax, NOBBY has encountered continuing opposition and, over the course of time, our adversaries have persistently resorted to unethical, immoral and even illegal conduct. Our growing suspicions have recently been more than confirmed. The moneyed interests arrayed against us have not hesitated, in their callous disregard for the health and well-being of future generations, to strike at the basic integrity of NOBBY itself. Paragraph.

  “As you know, on Wednesday morning Chairman Leon Rossi adjourned his hearings in the middle of my testimony. In one sense this adjournment was justified. Although I had originally planned to use that opportunity to make public a number of startling revelations, I now feel that the committee’s proceedings are tainted beyond redemption. Paragraph.

  “Naturally it is mandatory that the members of NOBBY be alerted to this peril—to the perversion of our motives and to the betrayal of the goals which we have pursued so steadily. But it is also in the interests of the American people that these activities should be revealed. Paragraph.

  “It is therefore my intention to present you not only with our accusations, but with proof positive of the fundamental corruption which has faced us at every turn. I ask only that you give me a hearing and then, I have no doubt, you will join me in recognizing that the only possible response is to subject this entire sordid situation to the light of full publicity.”

  On his first playback Inspector Reardon had concentrated on the substance of Madeleine’s message. Now he listened carefully to her delivery, but all he could discern was an electric tide of confidence that swamped what might have been meaningful changes in inflection or phrasing.

  “A lot of fancy words and nothing else,” he summarized when the tape ended. “God, that woman sure didn’t have any use for facts.”

  “Or she didn’t have any,” suggested Dave. “From what the committee staff told us, she wasn’t very clear on the difference between suspicion and proof. She thought hard evidence was something a friend of a friend of a friend said. For that matter, look at Quax. Nobody’s shown there’s anything wrong with it at all.”

  Reardon was dubious. “She may have been dumb, but she was genuinely excited. You can hear that.”

  “Then she wasn’t giving anything away because she wanted to be the star turn at her press conference.” Dave’s researches had left him with a jaundiced view of Madeleine Underwood. “One thing’s for sure. She can’t have been talking about this junk.”

  He flicked a disdainful finger across the reports from the detective agency before continuing. “Even she can’t have been wacky enough to think a messy divorce was hot news, and that’s all she had on Fentiman. As for old man Kichsel, he’s so clean it’s unnatural. And even Moore is pretty dull. When he was a college student he got picked up in a raid where the kids were smoking marijuana. The only odd thing in his history is that he taught elementary school for three years.”

  Reardon leaned forward to check the date before saying briefly, “Vietnam.”

  Dave was young enough to be puzzled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “There was a draft exemption for schoolteachers. You’d be amazed how many rich college boys rushed into teaching fourth grade right about then.”

  It was an aspect of Vietnam that had never been brought to Dave’s attention.

  “So he was a draft dodger. It’s still peanuts.”

  “Yes, but the people at Kichsel don’t know that this agency confined itself to checking public records. There could be plenty for them to be worried about. Go see how they react. At least with Moore you’ve got some leverage.”

  The leverage did not prove very useful.

  “You can forget that garbage about calling your son,” Dave began. “We can prove you didn’t.”

  Instead of being shaken, Alec Moore was resigned. “Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve been telling Pete to get an answering machine for over a year and now’s the time he decides to do it.”

  Dave did not feel it necessary to explain the form that Peter Moore’s answering equipment was taking.

  “That means we’re right back where we were. You claim you made the call before leaving the hearings. But until you tell us who you did call, it’s just your word for it.”

  Moore’s jaw set stubbornly. “Forget it! I made that call when I said I did. Who I called is none of your damn business.”

  And from this position he refused to budge. He was not guilty of any crime, he proclaimed, and he saw no reason to expose his personal life to police scrutiny.

  “No wonder you’re gun-shy on the subject,” Dave ventured. “Madeleine Underwood wasn’t just blowing hot air about digging into your past. She’d hired a detective agency.”

  By now Alec Moore was so rigid with defiance it was impossible to distinguish any physical reaction.

  “She could hire detectives by the carload. My past is an open book.”

  “Including the criminal record?”

  Moore blinked but, after a moment’s thought, produced a contemptuous bark of laughter. “Are you talking about the fraternity party that was busted?”

  “And then there’s the little matter of your illustrious war career.”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth Dave knew he had made a mistake. This time Alec Moore’s laughter was real enough but it was propelled into the air on a gust of pent-up breath. He had been braced for some other disclosure.

  “I admit it all,” he said, spreading his palms in mock surrender. “Twenty-five years ago I smoked a joint and ducked going to Vietnam. You think Madeleine Underwood was going to make tabloid headlines with that?”

  • • •

  Claudia Fentiman’s response was equally unhelpful.

  “Private detectives,” she repeated dully.

  Unsure of what specters he had raised, Dave waited. When she remained silent, he finally said, “Anything Underwood dug up, we will too. Now, if it doesn’t have anything to do with her death . . .”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” she exploded in exasperation. “It isn’t as if I’m an ax murderer. All that woman could find against me was my divorce.”

  In her anger she failed to notice Dave’s disappointment, even when he pointed out that divorce was no longer noteworthy.

  “The divorce doesn’t matter,” she retorted. “It’s the custody case that I keep to myself. It was . . . it was about as down and dirty as they come. Five years ago . . .”

  Five years ago and she remembered every degrading moment, every filthy charge leveled by the man who had become an enemy.

  “. . . promiscuous, picking up strangers in bars, bringing them home when Jenny was there—you name it. My God, my brother stayed overnight when he was in town on business and they tried to claim . . . Anything they could dream up, they threw at me.”

  There was a sheen of perspiration on her face by the time she finished.

  “. . . so if you’d found my ex’s body about then, I could have been suspect number one. But I beat the bastard in court and he didn’t get his hands on Jenny. It’s just that he managed to put me through hell.”

  Her retreat into the past was complete and a question from Dave forced her to refocus.

  “Of course I didn’t talk about it when I applied for my job. Dirt sticks, you know, and Kichsel’s a conservative outfit.”

  “Enough to fire you?” Dave asked without much enthusiasm.

  Finally she relaxed. “Oh, come on. In the first place, I’m doing a great job for them. More important, they’ve had a chance to get to know me, enough to realize I’m not a hooker or a nympho. Actually I told Alec about it quite a while ago.”

  “And that’s all Underwood could have on you?”

  Instantly her guard returned. “Other than a couple of parking tickets.”

  Dave left wondering if Claudia Fentiman had used her custody case to conceal something worse buried in her past.

  Iona Perez, however, was looking to the future. Sean Cushing did not realize
that the coolly controlled Iona who had usurped the vacant throne at NOBBY was not only playing a role, she was doing so under expert guidance. It was her sister Christine who had specified the exact salary to be demanded from the board. The amount had made Iona gasp.

  “They’ll never agree.”

  “Right now they need you more than you need them,” the voice of wisdom had replied.

  Twice-divorced and childless, Christine was one of New York’s top theatrical agents. Today she was devoting the afternoon to creating a new look for Iona.

  “I have to make a good impression on the board and look right for public appearances,” Iona explained the moment she broke free from the Sloan. “But I don’t want them to think I’ve turned myself inside out.”

  Christine, all business, was beginning their endeavor with a visit to the beauty salon.

  “We’ll do things by degrees,” she said soothingly before turning to the hair stylist. “Just an inch off to get rid of that terrible in-between look. But a lot more layering on top.”

  To Iona’s relief, the result, while a decided improvement, was not extreme. She was still lingering to admire it when Christine bustled her toward the exit.

  “And now for Bendel’s. Did you do what I said? Are you wearing the same thing as before?”

  “Yes, I’ve only met the full board once.”

  For her previous appearance Iona had donned an inexpensive, much worn, navy-blue suit with a limp blouse featuring a large bow. When she was posed in front of the mirror at Henri Bendel’s, she was torn. On the one hand she recognized the imperfections of her ensemble. Nonetheless she was wary. With the frankness that their relationship made possible, she said, “I don’t want to look glitzy the way you do.”

  “No,” Christine agreed seriously before adding, “You could never pull it off.”

  Christine herself favored a varnished perfection extending from top to toe. Her long, lanky frame was always perched on stiletto heels, while her face presented a near-orange glow unknown to nature. Today two sleek wings of dark hair swept back into a chignon, with giant hoop earrings almost brushing her shoulders. To her sister’s surprise and disappointment, Christine ultimately chose another navy-blue suit, albeit one that cost three times as much as its predecessor.

  “I’ll look exactly the same.”

  “Not a chance. You’ve got to realize that most people don’t notice details at all, they just get a general impression. The suit will make them think you’re still the same but somehow more pulled together than they remember.”

  Before Iona knew what was happening, the skirt had been shortened, navy-blue panty hose replaced beige stockings and her old comfortable step-ins had given way to modish laced shoes with heels an inch higher.

  Superior tailoring and significantly improved legs made all the difference. Even Iona, humbly aware that she was not blessed with an expert eye, recognized that the total effect had changed.

  “Except for one thing,” she pointed out. “The blouse is all wrong with this look.”

  “It was never right for any look,” Tina replied bluntly. “But you’re going to keep it for this interview, just to prove that you’re the same old Iona. Then you throw it out. The next time they see you, you’ll be wearing the right accessories.”

  Distrustful of her sister’s competence, Tina went off to reappear with a scarf in a bold geometric design of blue, black and white. Draping it skillfully around Iona’s throat, she stepped back.

  “That’s what you’ll look like on a platform.”

  Iona was entranced. “It’s perfect,” she crooned, “just perfect.”

  But Tina, sitting with her chin propped on a braceleted fist, had fallen into a sibylline trance. “There’s something off,” she muttered, her critical gaze examining every inch of her sister. “Of course! Earrings!”

  “Tina, I can’t wear those enormous things you like.”

  But Christine was once again on the move. The two objects she brought back caused Iona to back away.

  “They’re too big and I always wear these pearls.”

  “Trust me. You can’t use those little buttons anymore because your ears are showing now. You’re out of balance.”

  It was not easy to coax Iona into the gold spirals with modest drops. But once rigged out, she was astonished.

  “Why, they look fine.”

  “Of course they do,” Tina said complacently.

  Nonetheless, she was pleased as she saw her sister unconsciously arch her neck at the vision in the mirror. “That’s enough for now. Remember, we’re doing this by degrees.”

  “What more is coming?” Iona said apprehensively.

  “The next time you have your hair trimmed, you’re getting some highlights put in.”

  “Oh, Tina!”

  Claudia Fentiman, of course, was already dressed for success. Nevertheless, an hour later it was hard work to turn her thoughts to Quax.

  “Will you just forget about the police,” Alec Moore directed as they charged up Madison Avenue. “We’ve got a chance to do ourselves some good. Concentrate on that—hey, watch it!”

  Obediently, Claudia ducked around the Rastafarian with hand-outs and sprinted to keep pace with Moore. What she really craved was privacy and time to unwind. Instead she had Alec, infused with purpose.

  “But Alec,” she began uncertainly.

  “Here we are,” he said, swerving smartly into the Bryer Building. “Wetherbee’s on forty-seven, isn’t he?”

  During the ride upward, he reviewed the script. “Now remember why we’re here. We want Bernie to take over the Quax account with an advertising campaign that’s as high-powered as what he’s done for Kix . . .”

  Claudia realized that Moore was following his own advice to forget the police. Her attempts to do likewise foundered on the problems raised by his ambitious new strategy.

  Even Bernie Wetherbee saw them.

  “Alec, good to see you,” he burbled, greeting them in his sumptuous reception area. “And Claudia! So help me God, you get prettier every time I see you. Come in, come in.”

  His office offered spectacular views which Moore ignored. “Bernie,” he began before they were seated, “we’ve got a proposition to put to you about Quax. You do know about Quax, don’t you?”

  Even a smooth operator can forget himself.

  “Who doesn’t?” Wetherbee responded. As a practitioner of the art he was well aware that there is such a thing as bad publicity.

  He was taken aback when Moore, dismissing murder and media blitzes, presented his business plan.

  “Quax has done pretty well with low-budget advertising. But now that we’re ready to take off, we need a helluva lot more. Claudia’s planning some major marketing moves, and no one could promote them better than you, Bernie.”

  For a man whose television spots were widely regarded as punchier than most scheduled programs, Wetherbee looked dumbfounded. After recovering his wits, he said, “There’s just one little problem, Alec.”

  “What’s that?” Moore demanded.

  With a simulation of man-to-man candor, Wetherbee spelled out some facts of life. “Before we can begin talking, I’d have to clear it with Kichsel HQ. To be precise, with Theo Benda, who’s the guy who signs my checks.”

  Even though those checks ran to many millions of dollars, this argument did not impress Alec Moore.

  “Theo?” he said negligently. “Don’t worry about Theo. I’ll fix things on that end. You start thinking about a Quax campaign, something to appeal to kids as well as their parents . . .”

  The conversation, noticeably one-sided, continued at some length. Nevertheless, by the time it ended, Moore had convinced himself that he had achieved something useful in New York.

  “Like getting questioned by the police and spread all over TV?” snapped Claudia when he said as much.

  Unmoved, he continued, “And it’s lucky good old Theo’s right here with the rest of us. That’ll speed things up.”

  Cl
audia did not trust herself to comment.

  Good old Theo, meanwhile, was cursing the luck that had scheduled his speech today. Since Kichsel Brewery was neither high-tech nor an emerging market, it excited Wall Street’s interest only at widely spaced intervals. But the company was duly covered and Benda, just as dutifully, reported to professional gatherings several times each year. In his capable hands Kichsel Brewery always emerged sounding like a safe pick for prudent investors from San Diego to Orlando. But, after murder and mayhem, and Madeleine Underwood jammed into a closet, that was a story sixty-five New York financial analysts were not likely to buy.

  So Benda revised his prepared remarks and steeled himself for the question period.

  “Yes,” he told the young woman from Paine Webber. “I’ve been in touch with our distribution center in Laconia. Quax shipments jumped thirty percent last week.”

  “How’s that going to impact earnings, Theo?”

  For reasons of prudence as well as policy, Benda invariably downplayed Quax. Fortunately, the facts bore him out.

  “As you know, Quax contributes less than two percent of Kichsel’s revenues—”

  “Do you expect any change there?”

  “We’re projecting modest but steady growth,” he replied.

  But with the scent of blood in the air, the financial analysts wanted more dirt.

  “Let’s talk management, Theo,” said Paine Webber, approaching another ticklish area. “Dean Kichsel’s getting on in years. Is he thinking of stepping down? And what about candidates to replace him?”

  Without batting an eye, Benda unreeled the mandatory tribute to Dean and the whole management bench. “. . . but as to when Dean’s going to retire, I can’t tell you.”

  The ensuing skirmish was conducted with both sides observing the rules of engagement. No one pressed Benda for an opinion that could cost him his job. In turn, he framed replies precise enough to satisfy Price Waterhouse or any other independent investigator.

  It was a process that left him feeling like one of his American literary favorites—teetering on the edge of the tureen, if not actually in the soup. The push came after he parted from the keen young intelligences from Paine Webber. As Benda trudged up Broad Street, reviewing his own performance, he heard from another critic.