Friends till the End

by Gloria Dank

  Sam, on the other hand, seemed fairly relaxed. Whatever the problem was, he wasn’t letting on. He treated Walter with an easy familiarity. Walter, on his side, seemed boisterous and in a good mood. He always was, thought Heather cynically, when he was eating and drinking at somebody else’s expense.

  Although he wasn’t eating anything. He hadn’t touched any of the food, just kept drinking from the punch bowl.

  That friend of Isabel’s was looking very thoughtful, Heather noticed. His eyes were on Walter. Isabel and Richard did not seem to be having a very good time. The three of them, the younger generation, stood close together and spoke very little.

  Where was Linus? thought Heather suddenly, in a panic. Where was—oh. Of course. Little Harry and Charlie were out for the afternoon, but Linus had insisted on coming to the party to see his Uncle Wally. Now he was playing with blocks underneath the buffet table. She had to lift up the tablecloth to see him.

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  “You okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good.”

  That resolved, she went to join the group around Walter. Walter had objected to something Harry said and it looked like a fight was brewing. Adroitly, Heather turned the conversation elsewhere and pressed more food on everybody.

  The party lasted for another hour or so. People left in ones and twos, thanking her profusely at the door.

  “Great party,” Sam said, kissing her cheek. “See you soon?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s our turn to have everybody over next,” said Ruth.

  “That’s great,” said Heather doubtfully. Ruth was a dear, but she wasn’t much of a hostess or cook …

  “Thanks so much,” Ruth was saying. “I think it really helped—really—to get the two of them together like this,” she continued in a low voice.

  “Oh, good. I’m glad.”

  Freda left, followed by the kids—Isabel and Richard and Snooky—and Heather, with a sigh of relief, went back into the living room.

  “Harry?”

  She looked out onto the patio. Harry was showing Walter their garden. It wasn’t much of a garden, really just a row of geraniums and a row of tulips, but Harry was inordinately proud of it. He was a fanatical gardener and spent a lot of his spare time in a pair of old overalls, rooting vengefully for weeds.

  As she watched, Walter suddenly put his hand on his stomach and staggered forward.

  “Heather!” Harry called. “Heather!”

  She ran outside. Somehow they managed to get Walter inside and help him onto the sofa. He was groaning and his breath was irregular.

  He muttered faintly, “Poison …!”

  “Call the hospital,” Harry said sharply. “Get an ambulance. I’ll find that book—I have a book on poisons—”

  Heather ran out of the room, her heart racing.

  She dialed the hospital emergency service. Her fingers were trembling so badly she could barely push the buttons on the phone.

  “Please,” she said. “Please—I need an ambulance—right away—232 Glenview Road—somebody’s been poisoned—”

  On her way back to the living room she nearly collided with Harry running down the stairs. He was holding an old threadbare book marked Household Poisons and Their Cures.

  “Milk,” he barked at her. “Or water. Maybe milk and water. I haven’t had time to look it up—”

  “He needs to throw up,” Heather said vaguely. “Or is that bad for him? My God, Harry, what are we going to do?”

  Harry was thumbing frantically through the book.

  “If only we knew what it was,” he muttered. “There are so many different kinds—”

  “Insecticide,” Heather said firmly.

  He looked up at her. “You think?”

  “Insecticide. It’s what—what Laura died from. Oh my God, Harry, here’s the ambulance!”

  In the living room, Walter was in a bad state. He was groaning, his face was white and he was in convulsions. To her astonishment, Heather found herself eyeing the lamp he had knocked over and wondering if it were broken.

  She felt as if time had slowed down. She watched as if from far away as the ambulance crew rushed in and bundled Walter onto a stretcher. The next thing she knew, he was gone.

  Suddenly she found herself running out of her house and screaming down the street after the departing ambulance.

  “He couldn’t have been poisoned here!” she cried idiotically. “He couldn’t! It was all health food!”

  5

  Jim Voelker was back at the hospital, talking to the same young resident. His name was Dr. Winston and, if anything, he looked more tired than before. There were blue shadows under his eyes and he looked as if he would very much like to yawn but did not feel it was appropriate.

  “Same poison as the wife,” he was saying. “Definitely. A rare kind of insecticide. I grabbed him as soon as he came in and started the antidote procedures. Even so, it was a very close shave.”

  “There’s no chance—” Voelker hesitated—“that he was faking it?”

  The shadowed blue eyes looked at him in faint amusement.

  “None at all.”

  “Was it a large dose? Can you tell?”

  “Large enough. It’s hard to gauge the exact amount, of course. Depends on body metabolism and other factors. But it was a toxic dose, all right.”

  “How long before he came in would you estimate the poison was administered?”

  “Hard to say. The first symptoms appeared approximately twenty-five minutes before he got here, according to the report. With this stuff, he could have ingested it anywhere between an hour, maybe an hour and a half before that. It takes a while to show up.”

  Voelker nodded. That fit. The insecticide was slipped into Walter Sloane’s glass sometime during the party.

  “One more question. How long do you intend to keep him here?”

  The doctor shrugged. He made a notation on the chart. “He’ll be here maybe four, five days, recovering. After that, who knows? Frankly, this is one patient who doesn’t want to go home. He keeps telling me that someone in his close circle of friends is trying to kill him. He doesn’t feel safe outside the hospital.”

  The tired blue eyes looked straight at Detective Voelker.

  “An attitude like that doesn’t exactly help in a quick recovery. And frankly, I can’t blame him. Whoever gave him that dose of insecticide wasn’t trying to be friendly.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome.” Dr. Winston wandered off toward the nurses’ station and, Voelker noted, the coffee machine that sat perking invitingly.

  Incongruously, Voelker found himself thinking about Walter Sloane’s hands—those long, fretful hands that moved and plucked nervously as he talked. What had the man done that somebody wanted to kill him—had struck twice at his family, and probably would again? For Voelker was sure that the two poisonings were done by the same person. Same method, same setting; the hallmark of a murderer. Someone in Sloane’s immediate circle; perhaps in his own house. Voelker thought of the two children, Isabel and Richard. They had a better motive than anyone else to kill off their father and stepmother. Money! How many crimes had been done for money? But there was another motive that Voelker had seen many times in his professional career, and that was a secret grudge. Sometimes a grudge of long standing, one that had grown and festered silently over the years. Everyone in Sloane’s circle of friends had known him at least twenty years. Except Freda Simms, of course, and she had her own reasons to hate him. He had stolen her best friend.

  Voelker thought about Freda Simms. He pictured her in his mind, her blazing red hair, her world-weary expression. A jealous woman, perhaps. A possessive woman. Jealous of the things and people that belonged to her.

  Could she hate Walter Sloane enough to want to kill him?

  Voelker thought it was possible. He reflected also that he did not yet know enough about this case. I
t was interesting. He would have to talk to everyone again, everyone who had been at that party. Of course they were hiding things from him. People always did. He would just have to find out what those things were.

  His final thought on the subject was that he was hungry and it was time for lunch. His list of suspects could wait. There was a little diner around the corner that served a terrific roast beef sandwich on rye with brown mustard, the good kind. He hurried out of the hospital.

  Freda Simms was at another party. Her hair was blonde now—she had stripped the dark color and redyed it. So bad for the hair, but what could you do? She was wearing a tight shiny dress with sequins which looked very good on her. She was dancing with a friend of a friend of the brother of the hostess. None of these people knew anything about Walter or Laura or their friends, and she was glad of that.

  She had not been upset to hear about Walter’s near brush with the Great Beyond. Not at all. Why should she? Her only regret was that whoever had tried to kill him had managed to get to Laura first …

  Of course she felt sorry for the kids. Nice kids, both of them. Still, if old Wally kicked the bucket, they would get all his money, which wouldn’t be too bad.

  Old Wally! She wondered how he felt after his close encounter with death. Frightened, probably. Scared shitless. She would be.

  The man she was with smiled and swung her around in time to the beat. He was good-looking; better-looking than Eddie, and he was a terrific dancer. So was she. She smiled back and laughed; her familiar loud cackle. It pierced through even the dance music and the people around them turned and smiled.

  She was having a good time—a very good time. Why the hell shouldn’t she, after all? Life was short!

  Life was short …

  Old Wally should know that by now!

  Bernard was grilling Snooky about the Crandalls’ party. “So as far as you could tell, no one handed Sloane a drink except for Heather Crandall?”

  “That’s right. And maybe Isabel. She always tries to help out that way. I try to discourage her, but it’s no good. She says everyone expects it.”

  “Who was standing next to Sloane at the party?”

  “Freda Simms, for most of the time,” said Snooky promptly. “Then Ruth and Sam Abrams came over. Professor Crandall tried to talk, but everyone ignored him. And of course his wife was in and out, filling everyone’s glasses and trying to get them to eat that disgusting food.”

  “But you didn’t see anything suspicious?”

  “No. Nothing at all.”

  Bernard regarded his brother-in-law coldly. “I thought you were the observant type—the type who just ‘notices things’?”

  “I don’t have radar, Bernard. I couldn’t keep my eyes on everyone in the room the entire time.”

  Whoever was doing this was clever, Bernard thought. He or she hid their actions in a noisy, crowded roomful of people. Who in the world would be paying attention at a party?

  They went over it again and again, but it was always the same. Basically, anyone could have done it. Anyone at the party. Snooky hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. He had left, with Isabel and Richard, before Sloane had come down with the first symptoms.

  “I see,” said Bernard. He lapsed into a disapproving silence.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I had seen something. But—”

  Maya came into the room and looked fiercely at her brother. “This is ridiculous. Two parties, two murders. Starting to get the picture yet, Snooky?”

  “Oh, stop fretting, My.”

  “I don’t understand it. Why do you have to go to all these stupid parties? Why can’t you and your friend go out on real dates like normal people?”

  Snooky looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, My. I guess it’s because I haven’t asked her. It’s not a bad idea. Maybe going to a movie would get her mind off of things.” He slouched out of the room.

  “My God,” said Maya, watching him go, “it’s just like having a teenage son. Isn’t it, Bernard?”

  “Maya, let’s never have children.”

  “All right, darling,” she said absently.

  “Listen, a movie isn’t such a bad idea for us, either. Why don’t we go out tonight, just the two of us? It would be fun, and we could get away from your brother and his weird problems.”

  “That’s a great idea. Where’s the paper? Where’s the movie page? Is there anything playing around here? You know, we haven’t had an evening out for a while now.”

  “Away from Snooky.”

  “Exactly.”

  They had their heads together over the paper and had almost chosen a movie, Flight of the Zombie Bats, when Snooky slouched back into the room. He looked dispirited.

  “Isabel won’t go,” he announced mournfully. “She says she can’t, she’s too busy, what with visits to the hospital and taking care of her brother and all. I guess I understand.”

  He looked around the room. “Hey,” he said brightly, “how about a movie, just the three of us?”

  “I’m a mess,” wailed Ruth Abrams over the phone. “A mess. I’m so upset over this latest thing with Walter, I can’t tell you. Sam has been working twice as hard since Walter’s been gone, and it’s nearly killing him. And worst of all, the children are coming for the weekend.”

  “Marcia?” said Heather with interest.

  “And Jonathan. And Melvin, of course.”

  “Poor Ruth. Everything happening all at once.”

  Ruth grew confidential. “It’s getting sort of exciting, though, isn’t it, Heather? I mean—I mean, who do you think is doing it?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea. And I don’t think it’s exciting. Not at all. I think it’s absolutely horrible.”

  “Oh, yes, well, yes, of course it is. Yes, of course. Naturally. Well, what I meant was …”

  Of course it was horrible, Ruth reflected as she hung up the phone a little while later. First Laura, now Walter. Poisoned, both of them! And that young man who had come around—not Detective Voelker with his mournful face, another one, younger (there seemed to be hordes of detectives snooping around now)—with his polite questions about her and Sam and the business. Well, naturally she hadn’t told him the whole truth. Why should she? Why should she incriminate her own husband? He had asked whether there were any problems between Walter and Sam and of course she had said no. She had given him a nasty look, too, to discourage him. She had said that Walter and Sam were the best of friends, and had been for years. They always went to each other’s parties. No, she hadn’t seen anyone tamper with Walter’s drink. Why should she? She was minding her own business. It was so hard to believe that it could happen, anyway. Yes. It was certainly hard to believe.

  And now with the children coming home for the weekend, she hardly knew what to do. She didn’t exactly feel like entertaining, with all this going on … but children were children, no matter what their age, and you couldn’t say no …

  Sighing, she got out a recipe book and began to look up holiday meals.

  “So we were wrong,” Philip West said. “Somebody was trying to kill Sloane after all.”

  “Yes,” said Voelker.

  “He could have poisoned his wife,” West said judiciously, “and then someone else could have used the same method to poison him.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But you don’t think so, eh?”

  “No,” said Voelker. “I don’t. I think that both these poisonings were done by the same person. The same unusual kind of insecticide was used, for one thing. I think we’re looking for one person, perhaps two working together.”

  “Looks like it. And the motive?”

  “Money is the obvious one. The Sloane children will inherit a lot of money if their father dies. In that case they must have deliberately murdered their stepmother, and then tried to kill Sloane at the party. But if the attempt that killed Laura Sloane was an accident—was really meant for her husband all along—”

  “Then it’s not for the m
oney, presumably.”

  “No. It means that someone in Sloane’s group of friends is out to get him.”

  “The motive there?”

  “Well, everyone seems pretty much agreed that he can be a real tyrant. And Sam Abrams works with him. I’m going to have to check out their business arrangement more closely. I know that if Sloane dies, Abrams takes over.”

  “How about the others?”

  Voelker shrugged. “Freda Simms—Heather and Harry Crandall—this young fellow that the girl is seeing—I don’t know. I’ll have to find out more about them.”

  “So let’s see,” said West, leaning back in his chair. “There are several possibilities. Either someone murdered Laura Sloane deliberately and then someone else tried to capitalize on the situation by poisoning her husband. Or the same person deliberately poisoned both of them. Or the murder of Laura Sloane was an accident and someone has been after Walter Sloane all along. Which is what he’s been trying to tell you.”

  “Yes.”

  “In any case, the murderer may try again. He or she seems fairly determined.”

  “Yes.”

  “Motives,” said West. “Motives. You have to find out more about these people.”

  “I intend to,” replied Voelker.

  Heather Crandall was not in the best of moods when Detective Voelker knocked on her door that evening. She and her husband had just returned from the Woodcrest Elementary School, where Linus was in kindergarten. They had been to see Linus’s class play. It was Linus’s theatrical debut and he was tremendously excited about it.

  “Mommy, you have to come,” he had said for weeks beforehand.

  “Well, of course we’re going to come. Your father and I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Linus.”

  “You’ll be there, won’t you?” he would ask anxiously a few days later.

  “Of course, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

  But when the time came, Heather had barely been able to drag herself there. It was only a week after their ill-fated party, and she was so depressed! To think that that terrible thing had happened in her house, at her party …!