Friends till the End

by Gloria Dank

  Voelker leaned forward. This was what he had come for.

  “Mr. Sloane. Where do you think your money would go if you and your family all died?”

  Sloane stared at him in surprise.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. My whole family? I can’t say.”

  “Besides your children, you don’t have any living relatives, do you, Mr. Sloane?”

  “No. No, I don’t.” Sloane mused for a moment. “I was an only child.”

  “No aunts, uncles, cousins?”

  “No.”

  Voelker nodded. That was what he had come up with in his research into Sloane’s past. He said slowly, “Do you think it’s possible—just possible—that your money might go to the Crandalls?”

  Sloane stared, shook his head, laughed.

  “What are you suggesting, Detective? You’re crazy! Harry and Heather? You mean you really think they’re planning to kill off all four of us for the money? Assuming they would even get it, which I doubt. Don’t be idiotic. I’m sure the idea has never even occurred to them.”

  Voelker did not reply.

  “You mean you think Heather plans to poison us with her damned carob brownies or damned sparkling punch, eh? No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “I would like to point out, however, that they are your only living relatives, Mr. Sloane, even if their relationship to you is through marriage.”

  Sloane grew reflective. “Yes, I guess they are, although I must say I’ve never thought of them that way. Sally’s cousins. Yes, I guess they are.”

  There was a silence. Voelker said, “That brings us to Mrs. Simms.”

  Sloane shook his head. “Freda hates me,” he said. “No ifs, ands, or buts about it. The woman hates my guts.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Laura,” Walter Sloane said simply. “Freda was Laura’s best friend in the world. When Laura and I fell in love and got married, Freda nearly went to pieces. She couldn’t share her, you see. She hated me on sight. Jealous woman. She had rages—awful. Laura would cry for days after talking to her. But she eventually settled down. We would socialize, you know. It was never comfortable, of course, but …” He shrugged.

  “How do you feel about her, Mr. Sloane?”

  “Freda? I don’t like her. Never did. Thought her rages and jealousy were absolutely ridiculous. I told Laura repeatedly to drop her, but of course she wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “So Mrs. Simms definitely dislikes you.”

  “I should say so, yes.”

  “Enough to try to poison you?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Could be. Could be. It’s possible. Freda was always trying to get Laura to travel with her, the way they used to in the old days, before our marriage. It upset Laura to say no, again and again. They had a scene about it—oh, not too long ago.”

  “When?”

  “Let me see. Oh, about a month before our party. It took Freda that long to cool off. The woman has a temper, I’ll tell you that. She and Laura had just made it up and were friends again in time for the party.”

  He sighed. “I don’t like Freda, but I can’t believe she’d be a murderer. Although if she was going to murder anyone, she’d certainly start with me.” He gave another loud yelp of laughter. “The old bitch!”

  But it was said almost fondly. He closed his eyes.

  “I’m tired,” he said. “Tired. Is there anything more?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sloane. Just a few more minutes of your time, if I may. I wanted to ask you about the other guests at the party.”

  “Who was that?” He opened his eyes.

  “Your children. Isabel and Richard.”

  “Oh! My kids! Don’t be a fool, Detective. Do you really think they’d try to murder me?”

  Voelker maintained a cautious silence.

  Sloane lifted himself up on one elbow.

  “I suppose you think they deliberately poisoned Laura, and now they’re after me, the two of them, for the money? Laura’s money? Don’t be a fool. I tell you, I know my kids. We may not always get along, but they wouldn’t try to murder me.”

  “Have there been any problems between you and your children, Mr. Sloane?”

  “No,” said Walter Sloane. “No problems. Just the usual stuff, you know, little spats, nothing out of the ordinary. Everybody has them. Go talk to Ruth about her kids, now she’s got a problem. Not me. They’re Sally’s kids, Detective—good kids.”

  “So there haven’t been any—long-term difficulties between you?”

  “Listen to me,” Walter Sloane said. He was sitting upright now. “I won’t hear anything against my kids, do you hear? They’re not killers. They’re not out to get me or my wife or anyone else. So shut your big fat mouth and do your best to figure out who is!”

  Which, Voelker reflected later as he left the hospital, was very definitely the end of the interview.

  6

  There was a scream from the den and Ruth Abrams, startled, dropped a spoonful of ice cream into her lap.

  “Marcia, darling,” she said.

  Her daughter, busily knitting, did not even look up.

  “It’s just Melvin and Jonathan,” she said. “Playing their usual games.”

  There was another scream, a blood-curdling scream from Melvin’s childish lungs.

  “What—what are they doing?” Ruth ventured to ask.

  Marcia spread out the scarf she was making and gazed at it in satisfaction.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t like to ask. Probably Jonathan has Melvin in some kind of primitive wrestling hold. All I know is that Melvin loves it. Jonathan loves it too. He can pin Melvin every time.”

  Given that Jonathan was twenty-eight and Melvin was five, Ruth certainly hoped that was true. She mopped the ice cream off her dress with a napkin and began to clear away the dessert dishes.

  Her son, daughter and grandson had descended on the house like locusts a few days ago and showed no signs of departing. Father-daughter relations were tense, with Melvin the point of controversy. Sam felt his grandson should be going to school soon. Marcia, while conceding the general point, felt that he was not ready.

  “He can go in a couple of years,” she said carelessly.

  “He should be in kindergarten already. Linus is in kindergarten, and he loves it.”

  “Linus is Linus. Melvin is Melvin.”

  There was no arguing with this kind of logic, so Sam just watched helplessly as Marcia played with her son, who seemed more out of control on this visit than on previous ones. The cat was having an episode of hysterical fugue and had not been seen for several days, although its food disappeared when left out overnight. So far Melvin had destroyed a vase, a cookie jar, several knickknacks and an expensive glass coffee table. Ruth was looking very worn-down and oppressed. The only people who seemed to be enjoying themselves were Marcia and Jonathan, who were getting along better than they had in the past, when their respective lifestyles had diverged so drastically. Jonathan seemed to genuinely enjoy playing with his nephew, and he and Marcia had had some good heart-to-heart talks, locked away upstairs in what used to be Jonathan’s bedroom. Ruth wondered vaguely what it was they talked about. Their parents, probably. Jonathan was twenty-eight and Marcia was twenty-three, but complaints about parental mistakes, miscalculations and misunderstandings never seemed to go out of style.

  Jonathan appeared in the dining room, carrying Melvin upside down.

  “What a guy,” he said. He released his nephew, setting him carefully upright. Melvin looked around and, seeing something move behind the sofa, streaked toward it hopefully.

  Jonathan was looking well, thought Ruth. His thin sallow face was lit up with exertion, and his black hair was ruffled.

  “Some wrestler you have there,” he said to Marcia.

  “Oh, yes, he loves to wrestle.”

  “He’ll be a big guy someday.”

  “I hope so. His father was.”


  Ruth listened from the kitchen, intrigued as always by these small revelations about Melvin’s father. Marcia rarely talked about him. It was as if he had never existed.

  “Have Mom and Dad told you about the double murders in the neighborhood?”

  “The what?” Marcia looked up, her knitting needles poised.

  “The double murders. Go on, Dad. Tell her. It’s been in the papers and everything.”

  “Oh, Jonathan, stop it,” Ruth said, bustling back into the room. “We don’t want to talk about it, do we, Sam? Especially not now, with all the family together.”

  “Dad’s taken over for Walter Sloane until he’s better,” Jonathan said. “Hasn’t Dad told you all about it? He called me in Princeton.”

  “I never get any family news,” Marcia said. “Everyone thinks California is too far away for a phone call.”

  “Well, first Laura Sloane was poisoned at one of her own parties. You remember her, don’t you, Marce? Big daredevil kind of woman with a bossy manner?”

  “No,” said Marcia.

  “Well, she’s only been around here for a couple of years,” said Jonathan. “I guess you didn’t meet her. Anyway, first she was poisoned, then her husband was.”

  “At the same party?” Marcia sounded scandalized.

  “No. Later. At the Crandalls’ place.”

  “Oh.”

  Marcia seemed to feel that was all right. She settled back into her chair and picked up her knitting again.

  “But he didn’t die. So while he’s recuperating, Dad’s taken over as the senior partner in the business. Haven’t you, Dad?”

  “Yes,” said Sam.

  Ruth looked over at him proudly. And he was doing an excellent job, too. He had stepped into Walter’s position without any trouble at all. It was a shame how it had happened, of course … it was awful … but then, Sam seemed to be enjoying his work so much more, and the responsibility had been good for him. He flourished on it. And the new salary helped so much in little ways. She could buy so many things that before she would have just thought about. She smiled at him proudly and said, “Some coffee, Sam?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  The discussion lingered on the double tragedy at the Sloanes’, then turned to other topics. Jonathan was having trouble with another member of the Princeton mathematics department. Ruth gathered vaguely that the trouble centered around this other person’s delusion that she was the Big Brain of the department, perhaps of the world. This infuriated Jonathan.

  “The woman hasn’t done any decent work in her life,” he said irritably. “She’s fiddled around with a little topology and differential geometry, that’s all. It’s crap—complete crap—child’s play! Anyone could have done it. But she sits there in the departmental meetings in front of Professor Hirsch and preens herself and acts like a big shot. It kills me, I’m telling you. It just kills me.”

  Ruth understood that Jonathan was the one who wanted to act like a big shot and this woman, whoever she was, was crowding him out. She meekly continued clearing away the dishes.

  Marcia said sweetly, “It takes many lifetimes to evolve past the bad karma of jealousy, Jonathan.”

  “Don’t give me that Buddhist crap. I’m telling you, the woman’s a fake, a complete charlatan.”

  Ruth left them squabbling about it—nothing ever changes, she thought; the topics were more mature but here they were squabbling just the way they used to when they were kids—and went into the kitchen. She was up to her elbows in soapy water, humming happily to herself, when her husband joined her.

  “It’s building to a crescendo out there,” he said. “Thought I’d take refuge while I could.”

  “What are they saying now?”

  “Marcia just called Jonathan a pighead, and Jonathan called her a mousy little ratface. Then she started to cry.”

  “Oh, dear.” Ruth wiped her hands on a dish towel. She felt disturbed. Really, it was just like when they were ten and five … “And they were getting along so well, too,” she said in despair.

  “Well, it had to break sometime. Can I help?” he said, looking at the pile of dirty dishes.

  “No, Sam, just stay here and talk to me. How’s everything at work?”

  He beamed at her. “Fine. Just fine. I’ve had a chance to try some new ideas that’ve been on my mind—oh, for years now. And they’re working out great, Ruth. I’m happy about it, I really am. Everyone else seems to be pleased, too.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “You know, it’s so different when Walter’s there. He keeps everybody in order, sure, but he’s so tyrannical. Constantly flying into one of his rages and screaming at everybody. Everyone hates it. With him away, the office is just so peaceful.”

  “Oh, I’m glad.”

  “And frankly, Ruth, I’m enjoying the new position. Lots more responsibility, and I don’t have to kowtow to anybody. It’s great. I’m enjoying myself.”

  “Oh, Sam,” his wife said happily, “I knew you would. I always knew you would.”

  Something in her tone made him look at her sharply. She was not watching him; her head was bent over the sinkful of dishes.

  “Oh, yes,” she went on airily, “I always knew you’d love it!”

  * * *

  “Phone call for you,” said Maya, appearing at the door of Bernard’s study. “It’s Mrs. Crandall. You know. The one who gave that party.”

  Bernard looked surprised. “Why is she calling me?”

  “She wants to talk to you about your books. She’s a big fan, she says.”

  “Which books? The rat ones?”

  “No.” Maya glanced at him uneasily. “I think it’s—you know—Mrs. Woolly.”

  “Good Lord, no. Not Mrs. Woolly. Maya, please.”

  “I already told her you were in. I’m sorry, Bernard.”

  He followed her into their bedroom and reluctantly picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Mr. Woodruff, this is truly a pleasure. My name is Heather Crandall, and I’m such a fan of your books, I’ve read them to all my children—well, actually, not all of them, Little Harry is too old, but Charlie, when he was younger, and now Linus is such a fan!” She ended on a thrilled squeak. “And I just learned from Isabel that her friend is actually your brother-in-law! Isn’t that something?”

  Bernard remained impassively silent.

  “Well, anyway,” said Heather, plunging on, “I know it’s a great favor to ask, and it’s probably a big intrusion, but I was wondering if I could bring Linus by to meet you? And perhaps you could autograph a copy of his most favorite book of all, Mrs. Woolly Goes to Market? It would be such a thrill for him, he’s only five years old but I’ve read all your books to him—”

  “No.”

  There was a startled silence. “Excuse me?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Mrs. Crandall. I don’t let people come to my house. I don’t sign autographs, and I don’t like children. Good night.”

  He hung up, to meet Maya’s frozen glare.

  “Bernard, you are terrible. You are a terrible human being, do you know that? The poor woman just wants her child to meet an author—”

  “I hate Mrs. Woolly,” said Bernard. He went into his study and closed the door.

  “Now that’s interesting. That’s really interesting.” Voelker nodded approvingly at his subordinate, detective Rick Connors.

  “I thought you’d think so, sir.” Connors was his junior in years and experience, and always deferred to him very gratifyingly. Voelker, who knew the scope of Connors’s ambitions, was not deceived.

  “Two glasses with his fingerprints on them,” mused Voelker. “Both glasses also had Mrs. Crandall’s prints—and one had Mrs. Abrams’s as well?”

  “Yes, sir. Badly smudged, but they were there.”

  “And only the one with Mrs. Abrams’s prints had poison in it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Voelker pondered this. Why two glasses? Heather Crandall had been serving everyo
ne at the party. Perhaps she had switched the glasses inadvertently, or—

  Or perhaps she had deliberately tried to throw suspicion on her friend, Ruth Abrams?

  Voelker considered Ruth Abrams. So vague, so muddle-headed—could she really have planned these crimes? Well, of course you never knew. It seemed unlikely, but … Heather Crandall had been serving everyone from the punch bowl, so naturally her prints would be on all the glasses. It made a convenient excuse for her. But now he knew that Ruth Abrams’s fingerprints were on the same glass that had contained the poison. It was odd … it was very odd.

  It had taken a while to get permission to fingerprint everyone at the party. They had raised a squawk, of course—always did, these people—but in the end everyone had submitted. They all felt insulted at being considered suspects for murder. That professor, Harry Crandall, had gone all red and talked about calling his lawyer and about his constitutional rights, until his wife had calmed him down. But they got the fingerprints in the end. Funny. The Abrams woman hadn’t complained at all, just sat meekly during the process. Perhaps she didn’t realize …

  She wasn’t very intelligent.

  It had looked bad for the Crandalls before this—having the man poisoned at their house, during their party. But now with this new evidence …

  Of course, he realized that if the Crandalls had poisoned their friend, they wouldn’t have left the glass lying around where the police could find it. They would have been sure to wash everything up and put it away quite innocently. Instead, when Voelker arrived there, they had acted their parts very convincingly. Heather had been in tears, ranting something about her food, and her husband had been standing by her side, looking shattered and lost. Dishes and utensils and napkins and glasses were scattered about, just as they were at the end of any party, apparently undisturbed. Voelker had instructed that the food, the punch bowl, the glasses, everything, be taken away and analyzed.

  Voelker did not smile. He never smiled. But inside he felt a growing sense of excitement. Before this—just gossip, innuendo, suspicion flying about. Nothing concrete, nothing definite. Now at last they had something. It was inconclusive, of course. There was no saying that the person who had slipped poison into Sloane’s drink had even touched the glass. Still, it was something.