The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  I considered. My first attempt at finding out who benefited was looking like a dead end. What were the odds against her parents having hired someone to knock off their daughter and three bimbos besides? Astronomical. Forget it.

  “How sure are you about all this inheritance jazz?” I asked.

  “It’s gospel, Davey. Or Torah, if you prefer. For one brief shining moment I was a close and dear friend to one Sandra Norville, quondam office manager of Penniston Associates. She’s one of those gals who make me wish I was young, single and unscrupulous like you.” He sighed.

  “Anyway, physical attributes aside, she’s the one who gave me all this stuff. Showed me everything they had, including the partnership agreement between Penniston and Donovan. Unfortunately, she got fired last week, so there went my in.”

  I shook my head. Chet is one of the smoothest operators around when it comes to finagling information, especially from young ladies. Even if he does throw around fancy Greek words like quondam. The funny thing is he’s bald and pot-bellied. But he can always get people talking.

  “Was it her talking to you that got her fired?”

  “Afraid so. But that’s her lookout. Right now, my lookout is getting to work before I get fired. Gotta run.”

  He didn’t get away quite that fast. I managed to hold him long enough to get the layout of the place.

  “Substantial outfit,” he told me, talking fast. “Plush offices, lots of space. I didn’t make it past the reception area, but checked with the building super. They’ve got nearly four thousand feet, a ton for a modeling agency. And very posh. Your kind of place, Davey. You’ll love it.”

  19

  Overall appearance and grooming were crucial. I was heading for a place where I was unknown, unannounced and, most likely, unwanted. The choices were clear: my one button-down broadcloth dress shirt — white, of course; my one all-American red, white and blue club tie; and my one midnight-blue three-piece suit.

  To complete the gorgeous ensemble, I dusted off the ultimate prop of the prosperous businessman: an elegant, alligator-skin attaché case I’d bought four years before for the unheard-of price of $298.95 plus $23.92 sales tax. A lot to pay for a prop, but if you’re trying to project a first-class image you can’t pay second-class prices. I’ve been told that even at that price, it’s an incredible bargain, but you can’t convince me of that.

  I tried the overall appearance on the hall mirror. A lugubrious-looking undertaker looked back at me. I shrugged. What the hell, undertakers are professionals, right?

  So I was feeling very professional as I hit the sidewalk. And the omens were favorable. No sooner had I raised a hand than a taxi screeched to a halt in front of me. The cabbie obviously knew a success when he saw one.

  Eleven Thirty-one Madison Avenue turned out to be one of those 1970-ish nouveau arte moderne buildings that were supposed to be the trend for about five years, then turned out to have little staying power.

  The lobby was some sort of dark fake marble. I rode up to the forty-second floor alone, enjoying the Muzak. Sounded like “Jailhouse Rock” as performed by the Mantovani strings.

  Forty-five-oh-two was easy to find, right across the hall from the elevator. Inside, at a messy reception desk sat an even messier receptionist, a pretty blond, hair every which way. She was obviously having a hard time with whoever she was arguing with over the phone. The plaque in front of her said she was Nancy Richey.

  I took the opportunity to study her as she gave me a quick if anxious smile and a nod. She held up one finger and turned away to concentrate on the call. Nancy’s long eyelashes didn’t look to be her own but impressed me anyway. They went well with the limpid blue eyes and full red lips.

  Studying Miss Richey’s features made it easy to be patient, which was fortunate, because she was getting nowhere with whoever it was.

  I listened with half a mind, while trying with the other half to identify a certain acrid odor in the air. It damn sure wasn’t perfume. Closer to tobacco smoke but not that either.

  “…Well, yes sir, I know, but Miss Donovan just isn’t taking any calls right now. She’s tied up in a meeting… No, I’m sorry, I don’t have any idea when the meeting will be over… Well, you can come over, but I don’t know what that will accomplish. I can’t promise you that she’ll have any time whatsoever to — Oh! Excuse me a moment, please. I have another call.”

  That was when things really got out of hand. She had just pushed the hold button on the phone when, eyes rolling, she looked past me at yet another visitor coming through the door. She tried to give both the new guy and me a little smile, making a genteel shoving motion at us with one hand. She then put her mouth — and, possibly, brain — to the phone. Judy Holliday playing Wonderwoman.

  I turned and nodded at the newcomer, getting an abrupt nod in return. He had cold blue eyes, a beard that covered the bottom half of his face, bulky physique and tweedy suit. I’d never seen him or his picture, but from Chet’s description I was fairly sure I’d been joined by George McClendon, the would-be owner of Penniston Associates, Inc.

  I immediately switched mental gears, putting Nancy on the back burner. How to parlay McClendon’s arrival into an invitation inside?

  I squared my shoulders and turned enough to make the attaché case more visible. The beard gave me a sideward glance and seemed to straighten his own shoulders. Meanwhile, Nancy was talking.

  “Oh, Miss Norville! How are y —? What? … Well, I’m sorry, but I did give her your message…” The blond now had all four of our ears. McClendon made no bones about it, getting her eye and giving her a raised eyebrow. I tried to be a little more discreet. Nancy was too flustered to notice either of us, anyway.

  “Yes, I told her you wanted your back pay and your vacation pay and — What? … Yes, I told her that. I told her you were threatening to sue… No, she didn’t say anything, but I thought she’d get back to you… Yes, I gave it to her yesterday… Well, all right…”

  Nancy was making it clear she was being very long-suffering and patient with the party on the other end who was, I guessed, Sandra Norville, the recently fired office manager. Nancy scrabbled for a pencil, found one and dropped it on the floor. She gasped, leaned over for it, got it, then looked for a pad. Finally, ready to write, she put the receiver to her ear again.

  “All right, Miss Norville, give it to me again and I’ll give it to Miss Donovan again. How long will you be at this number? Till noon? Okay, I’ll put that on the note.”

  Fortunately, Nancy’s penmanship was miles ahead of any other skill she had demonstrated so far. I was able to read and memorize, even from five feet away and upside down, the phone number as she wrote it.

  Finally rid of the phone for the moment, she sighed, put the phone down, one of its lights still blinking wildly, and turned to the newcomer.

  “Hello, Mr. McClendon,” she said, a purr in her voice I was hearing for the first time. “You can go right on in. She’s waiting for you.”

  In no hurry, McClendon leaned over her desk and eyed her, she staring back at him with beautiful blue eyes.

  “So she’s waiting for me,” he said in a surprisingly thin, reedy voice. “That’s sort of disappointing. I was hoping you and I could kill a little time together, Nancy.”

  She tossed her head, winked and pointed at the phone receiver in her hand to signify she had other duties that prevented her from participating, much though she’d like to, in whatever he had in mind. It was too bad Nancy’s receptionist skills didn’t equal her talent for flirting.

  Feeling left out of all the fun, I gave matters a push.

  “Ah, Mr. McClendon!” I said in the confident tones of a successful businessman. “I’m D.J. Goldman — call me Dave.” McClendon turned to me, smiling politely, a puzzled look in his eyes. Nancy gazed up at me blankly. Then her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Oh, Mr. Goldman, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize who you were.” She turned to McClendon.

  �
��This is the lawyer we’ve been waiting for, Mr. McClendon. He just got here.” I now had a second reason to want to kiss Nancy. No bribe I could have given her would have earned me this good an entree.

  I shook McClendon’s hand and he allowed me the correct amount of smile and hand pressure. Showing Nancy my most lawyerly face, I said, “Thank you, ma’am,” turned back to McClendon, gave him a companionable slap on the shoulder, and said, “Shall we?”

  As we went through the door I gave Nancy a wave of the attaché case. She smiled brightly, her eyes fixed on it. Never had $298.95 (plus tax) been better spent.

  “How long have you been working on this?” asked my new friend as we made our way down the hall. The prints on the wall were not ones I was familiar with, but they were clearly twentieth-century and very expensive. The whole place — decor, carpeting, paneling — reeked of class.

  And of something else. The odor I’d detected in the anteroom was just enough stronger here for a positive I.D. I never worked Vice, but I know pot when I smell it.

  Putting that bit of knowledge aside for the moment, I considered McClendon’s question. How long had I been working on what? The most likely answer, assuming Rozanski’s tip was on the money, was the proposed purchase of Penniston Associates by McClendon.

  Gave me kind of a warm feeling to be taken for Donovan’s attorney. Though the circumstances suggested my tenure would be short-lived — say, about five minutes. Well, gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

  I pursed my lips professionally. “How long have I been involved? Well, not as long as you, of course.”

  Before he could comment he led me into a room dominated by a long, shiny, deep-grained mahogany table surrounded by ten or twelve matching chairs. A steaming coffee urn stood on a credenza to one side, with china cups and saucers, linen napkins and little silver coffee spoons. Class.

  “Coffee, Mr. Goldman?” McClendon asked.

  “Yes, thank you, black’s fine. And please — call me Dave.” He filled two cups with coffee, dosing his with plenty of sugar and cream while I considered the implications of all I now knew about McClendon.

  For one thing, though a guest here, he was plenty at ease, offering coffee to all and sundry. When someone marches into someone else’s place of business, flirts with the receptionist like he’s known her all his life, finds his way to the right room and takes right over as host, certain tentative conclusions follow. I decided to test them.

  “Of course,” I said, still using my lawyer voice, “as prospective owner, you would naturally know a great deal more about the transaction than I, George. Actually, I only came into it very recently.”

  He eyed me as he relaxed into one of the chairs and blew on his coffee. I followed suit, taking the next chair, placing my invaluable attaché case (the total contents of which consisted of today’s New York Times) carefully on the table in front of me. McClendon shot me a startled glance, and I knew why. He was surprised that, in a room filled with chairs, I’d chosen to sit practically in his lap.

  Of course, grabbing the next chair had been a calculated move. If my happy life as a lawyer was to outlive the next event — Betty Donovan’s arrival — I had to set the scene. I needed to give her the strongest possible impression that McClendon and I were colleagues. At the same time, of course, I needed to keep McClendon thinking I represented Donovan. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  The previous summer, vacationing in the Adirondacks, I’d tried to get across a stream by jumping from stone to stone. If you’ve ever tried it, you know the trick is making the right decision every time you lift your foot; and you can’t stop in mid-air to reconsider. That time in the Adirondacks, I made five right decisions in a row, before making the wrong one. No biggie. Just wet clothes and a couple of strawberries on the behind.

  What I was now embarking on gave me the same kind of feeling.

  I justified the presumptuousness of sitting so close to McClendon by scraping the chair away from him a little, and tilting on the back legs, coffee cup in hand. (See? Just trying to be friendly.) His expression cleared and he answered pleasantly.

  “Well, I’m glad to meet you. Though, frankly, I was a little surprised that Betty was bringing in a lawyer at all. At this stage of the negotiations, I mean.” His smile widened through the brush. “Nothing against you, Dave, or your profession, but I don’t like lawyers involved till all the business decisions are made.”

  I took a deep breath. While he was talking I’d come up with an idea. I gave him a knowing wink.

  “Well, I’m also into some things that Betty may not have told you of.” I smiled and raised my eyebrows at him.

  “I don’t understand. You mean —?”

  I leaned forward, beckoning him to do likewise. “It’s not a regular business, you understand,” I told him in conspiratorial tones, “but I can help friends in need get their hands on certain…party favors?”

  His eyes widened in understanding. I shrugged and he grinned, sitting back in the chair, slowly shaking his head. “Well, isn’t she something! I should have known she’d use someone no one would suspect.”

  He cocked his head. “You have enough to spread it around?”

  I nodded soberly. “Just give me a couple days’ notice.”

  So. Another hunch hits the mark. I had begun trying to figure a way to use the information when a large woman in a wine-colored business suit swept grandly into the room.

  The photos hadn’t done Betty Donovan justice. They’d portrayed her as plain, but plain didn’t do it. Nearly the height of McClendon and me, she probably outweighed me by fifty pounds and McClendon by twenty. High, sloping forehead topped by the wispy, frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair of a woman who’s never seen the sense of trying to turn a sow’s ear into anything else.

  Her double-breasted suit was stylish — at least it would have been stylish worn by nearly anyone else. Her dishwater gray eyes narrowed as they focused on me, accentuating the laugh lines on either side.

  With an effort I tried to meet those dishwater eyes as I got up to shake her hand.

  Given Betty Donovan’s physique, I expected her grip to be overly firm. But she gave me only her dry fingertips to grab, and those for only a second. She seemed edgy and irritable.

  “Miss Donovan!” I said, taking the initiative. “How nice to see you! I believe you know George McClendon?”

  It was a tense moment. I was in the middle of the stream, stepping onto the slipperiest boulder so far. The idea was to present an image ambiguous enough for Donovan to take me as McClendon’s overly aggressive attorney, and McClendon to go on assuming I was Donovan’s lawyer fresh from consorting with the other side. Unsmiling, Betty Donovan took me in, turned and looked at McClendon.

  “Well, of course I know Mr. McClendon, for God’s sake. You’re the one who’s coming in new. What I want to know is —”

  Knowing her next words were going to be something on the order of “Who the hell are you?” I headed her off. Which took a bit of volume, she not being a woman to suffer butt-ins gladly. I tried to smooth it over with a smile and a shrug.

  “I know, I know. Excuse me, ma’am, sorry to interrupt, but you need to know something. In fact, both of you do.”

  I glanced quickly from one to the other. Both showed some curiosity about what I was going to say. Which made three of us. I took a deep breath.

  “Since Dave Goldman is the new guy, as you put it, Betty” — I smiled self-deprecatingly to apologize for the familiarity — “and new on the details… Well, uh, just see what you think of this, Miss Donovan… Uh, since I’m so new to it and you…” I glanced quickly at both of them to increase the ambiguity about who I was addressing “…And you are not at all sure an attorney is needed at this stage of the negotiations — why don’t you just bring me up to speed on where the negotiations stand? You talk, and I’ll just listen.”

  I beamed at the two of them. “And I’ll undertake that for purposes of this meeting, Dave Goldman is no attorney.” I trie
d a hearty laugh. No response. “Umm, well, after that, you” (another quick glance from side to side) “can decide whether you even need Dave Goldman sitting in. And, at that stage, you can decide whether your attorney should be involved, or whether I should just drop out of the picture.”

  I silently exhaled and gave them both my patented wide-eyed stare, wondering if either one noticed the sheen of perspiration on my face.

  Donovan raised an eyebrow at McClendon, who just looked puzzled. My whole plan was dangling by a thread. The odds were at least three-to-one that whichever spoke would spill the beans that I wasn’t his/her attorney. Then the game would be up, and I’d be bounced right out the door. That’s if I was lucky, and it wasn’t the window with a forty-two-story drop. But my luck continued to run.

  “All right, George?” asked Betty.

  “Sure,” answered George in a puzzled tone.

  “Well, let’s sit down,” she said, and promptly obeyed her own instructions.

  I smiled at them both as I sat back down and put the attaché case on the floor, proof positive that I was only there to listen.

  *

  “The first thing you need to understand, Mr. Goldman,” Betty Donovan began briskly, fidgeting with the buttons on her tailored jacket, “is that I’ve been trying to look out for the interests of Laura’s parents in these negotiations. I’ve become good friends with Roger and Maureen over the years. Of course, you know they inherited Laura’s interest in the company.”

  I tried to nod without moving my head, which you ought to try sometime. I had to show Betty I was attentive without giving George the notion that I was hearing all this for the first time.

  “It was the day after we buried Laura,” Betty continued, “that I decided to sell out. I was in Wichita for the funeral anyway, and I was able to discuss it with Roger and Maureen, though it was a hard time for us all.”