Stop the Presses!

by Robert Goldsborough

  Stokes nodded and gave a tight smile. “I wondered when you were going to get to that question,” he said. “I have absolutely no idea where I was, and even if I knew, I would not tell you. To think that I could have killed Cameron Clay is absolutely ludicrous.”

  “Perhaps, but you certainly had reason to harbor intense enmity toward the man,” Wolfe said.

  “No question whatever. But let us, for the sake of argument, say that I did dispatch him. How would you, or the police, or anyone else, go about proving that? If I had gone to his home with the intent of killing him, do you think I would have left fingerprints or any other proof of my presence anywhere? If I had, the police would have paid me a visit immediately. There is nothing, I repeat nothing, to tie me to his death,” Stokes said, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture of self-assurance.

  “Not at present,” Wolfe agreed. “However, it is entirely possible that an investigation into the cause of Mr. Clay’s death will be convened.”

  “Really? At your behest?”

  “You would anoint me with authority I do not possess,” Wolfe said. “But if the police do decide there is likelihood that a crime has been committed, I believe it is fair to say you will find yourself under their microscope.”

  “I will deal with that eventuality if and when it comes,” Stokes said, still exuding confidence. “In my work, I have had many dealings with a variety of law enforcement agencies over the years. These organizations tend to use intimidation as one of their major tools, and I don’t tolerate intimidation.”

  “Nor should you. We do not yet dwell in what I would term a police state, and I hope I do not live to see that eventuality.”

  “Well said, Mr. Wolfe,” the lawyer replied, clapping twice. “Have you learned what you hoped to from our meeting tonight?”

  “That remains to be seen, sir. I will only say it has been an instructive evening.”

  “Your comment is most enigmatic, as in the old Chinese proverb ‘May you live in interesting times.’”

  “The source of those words may or may not have been Chinese,” Wolfe said. “The origin is unknown.”

  “Ah, you would have been a formidable adversary in a courtroom,” Stokes said good-naturedly. “I, for one, am glad you never took up law as a profession.”

  “As am I,” Wolfe said with feeling as Stokes rose to leave. I saw him out and returned to the office.

  “Well, what are your thoughts about the legendary defense attorney?” I asked Wolfe.

  “Legendary, pah! Mr. Stokes is clever, without any doubt, and by all accounts extremely effective in the courtroom. But overweening pride blinds him to his shortcomings.”

  “Shortcomings, eh?”

  “I believe he is sincere in his belief that no one he has ever encountered is as smart as he.”

  “Even after tonight?”

  Wolfe made no comment, but it was clear to me that he felt the lawyer had met his match. As an onlooker, I agreed, but I was not about to underestimate one Roswell “The Vulture” Stokes, Esq.

  Chapter 21

  We were coming up on that long February weekend once set aside for celebrating Washington’s Birthday but which had more recently become Presidents’ Day so we could include Lincoln, too. As is her habit each midwinter, Lily Rowan throws a three-day bash at her place up north of the city in Katonah. She calls the retreat a “cottage,” but I think château is a more appropriate name, given that it is three stories and has a domed swimming pool and an indoor tennis court, as well as a ballroom with a bar attached, a card room, two fireplaces, and an outdoor skating rink.

  I had made arrangements months back to be in Katonah through the entire weekend, and despite the fact that we now were working on the case, Wolfe did not object. Although he is known for his aversion to women, that aversion does not extend to Lily. Ever since she asked to see his thousands of orchids years ago, he has invariably seemed pleased to see her on her visits to the brownstone.

  Lily was already up at her place getting things prepared for a crowd when I steered the Heron sedan north in a snowfall on Friday afternoon. I turned in the long driveway that led to Chez Rowan and was met by the chatelaine herself as I pulled up in front of the four-car garage.

  “Escamillo, you are prompt as usual,” she said, clapping her hands gleefully. “Come with me and have a hot chocolate. Leave your car where it is. Charles will bring your baggage in and put the car away. Heaven forbid it should get covered with any more snow than it already has.” Charles is Lily’s longtime butler-chauffeur. I obeyed orders, and ten minutes later, we sat sipping chocolate in front of a stone fireplace with a roaring blaze.

  “I have assembled quite a guest list,” she said proudly. “You will have met many of them before, including one woman who is simply dying to have you as her bridge partner.”

  “Is she any good?”

  “Not bad, based on the two or three times that we’ve played together. Not as good as you are, of course, but I doubt if anyone who is coming can match you at Mr. Goren’s game.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere with me, et cetera, et cetera. Will all your guests be staying over?”

  “All but a few who live nearby. That’s the benefit of having a place with all these bedrooms. I’ve lost count of the number, but I think it’s fourteen, or maybe fifteen. There is one guest you will be particularly interested in meeting.”

  “Really? Well, please don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It is none other than Serena Sanchez.”

  I set my mug of chocolate down. “Now that is a surprise.”

  “I’m sure you will like her. She can be quite the charmer, so just make sure that you don’t end up liking her too much.”

  “I will try to control myself.”

  “I’m sure that you will. She seemed quite interested in meeting a real live private detective.”

  “Does that mean I have to wear a trench coat with the collar pulled up and a snap-brim fedora?”

  “I think one of those glen plaid sports coats of yours will do just fine.”

  “Just how does Miss Sanchez happen to be here?”

  Lily first answered with a sly grin, followed by a chuckle. “One, I thought our guests would be interested in having a noted diva among their number and might even ask her to sing; two, I know you and Nero Wolfe are looking into the death of Cameron Clay; three, Serena Sanchez once was married to Clay; and four, I figured that at some point you and Wolfe might want to talk to Serena and that I could help that process along. Or … have you spoken to her already?”

  “No, although for your ears only, that happens to be on our schedule.”

  “Excellent!” she said. “See, I’m helping do your work. You should be proud of me. And I am positive you will find Serena both charming and totally innocent in the death of that not-very-nice man.”

  “I am always proud of you,” I said, “even if you sometimes are a bit eager in taking the bull by the horns.”

  “And we both know something about bulls, don’t we, Escamillo? Just think: If there hadn’t been that angry bull in a pasture years ago, we might never have met. And wouldn’t that have been a shame?”

  “I won’t for a single minute deny that, my love.”

  Cocktails Friday night began at five sharp, to the sound of a gong, no less. The guests had been arriving all afternoon, many in limousines, others by taxi from the Katonah railroad station, and a few in their own cars. At Lily’s earlier suggestion, I donned a glen plaid sport coat and brown slacks, along with a tan shirt and a burgundy tie.

  By the time I reached the ballroom, it was crowded, with many of the guests clustered at the bar, although two red bow-tie wearing waitresses also circulated with trays of champagne and martinis. Scanning the multitude, I recognized several people from other parties Lily had thrown in her duplex and out here, where her summ
er weekend parties are every bit as elaborate as this winter extravaganza.

  I started for the bar when a slender arm encircled mine. “Hello, big boy, can I hang on to you?” Lily said.

  “Certainly, but only if you allow me to order you a drink. Do you approve of my attire?”

  “Of course, I do. You are without doubt the best-dressed—and best-looking—man in the room.”

  “If what you say is true, and modesty forbids me to comment, then it is only fitting that I am at this moment in the company of the best-dressed, best-looking woman here.”

  “We’re both pretty full of ourselves, aren’t we?” Lily said with a smug smile as we each got a scotch and water from the bartender. “Ah, look at who is joining this august gathering.” She nodded toward a slender and exotic brunette who had just entered the room on the arm of a plain, sandy-haired fellow.

  “That, my dear, is Serena Sanchez,” Lily said. “What do you think?”

  “Attractive, curvaceous, self-possessed, for starters. Somehow, I thought she would be older.”

  “At the risk of sounding catty, and I really don’t mean to, she is older than she looks, but she has got wonderful bone structure. Let’s go over there. I want you to meet her.

  “Serena, I am so glad you could come,” Lily said, holding out a hand.

  “I was delighted to receive your invitation,” the diva said in only the slightest Spanish accent. “I would like you to meet William Phelps, who is an official with the Metropolitan Opera.”

  “If you call a public relations man an official, I suppose I qualify,” Phelps said with a smile and a blush, bowing slightly to Lily.

  “And I would like you both to meet my friend Archie Goodwin,” Lily said. I shook Phelps’s paw and took Serena’s hand, resisting the temptation to kiss it.

  “Ah, I am happy to meet the famous private detective,” she said with a dazzling smile. “Lily has told me much about you, every bit of it good.”

  “I’m afraid Miss Rowan is too kind. I am not a famous detective, but I work for a famous one.”

  “Well, Archie is famous in my book,” Lily said, turning toward Serena. “When I told some of my other guests you would be here, they asked if you might sing for us. I made no promises, because I didn’t know if you would want to perform. That is definitely not the reason I invited you here for the weekend.”

  “I would be honored to sing one aria, perhaps a little later?”

  “Absolutely. We won’t be eating until seven. Please get drinks and hors d’oeuvres and enjoy yourselves.”

  Lily and I spent the next half hour moving through the crowd, with her making introductions. She is a master at working a room, and she played her role as the gracious and charming hostess to the hilt. I was proud to be with her—as usual.

  We then separated and I wandered through the room, talking to a few people I had met at Lily’s before, including a fine-arts dealer who had once hired Wolfe to find out who in his gallery had been dipping into the till. We ended up catching the woman, who had seemed to be the least likely suspect among the four employees.

  I was jawing with an advertising creative director who recently had won an award for a television commercial for potato chips when Lily clapped her hands twice, causing the nattering throughout the room to quickly die down.

  “Attention, everyone. One of our guests, who some of you already have had the privilege to meet tonight, is Serena Sanchez, the great international mezzo-soprano who has sung numerous times right here in New York with the Met and is famed for her portrayal as Carmen. She will sing one aria from that great opera. I am proud to introduce … Serena Sanchez.”

  Applause followed, lots of it. Serena smiled broadly and talked to the piano player seated at a Steinway against the wall. He nodded and smiled, and she turned to the guests, who had crowded in.

  “I am going to sing the “Habanera” from Carmen, which I know many of you will recognize. For this, I will need a man, as I always sing it with a man close to me, very close.” That drew scattered laughter, including from me, although what she said next put a stop to my laugh.

  “Mr. Archie Goodwin, will you kindly agree to be my consort for this aria? I understand you have been called ‘Escamillo,’ which is most fitting, because he is one of the principals in the opera, and a lover of Carmen.”

  I stepped forward reluctantly, getting something of an applause myself. “Now, Escamillo, stand there while I begin.” She motioned to a spot a few feet from her.

  Feeling something of the fool, I was rooted to the spot while she began to sing as the piano played, and what singing it was! She burst forth in sultry tones that captivated the crowd—and me. “Are you a good dancer, Archie Goodwin?” she asked between bars.

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “Serena, he is a very good dancer,” Lily chimed in.

  “Then watch this and do it with me,” the diva said before starting to sing again. She went into a series of steps that I later learned was a habanera, the same word as the aria. I picked up on it, and she grinned, moving toward me with a long scarf that she looped around my waist, pulling me to her. Then we began dancing belly to belly as she sang the song I had remembered hearing when Lily and I went to the Met.

  We moved together, and then she would push off from me and twirl, but never stop singing. To call her dancing sensuous would be an understatement. We went on for several minutes, time seemed not to matter, and when she pushed off one last time and twirled with her hands above her head, the audience clapped, whistled, and erupted with “bravas.” Serena bowed to me and then in the direction of the pianist. I bowed back, feeling much less like a fool than I had earlier.

  “You did very well, Archie Goodwin,” she said. “Better than many of the singers I have danced with in opera houses. A good singer is not always a good dancer.”

  “Just never ask me to sing,” I said, drawing a hearty laugh from her and from the crowd.

  “I probably should have warned you that she had that planned,” Lily said later when we were at the bar. “But I figured you could handle it, and you did.”

  “She’s quite the all-around performer. Does she still do a lot of operas?”

  “No, not so much anymore, or so she’s told me. She feels her voice is beginning to go, so she’s cut way back on appearances.”

  “You could have fooled me. I’m far from an expert, but I thought she sounded terrific.”

  “Serena is her own harshest critic,” Lily said. “She doesn’t want to be seen as a once-great star who stays at the party too long. She is very sensitive about that, and about what she views as her diminished talents. But sing no sad songs for her. She is enjoying teaching now, giving master classes and working with operatic hopefuls. She says she finds it very rewarding.”

  “Any men in her life?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. That fellow she came with is just a long-time friend who comes in handy as an escort when she’s in New York.”

  “Where’s home for her, Spain?”

  “Not any longer. She’s got a house in Connecticut, which makes it easy for her to come into the city. I really believe she would like to do more at Juilliard.”

  “Well, now that we’ve danced together, I wonder how she will react when I tell her Nero Wolfe wants to talk to her about her ex-husband’s death.”

  “I think she’ll be just fine with that. In fact, I know she will.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because, my dear Escamillo, I have already told her to expect an invitation to visit Mr. Wolfe.”

  The rest of the weekend was uneventful and pleasant. You might think because of what Lily had told Serena Sanchez, there would be awkwardness between us, but there wasn’t. On Saturday afternoon, with light snow falling, the diva and I skated on the rink along with a half dozen other couples, and we also were seated together
at dinner that night and engaged in what I would call amicable conversation. She did not raise the subject of a visit to Wolfe, nor did I. There would be time for that.

  “Serena seems quite taken with you,” Lily said later, “which does not surprise me in the least, given your charm. I suppose I should be jealous.”

  “You have no reason to be. By the way, you have no shortage of admirers yourself. I had a hard time getting to dance with you, what with all those swains lined up ahead of me.”

  “Swains? What an interesting word. Did you pick that up from Nero Wolfe?”

  “Don’t you think I have a vocabulary of my own?”

  “Oops, I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot. Of course, I know you have a way with words, you silver-tongued rascal. And I understand you also made quite a hit at the bridge table last night, bringing home a small slam, doubled, no less. At least two ladies were most impressed with that feat, and they talked about nothing else at breakfast.”

  “I do what I can to keep your friends amused.”

  “Just as long as they are not too amused.”

  “Point taken. Do you have a phone number where I can reach Serena in New York? For purely professional reasons, of course.”

  “Of course. While she’s conducting that master class at Juilliard, she’s staying at the Churchill,” Lily said, pulling an address book from her purse and flipping it open. “Room 806. As I said earlier, she will not be surprised to hear from you regarding a visit to see Nero Wolfe.”

  “Has she mentioned anything about Clay’s death to you?”

  “Only to say she felt no emotions of any kind when she learned he was dead. If you want my vote, it is that Serena had nothing whatever to do with what happened to her ex-husband­.”

  “I always want your vote, and I will pass your thoughts along to Mr. Wolfe.”

  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. I can’t imagine that Nero Wolfe would ever take an opinion of mine seriously.”