Friends till the End

by Gloria Dank

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And iron.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In an effort to regain control of the interview, Voelker shuffled his notes. He looked through them anxiously, then rose from the table.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Crandall, Professor Crandall. I may need to speak to you again at a later date,” he said in his most formal manner. It was meant to head off any inclination that woman might have to make another one of those godawful drinks.

  “Good-bye, Officer.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Harry closed the door behind the departing policeman and returned to the table. Heather was stirring her molasses drink idly with a spoon and smiling to herself.

  “Awfully good,” she murmured, “or just plain awful?”

  “What, darling?”

  “Nothing. What did you think of that, Harry?”

  Harry Crandall sat down and lit his pipe. He was a short, balding man who couldn’t think at all without his pipe. Heather had tried in vain for years and years to get him to stop. It was a hopeless task.

  “My pipe and I,” he would say menacingly, “are as one.”

  “Oh, Harry. It’s so bad for you. Your lungs …”

  “I don’t inhale it.”

  “Freud,” Heather would say solemnly, “died of throat cancer. Freud smoked a pipe.”

  “Freud was one of the greatest geniuses of the twentieth century. Freud smoked a pipe.”

  “Oh, Harry.”

  “Or was it cigars Freud smoked?” mused her husband.

  Heather would shrug. She was not interested. This was the kind of detail that Harry prided himself on knowing, but no one else cared about.

  “The point is, Harry,” she would say firmly, “he smoked.”

  Now her husband, ignoring her mute look of protest, lit the tobacco and puffed. The pipe went out. He lit it again and puffed vigorously. Heather watched disapprovingly. Harry loved this little ritual. He maintained that the look of pained dismay she gave him every time improved the flavor.

  “What do you think, Harry?” she repeated.

  “I think that policeman is wondering why we don’t seem more broken up over this.”

  Heather stirred the blackstrap molasses vigorously. “We didn’t know Laura that well,” she pointed out. “Just the past couple of years or so. While you’ve known Walter—?”

  “Nearly thirty years.”

  “It’s a tragedy, of course. A real tragedy. I sent flowers to the house and I’m going over there tomorrow with Ruth.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Little Harry came in, pulled out a chair and sat down. The chair groaned audibly but did not give way.

  Little Harry was Heather and Harry Crandall’s eldest son. He was seventeen years old and well over six feet Heather didn’t know how much he weighed these days, but it was a steadily increasing number that always seemed to be evenly divisible by ten. Little Harry was not fat. He was a solid mass of muscle. He was the high school football coach’s favorite human being. His full name was Harold A. Crandall, Jr., but he had been called Little Harry for so long that the name had ceased to have any meaning and had become a sort of tag. He had passed his father’s height and weight around age twelve and continued to sprout upward. It was a wonder to all their friends that on a diet of vegetables, rice, tofu and miso soup, Little Harry grew as he did.

  “She must be doing something right,” Freda had said grudgingly. “Just look at that kid.”

  Ruth Abrams was in awe of him. Her own son, Jonathan, was ten years older than Little Harry (Heather was the youngest of their group and her children were a fall generation behind everyone else’s), but he was a little runt who weighed in at five foot ten, a hundred and fifty pounds. Jonathan claimed he made up for this by intellectual power—he had based his life and self-respect on this theory—but Ruth was still overwhelmed by the prodigious size of Heather’s offspring.

  “It’s like Melvin’s favorite story,” she would say. Melvin was her five-year-old grandson. “Little Harry is like Jack and the Beanstalk all in one.”

  Now Little Harry grinned at his parents. “Where’s the chow?”

  “Dinner’s not ready yet,” said Heather.

  Little Harry looked distressed. He put his hand on his stomach.

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “Eat this,” said Heather, with the patience born of long experience.

  Little Harry took the carrot she handed him, rose, and wandered out of the room. Heather watched him go with pride in her eyes

  “Our son,” she often said, “is living proof that athletes can thrive on a meatless diet.”

  Heather was a strict vegetarian. She was anti-meat, anti-flesh foods, anti-sugar. She believed in the regenerative powers of whole foods, fresh dairy products and carob powder.

  “Harry,” she said now, “do you think you should have told that detective about how you fight with Walter?”

  Her husband puffed away complacently.

  “Don’t be silly, Heather. I have nothing to hide. He asked me about my relationship with Sloane, and so I told him. I’m his first wife’s cousin. So what? Sloane is a self-satisfied, egotistical bastard. I don’t know why I’ve stayed friends with him all these years.”

  Because you love to argue with him, Heather longed to say, but she stopped herself. Harry would not enjoy that piece of self-knowledge. The two men loved to bicker over the stupidest things. And sometimes the fights got really acrimonious. There was that argument two weeks ago at the tennis party—Heather had thought they would come to blows. Just lucky that the policeman hadn’t asked about that.

  Charlie, her ten-year-old, came into the kitchen.

  “Mom. I’m hungry.”

  Charlie was a thin whining child who wore glasses and threatened to take after his father. He loved to lecture his friends and boss them around. He was a normal height for his age, but next to his older brother’s prodigious growth he looked practically stunted. He lived in Little Harry’s oversized shadow; it covered him like a huge blanket.

  “Can I have something before dinner?”

  “What do you want?” asked Heather, fearing the answer.

  “Candy,” said Charlie promptly.

  “You can have a carrot.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  With Charlie safely out of the way, Heather said, “But darling, who in the world would want to poison Laura? Everyone at that party last night was friends with her. Everyone liked her, for God’s sake.”

  “We don’t know that,” her husband said, his mild blue eyes meeting hers. “We don’t know that. There may have been—Secret Grudges.”

  He said it very self-importantly, in capital letters.

  Heather pondered this. Secret grudges? But who? Of course she knew there were some bad feelings and resentments—there were bound to be, among any group of friends. But what was Harry saying? Did he know something she didn’t?

  She lifted herself gracefully out of the chair and set about preparing dinner. Heather was tall and willowy, with long brown hair parted in the middle and a pale intelligent face. She was in her early forties, nearly two decades younger than her husband and his group of friends, and some of them thought she was flaky because of her preoccupation with the proper kinds of food. She wasn’t, of course. No, she wasn’t. The only one who recognized that was Ruth, poor muddleheaded old Ruth, so eager to copy what Heather did. And yet, mused Heather, Ruth was the only one who had befriended her in the beginning, when she was a 23-year-old graduate student who had suddenly married her own advisor. Professor Harry Crandall had been a middle-aged man reeling from his third divorce, and Heather, who always knew exactly what she wanted when she saw it, had carefully and competently reeled him in. She could still remember the cookies Ruth had baked for her—those awful cookies, little gooey messes or dried-up rocks—and the pathetic little cakes Ruth had brought by when they were just becoming friends, At the time, Harry’s favorite cousin had been marr
ied to Walter Sloane, and Sloane and Sam Abrams were in business together, so the three couples had formed a group.

  “But, darling—” Heather was saying, chopping broccoli into little florets, when their youngest son came into the room. He looked up at his mother with round blue eyes.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Applesauce?”

  He thought this over carefully.

  “Okay,”

  She took out a little bowl and spooned some of her homemade applesauce (no refined sugar, no artificial ingredients) into it. Linus took it and sat down under the table at his father’s feet. He took the little plastic spoon she gave him and began to eat greedily.

  She glanced down at him lovingly. Her baby! Linus was only five years old, but already he promised to be another Little Harry. He was big for his age and strong, and he ate everything, absolutely everything. They had named him after Linus Pauling, one of Harry’s idols. “The greatest chemist of his time,” Harry said. “One of the greatest scientists of his generation.”

  Heather hadn’t really liked the name, but she hadn’t wanted to disagree too violently. After all, Linus could always change it or take a nickname when he got older.

  Now Linus sat under the table and gobbled his applesauce while Heather continued with her train of thought.

  “So you think someone had a secret grudge against the Sloanes?” she asked.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “Ye-e-es,” said Heather slowly. “Yes. I don’t know.”

  “Against Laura … or against Walter.”

  Heather nodded. “Yes. Walter.” They exchanged meaningful glances. “He’s so difficult,” she continued. “Of course I’ve always liked him because of how wonderful he is with Linus, but …”

  “He’s a difficult man. Impossible, in fact.”

  “Yes. I suppose people are jealous of his money.”

  Her husband tamped down his pipe. “That’s true. He was never wealthy before he married Laura. Wuff-Wuff Dog Chow; that stuff is worth a fortune, an absolute fortune. Walter never made much with his business.”

  “Look at how Ruth and Sam live.”

  “Scrimping and saving,” said her husband. “Scrimping and saving.”

  “While all the while Walter lives in luxury.” Heather fell silent. She took an onion and neatly peeled and sliced it.

  Secret grudges? Was that one of them?

  At the next house Detective Voelker visited, a white Victorian with blue trim, the door was opened by a large man who stared at him in a suspicious manner.

  “Mr. Arthur Randolph?” said Voelker.

  “God forbid.”

  Voelker consulted his notes. “Mr. Woodruff? Mr. Bernard Woodruff?”

  “Yes.” Bernard leaned back and shouted, “Snooky!”

  After Snooky ushered the detective into the living room, Bernard went back into the kitchen and said to his wife, “This is nice. Your brother has been here a little over a week and he’s already managed to involve us with the Law.”

  “It’s not his fault, Bernard. He can’t help it if he was invited to that party.”

  “I told him not to go.”

  “You always tell everybody not to go anywhere. Other people enjoy parties. Not everyone is like you.” Maya leaned into the dining room and whistled for the dog. “Misty? Misty? Where is that dog?”

  Misty, a small red mop of mixed origins, crept into the kitchen, sensing the tense atmosphere.

  “I have an idea,” said Bernard. “Why don’t we write to your brother William and tell him that Snooky is a murder suspect?”

  “Is that supposed to be helpful?” she snapped.

  In the living room, Detective Voelker was saying, “Your full name is Arthur B. Randolph?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What does the B stand for?”

  “Nothing. It’s a rudimentary appendage. Like an appendix. It’s there, you know, but what does it do?”

  Voelker regarded him thoughtfully. “What time did you arrive at the Sloane home last night?”

  “Around eight o’clock.”

  The list of questions went on—a long list. Snooky answered each question promptly. Voelker left three quarters of an hour later. Snooky closed the door and went down the hallway to the kitchen, where he found Bernard hovering over the stove, stirring what looked like a cauldron of brown sludge. Snooky was intrigued.

  “What’s that, Bernard?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s it supposed to be?”

  “Indian pudding.”

  “Looks like glue.”

  “You’re having it for dessert.”

  “Oh.”

  The kitchen was country-style, with a heavy oak table in the center, copper pots hanging from the walls and ceiling, and wooden counters on three sides of the room. Maya was poking around in the pantry, a separate alcove off to one side. “Where’s the beans?” she yelled now.

  “The what?” Bernard shouted.

  “The beans!”

  Snooky picked up a can from the table. “Here, Maya.”

  “Oh.” Maya came in and gave him a curious glance. “You okay, Snooks?”

  “It’s a humbling experience, being interviewed by the police. It’s never happened to me before.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Bernard.

  Snooky leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Isabel’s in a bad fix. I’m worried about her, My. Whoever did this could care less about the kind of trouble it gets her into.”

  Maya regarded him soberly. “I’m more worried about the trouble you’re getting into, Snooks.”

  “Oh, I’m okay. I’m always okay. You know that.” Snooky helped carry the food into the dining room, then sat down and played moodily with the three-bean salad on his plate.

  “What did that detective ask you?” Bernard wanted to know.

  “Oh, you know. The usual stuff. What I saw, who I talked to. Nothing that would interest you, Bernard. Nothing to do with sheep or rats.”

  These were the species that, blessed with the gift of speech and rational thought, figured prominently in Bernard’s books.

  “It so happens that many things interest me,” said Bernard stiffly.

  Snooky did not reply. He was going over things in his head.

  Who at that party had a good reason to murder Laura Sloane?

  Driving away from the house, Voelker was turning over the interview in his mind.

  The young man didn’t know the first thing about it. He felt sure of that. He had answered all of Voelker’s questions clearly and intelligently. And he had told Voelker something that no one else had seen, something that the detective found very interesting.

  Yes, he said, Laura Sloane had crossed the room once, on purpose, to take a drink out of her husband’s hand. He had seen it. No, probably no one else had. The guests were all laughing and talking in little groups. Why would they pay attention? He had seen it because Laura had just finished talking to his friend Isabel. Laura had broken off her conversation and set out purposefully across the room to get that drink.

  Why? Voelker had asked.

  The young man had shrugged. Her husband was getting a little drunk, maybe a little obnoxious. Or was about to. His eyes had followed her because—because she seemed so determined. Everyone else at the party was wandering back and forth, but she had headed straight toward her husband. She had looked at him warningly, then had taken his glass and drunk its contents herself.

  Was the drink full? Voelker had asked. Or had Sloane already had some of it?

  Snooky strained his eyes upward in an effort to remember.

  He couldn’t say for sure. He thought the glass was pretty full. Sloane might have had a few sips. Laura seemed determined to catch him before he had any more.

  Well, that was one for Sloane’s story, thought Voelker. Although it was still very weak, in his opinion. Sloane
was a rich man now and didn’t have a domineering wife to deal with. Murders had been committed for a great deal less.

  But there was still the minor question of proof. It had happened at a party, in a room full of people, any of whom had more than enough opportunity to slip something into a drink. No one had seen anything, really. Not that he had expected anyone would. People at a party were not usually in their most observant state.

  He checked his list. Two more people to go. Freda Simms. Best friend of the deceased. And her boyfriend, Eddie Bloom. He looked at his watch and thought, I can interview both of them and still be home in time for dinner.

  The interview with Eddie Bloom was short and to the point. Eddie was a short, slight man with shiny dark hair and the face of an intelligent rodent. He said he had met those people only once or twice before. He was sorry about the lady, but he didn’t know anything. Freda would know. Yes, he had met her about a month ago, and frankly, he didn’t know her all that well either. She had gotten drunk last night and he had driven her home. That was it. He didn’t think he’d be seeing too much of her. She was upset over her friend’s death, and upset women gave him a queasy stomach. He had a nervous stomach, Eddie did. He was a sensitive person and had to protect himself.

  Driving away, Voelker thought two things. One was that he believed Eddie when he said he knew nothing concerning Laura Sloane’s death. The other was that Eddie was a miserable little weasel.

  Freda was still in shock. During the course of the afternoon, she had been to the hospital, then to the Sloanes’ house, then back to her place, then to the Sloanes’ again. She had been comforting Isabel when what’s-his-name, her young friend, had arrived. Freda had tactfully gotten out of their way. Although they acted more like brother and sister than anything else, she had had time to notice. She had also seen Walter while she was at the house. He looked so awful … just awful. Like his world was collapsing. Of course the one thing she had to say about Walter was that he had always loved Laura. You couldn’t help but love Laura. Laura was …

  But that wasn’t the point. What was the point, Officer?

  That nice man Detective Voelker said gently that he would like to talk about the party.

  “Oh, the party,” said Freda. She lit a cigarette. “I don’t know. Am I wandering? You must forgive me. I really don’t know what I’m saying. What do you want to know about the party?”