The Rothman Scandal

by Stephen Birmingham

  She shook her head. “No, I think he would have found me sooner or later,” she said. “He’d been looking for me for a long time.”

  “Before he left the house that day, he left an envelope with me, saying I was to open it if anything happened to him. When I heard what happened, I opened it. In it were some personal papers—his will, a storage receipt for some stained-glass windows, your letter from ‘Rothmere,’ and your nineteen sixty-one marriage certificate from the Jackson County Court House in Kansas City.”

  She sat there, twisting her pearls, looking stunned.

  “I don’t blame you for what you did,” he said. “He was one of the most damnably physically attractive men I’ve ever known. There was a kind of magnetism about him—an almost animal magnetism, an aura of raw sexuality that we thought would project across the footlights. I was quite violently attracted to him myself, at one point. And of course he was hung like a bull, with a cock that should have been written up in the Guinness Book of Records, if you’ll pardon my lapse into uncharacteristic vulgarity, Alex.”

  She nodded.

  “But one thing I’ve always wondered, Alex. After he’d knocked you down on the floor with his karate chop, and had his heel on your throat in a classic karate victory stance, how were you able to retrieve the gun and shoot him?”

  “I didn’t shoot him,” she said quietly. “It was Aunt Lily. She’d been hiding in the boathouse, in case something went wrong.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I always suspected that.”

  “How?” she said. “Why?”

  “Years ago, I mentioned to Ho Rothman that I was aware of a certain letter. He became very exercised, very angry and threatening. I figured he wouldn’t become that angry just to protect you, Alex, fond though he was of you. There were only two people that he’d be that angry to protect—himself, or his wife.”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Tell me something else,” he said. “If you’d been able to, would you have shot him?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I know I couldn’t have done it, and I suppose Ho and Aunt Lily knew it too, which was why she was there. I thought, with the gun, I could perhaps frighten him away, but—”

  “And then, when it was over, why didn’t you tell the police it was Aunt Lily? After all, she was the one who fired the shots.”

  “Three reasons. For one, Aunt Lily had saved my life—I had no money to give him. For another, it was my mess I’d gotten the family into, not Aunt Lily’s mess, and it was up to me to get the family out of it. And for another, that was the way Ho wanted the story to go out. He said it was more appealing for a younger woman to be the attack victim, rather than an older woman—particularly a young woman with a young son. The story had all been prewritten for the press. Aunt Lily was supposed to be in New York, with Joel, who’d been taken there that morning by his nurse. Ho had worked out all the details, and it was too late to change them.”

  “So that was what the long telephone call to Ho’s office in Manhattan was all about.”

  She nodded again. “To be sure that everybody’s stories dovetailed. It was so horrible, Lenny. I’ve tried to drive it out of my mind, but sometimes I still have nightmares about it, even after all these years. Because, you see, even though I hated Skipper for what he was trying to do to me—and to my marriage—I didn’t want to see him killed. In a strange way, I still loved him, Lenny. In some ways, I still do.”

  “Nor do I blame you, dear Alex,” he said. “One never really recovers from one’s first love, does one? The love to whom one sacrificed one’s maidenhood. And he was a gorgeous man, even though there was something missing at the core. I loved him, too. I still miss him. We keep a little shrine to Adam Amado in our apartment, with his stained-glass windows.”

  “Those stained-glass windows,” she said.

  “You really must come to one of our Sunday-night salons one day. I’ll show them to you. Tell me. Was Skipper Joel’s father?”

  She blinked quickly, and nodded once more.

  “I always suspected that, too,” he said. “There is a certain physical resemblance. The blond hair, something about the nose and jawline. Whereas Steven—”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Of course Steven was the great love of my life,” he said. “Perhaps even greater and more poignant because it was unrequited. After all, there was a certain difference between Steven’s and my ages—not much, perhaps, but enough to have made a relationship seem quite … inappropriate. When I first came to work for the Rothmans, as a mail-room boy, Steven had not yet been born. It was as a mail-room boy that I first caught Aunt Lily’s eye—it was my beauty, I suppose—and promotions followed. Later, after Steven was born, I was often invited to ‘Rothmere,’ and it was Aunt Lily’s suggestion that I teach her five-year-old grandson to swim. Aunt Lily had learned that I was also a beautiful swimmer in my early youth. In fact, swimming was the only real talent I had when I was so rudely invited to leave Onward, Mississippi—I was the most beautiful swimmer. We used to swim, my friend and I, in the Deer Creek, and sometimes in the big river. That was the cause of my downfall in Onward—those late-night swimming outings. My friend’s father was the town sheriff. It was swimming that gave me my golden tan. Did you know that when I first came to New York, people said I looked just like a jar of honey? It’s quite true. And look at me now! I’ve dined at the White House with three U.S. presidents! I’ve emceed Bob Hope’s birthday parties! I introduced Garbo to Dietrich, the woman dear Marlene most wanted to meet. I’ve had sex with Rudy Valentino! And most of all, no one has endured employment with the Rothmans longer than I. All because I was beautiful. But I’m wandering. Where was I?”

  “Steven,” she said. “Swimming. And the letter.”

  “Oh, yes. He was only five when Aunt Lily asked me to teach her young grandson to swim, and, needless to say, I have always done everything in my power to oblige dear Aunt Lily. That was when I first fell in love with that beautiful child. Not, as I say, that there was anything inappropriate in our relationship. I was never anything more than his dear old Uncle Lenny to him, alas. And it was thrilling to watch Steven grow into such a beautiful young man—quite different from Adam—tall and dark and slender, with a swimmer’s build and smooth, long muscles in the arms and legs that I, in fact, used to have. And, different from Adam, Steven was all beauty and goodness on the inside as well. There was never anything physical between us, but, oh, dear, if there had been I’d have taught him a few more things than the Australian crawl! Herb always suspected that Steven and I had a sexual relationship, but we didn’t. Herbert lived in terror that his only son was gay—it obsessed him—and he always suspected that I had some sort of evidence to prove that Steven was gay and, that if Herb didn’t play his cards right with me, I’d spill the beans. Of course I had no evidence, but it didn’t hurt to let Herb think I did. I don’t think Steven was gay, unless everybody has a gay side, which is the impression one gets from reading Dr. Kinsey. If Steven had a gay side, he worked hard to suppress it—to please his father. Poor Steven. There was nothing he could do to please his father, though he tried so hard. I think his father had succeeded in destroying Steven, even before he destroyed himself. His father has a copy of another letter, the letter that Adam—Skipper—wrote in response to yours. That letter in itself proves nothing. But he showed it to Steven, implying that you and Skipper had been lovers. That was when he did what he did.” His voice cracked, and he brushed a tear from his eye.

  Alex closed her eyes. “And you have my letter,” she said.

  He cleared his throat. “The second half to the puzzle, the half that Herb has always wanted. I suppose you could say that this is a talent I developed under Rothman tutelage, collecting random pieces of puzzles and putting them together. That’s been my genius, I suppose.”

  “That’s why they say Lenny Liebling knows where certain bodies are buried.”

  “Dear me, yes. Lots of bodies. A body in Paris, and bodies her
e. All sorts of sordid little secrets. I call them my Rothman Retirement Insurance Policy. Herbert’s penchant for little girls, for instance. Oh, Lordy, the irate mothers who’ve been paid off over the years! I know all their names. At least this new lady-friend of his is over twelve years old!”

  “And he’s offered you money for my letter,” she said.

  “Oh, yes. Quite a lot, in fact. But don’t worry, dear Alex. There’s not enough money in the world to get me to give that letter to that dreadful man and his dreadful ladyfriend. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy playing a little cat and mouse game with him, of course. There’s nothing I enjoy more than watching Herbert Rothman sweat. I’ve even thought of taking Herb’s money, and giving him a totally bogus letter. But not now. Now that I know it was Aunt Lily who did the shooting, I think my little games with your letter have gone quite far enough. I rather like Aunt Lily, and I wouldn’t want to see her name dragged in the mud at this point in her life. In fact, as soon as the dust has settled over all of this, I think you and I should have a letter-burning party. And a marriage-certificate-burning party. Should we invite Charlie to our little party? He’ll feel left out if we don’t. What do you think?”

  “But I still don’t see,” she said, “how any of this explains what Joel tried to do this morning.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Joel’s little caper this morning proves to me that things have now gone quite, quite far enough. It is time to call in dear old Lenny to the rescue. Tell me something. Does Joel still hide his journals in the same place?”

  “Journals? What journals?”

  “He keeps a journal. Has been for several years. He’s thinking of a writing career, you know, or of becoming a journalist. He says it’s in his blood. He showed me some of his journals two or three years ago, to see if he had any talent. Quite frankly, I didn’t think so, but what can you tell from the pubescent moonings of a fifteen-year-old? I didn’t want to discourage him. I urged him to keep it up. Do you mind if I take a look in Joel’s room?”

  “Of course not.”

  He rose, and as he left the room she heard him mutter, “Third tile from the west wall, sixth from the south …”

  He was gone a long time, and she sat curled in the green leather chair. Her portrait looked down at her from above the fireplace, and the expression that Bouché had painted on her face now looked accusatory.

  When Lenny returned to the library, he had three blue-bound spiral notebooks in his hand. His face was grim. “I think,” he said, “that we have found the answers you were looking for.”

  He handed her the notebooks.

  “Mel?” she said when she reached him on the phone, “May I borrow Scarlett O’Hara for a few hours? There’s something that I need from the house in Sagaponack.”

  “Are you all right?” he said. “You sound upset.”

  “No, I’m fine. But I need something from Sagaponack, and I need to dash out there and get it.”

  “Sure,” he said. “You know where I garage the car. Just tell Harry to give you the keys.”

  She had no sooner hung up the phone than it rang again in her hand. It was Mark Rinsky, and he sounded jubilant. “Boy, have we got some great stuff for you from London!” he said. “It took us long enough, but it was worth the wait. Listen, she’s—”

  “I don’t have time to talk now, Mark,” she said. “Besides, I know everything I need to know about Fiona.”

  Miss Lincoln, Herbert Rothman’s secretary, looked up from her desk and said, “Mr. Rothman will see you now, Mr. Liebling.” As Lenny stepped toward the door, Miss Lincoln noticed that he had three blue-bound spiral notebooks under his arm. Before he closed the door, she heard her boss say, “So, Lenny. You’ve finally come to your senses and decided to accept my offer.”

  Outside, at her desk, Miss Lincoln continued what she had been doing, which was balancing Mr. Rothman’s personal checkbook. She had worked for Herbert Rothman for so long that she was no longer astonished, or even mildly impressed, by the amounts of money that ran through this account. The fortune was so vast that the figures no longer meant anything to her. With hundreds of thousands of dollars running in and out of this account every month, it was simply a matter of placing the commas and decimal points in the right positions and the digits in their appropriate columns. Herbert Rothman’s wealth, and style of living, were so far beyond her ken and understanding that she no longer bothered imagining what it must be like to be that rich, and besides, imagining what it must be like to be that rich was not part of her job description.

  Like so many other spinster executive secretaries of Miss Lincoln’s age and ilk, Miss Lincoln was secretly in love with her boss—secretly, and desperately, and passionately in love with him. He filled her daytime thoughts, and her nighttime dreams, when he often came to her and possessed her body with his own. There was no other man in her life. She had saved her virginity for him, and she would lay down her life for him—oh, yes. Even at home, alone, in Kew Gardens, while the cantor who lived on the floor above was singing, and when she was spooning condensed milk into her evening cup of tea, then holding out the spoon for Kitty, her Siamese cat, to lick before she stirred the tea, she imagined Herbert Rothman sitting on the sofa bed beside her, stroking Kitty’s fur.

  She knew all of Herbert Rothman’s faults, and loved him all the more for them. She knew he was perennially unfaithful to his wife, and she approved of this. She knew of the series of girlfriends over the years, most of whom had treated him badly and cost him money. She only wished that just one of them had been able to make him happy. She knew of this new young Englishwoman, for whom he was renting the expensive apartment at the Westbury, and she knew that this was a passion more consuming than any he had ever experienced before. He called her constantly, begged to be with her day and night, but there was no jealousy on Miss Lincoln’s part, just selflessness. She only hoped that this one would treat him better than the others had, and would help him fulfill himself in ways he had never been fulfilled before. She wished this Englishwoman happiness with all her heart.

  Miss Lincoln knew all about Mr. Rothman’s marriage, long gone sour, to the skinny, picky Pegeen, the wife who hadn’t called her husband at his office in nearly twenty years, and whom Mr. Rothman never called at home. But even though Herbert and Pegeen Rothman no longer spoke to one another, the skinny, picky wife wouldn’t give him a divorce. She could spend his money, though! Oh, yes, she could spend his money to a fare-thee-well! Look at the bills! There was $6,452.67 to Saks, $7,609.23 to Bendel’s, $126,000 plus tax to Maximilian for the new floor-length Russian sable coat, $9,900.00 to Cartier for butterfly earclips of diamonds and rubies set in platinum! Not bad for a month of spending!

  Miss Lincoln just hoped that this new love of his was of such immensity and fervor that he would at last take drastic measures to get a divorce from Pegeen, and at last find peace of mind with an understanding woman.

  Miss Lincoln, unlike skinny Pegeen, was able to show her love for Herbert Rothman daily in all sorts of little, quiet ways. She saw to it that the pots of prize orchids on his windowsill were misted twice a day, watered once a week, and fed every fourteen days. She made sure that the candy jar on his desk was always filled with those little Italian caramels from Maison Glass that he liked to nibble on while he worked. She saw to it that his silver water carafe was refilled twice a day with fresh ice water. She saw to it that his refrigerator was always stocked with eight-ounce glass bottles—never plastic, never cans—of Coca-Cola Classic. Hard to find, those eight-ounce glass bottles, but Miss Lincoln managed to find them for him. She polished his silver picture frames—the Bachrach portrait of the skinny, picky, spendthrift wife, and the photograph of his late son, so handsome, in tennis whites, standing at the net with his racket, looking as though he had just aced a serve.

  Hourly, she checked the angle of Mr. Rothman’s venetian blinds so that the sun would not get in his eyes. At quarter to five each evening, she reminded him of the time, and again at ten
to five, and again at five to five. At five o’clock, she was waiting for him outside his office door, with his briefcase packed, and with five crisp new ten-dollar bills—he hated used money—in case he should decide to take a taxi home rather than walk to River House, waiting to help him into his topcoat, hand him his hat, and be ready with an umbrella if it looked like rain. All this she did for him, and much, much more—a thousand little daily offerings for the man she loved.

  Suddenly Lenny Liebling came bursting through the door. “Miss Lincoln!” he cried. “Call nine-one-one! I think Mr. Rothman may have had a stroke!”

  “You are a dear to come and call on me this way,” Fiona was saying. “I was certain we could sort things out between us without calling out all those barristers. Barristers are such a bore! Please do sit down, Alex. May I call you Alex?”

  Alex seated herself in a small chair, and Fiona arranged herself on the big white sofa opposite her.

  “That’s a pretty Hermes scarf you’re wearing, Fiona.”

  “Thank you!” She touched the scarf. “I have a passion for these, I’m afraid. I just can’t have enough of them.”

  “Is it one you bought with one of Pussy McCutcheon’s stolen credit cards?”

  Fiona’s dark eyes flashed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “I had five hundred dollars in my purse that night at Maggie’s party,” she said. “I suppose you took that, too.”