Going Out in Style

by Gloria Dank

  LADYKILLER

  Maya put an arm around her husband’s shoulders and said miserably, “Murder, Bernard.”

  “Yes.”

  “Murder … and Snooky.”

  Bernard looked at his wife’s drawn, anxious face. “Have they considered suicide?” he asked gently.

  “Suicide?” She gave him a questioning look. “No. I don’t know. Why should they?”

  “I just thought the woman might have killed herself in order to get out of the date with Snooky.”

  “Bernard, that’s not funny. Snooky’s usually very successful with women. There’s something about him that makes women want to mother him.”

  But Bernard had lost interest in Snooky. He was gazing out the window with a contemplative, faraway look in his eyes. “Murder,” he said softly.

  GOING OUT IN STYLE

  A Bantam Book / January 1990

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1989 by Gloria Dank.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81670-2

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Dedication

  Other Bantam Crime Line Books

  1

  Bella Whitaker gazed upon her reflection in the mirror with profound self-satisfaction. “As good-looking as ever, you old broad,” she thought, twirling to show off her long dress with the flared skirt. She was dressed up for an evening on the town: long black dress, black stockings, and spiky black heels. On her neck and ears and wrists glittered her gorgeous diamond-and-sapphire set, the one that her husband Charles (“God rest his soul,” she thought) had bought her years ago. She considered the tiara, but decided that it was too much; enough was enough, even if she was going into Manhattan, a rare enough occurrence these days. She leaned closer to the mirror; up close, a network of lines could be seen cobwebbing her face under the makeup, but farther back and in the right light she could be mistaken for, say, forty of her sixty-eight years. Her hair was a rather determined shade of auburn—she could never bear the idea of going gray—and her eyes were as beautiful and vibrant as ever, unusual in their mixture of green and blue. “As good-looking as ever,” she whispered to herself, and swept downstairs to snatch up her black mink.

  It is a sad but true fact that so many of our day-to-day thoughts tend to be ordinary, even banal. As it was, Bella Whitaker was proceeding in her rapid yet majestic way toward the front door of her Connecticut home, her black dress trailing behind her, and her mind was fully occupied with thoughts of the salmon steak she planned to order that evening—she was even toying with the idea of ordering that morel mushroom sauce with it, she loved mushrooms—when someone quite well known to her slipped up behind her and put a rope around her neck.

  Philippe Bergère was worried. He was, in fact, extremely worried, on the point of becoming actually agitated. It was nine-fifteen on a Friday evening—one of his busiest evenings of the week—and Mrs. Whitaker had not yet arrived. It was, he thought frostily, an outrage—an insult—quelle horreur—insupportable … and various other things, which he expressed to himself indignantly in French but mostly in English, since his repertoire of French words was distinctly limited. Philippe Bergère, the maître d’ of the most fashionable and trendy new restaurant on Manhattan’s fashionable and trendy Upper East Side, was not actually French; not strictly French, as he liked to put it to himself, although his grandfather had been undoubtedly French and he himself had spent quite a lot of time in Montreal. Nevertheless, the upper-class patrons of Le Roi Soleil need not know that, and Philippe himself was so overcome with his role as conductor of what he regarded as a vast food symphony that he often quite genuinely forgot that English was his mother tongue. Now, in his extreme agitation, was one of those times.

  He swept down upon the young man nursing his drink in a corner of the bar.

  “M’sieu—m’sieu, you must pardon me, but we need the table, you understand! It is Friday night, one of my busiest nights, m’sieu! I am, how you say, désolé, but there is nothing I can do for you. I must, I simply must have the table!” In his excitement he spoke all in exclamation points.

  The young man looked up and smiled. It was a genuinely affable smile, spreading across his lean intelligent face. He had straight golden-brown hair which fell across his forehead, a thin crooked nose and light brown eyes. Now he waved an indolent hand and said, “Please, please, Philippe, don’t bother yourself. It’s no problem at all. I’ll wait here, and when Mrs. Whitaker arrives, you give me a whistle, okay?”

  “Yes, m’sieu,” the maître d’ said meekly. Inside he bristled. Who was this little nobody from nowhere who dared to refer to him, Philippe Bergère, by his first name, as if they had met before? Who was he, who dared to ask the maître d’ of the finest restaurant on the Upper East Side to, he thought painfully, “give him a whistle”? The part of him which had once, before this incarnation, been just plain Philip Berger, growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, knew perfectly well what “give a whistle” meant; but the part which was Philippe Bergère did not, how you say, comprehend it. He bristled inwardly and said stiffly again, “Yes, yes,” before bustling away toward his more important clientele.

  The young man brushed his hair out of his eyes, glanced at his watch and ordered another drink. He was not drinking anything alcoholic because on an empty stomach that always made him sick. His order remained the same—Perrier with lime—throughout the evening, but as time wore on his stomach became more and more painfully empty. He went to the phone twice to make a call, but each time there was no answer and he returned to his seat, where he sat quietly, sipping his drink and listening to the conversations around him. Now and again a brilliant smile lit up his face as he overheard something that amused him.

  At eleven-fifteen he looked at his watch, shrugged, and went to get his coat. On his way out the door he passed by the maître d’.

  “So long, Philippe,” he said. “Great evening. Merci bien, et la prochaine fois vous devez me promettre de parler seulement en français, hein?”

  The maitre d’ stared indignantly after him. Definitely, he thought … definitely, he should not encourage these plaisanteries … he should not let these little nobodies into his restaurant.

  * * *

  It was a two-hour drive back to his sister’s house in Ridgewood, Connecticut, and when he got there the young man went straight up to the third-floor guest room and, falling into bed, slept soundly for ten hours. It was nearly noon before there was a soft knock on his door.

  “Aaauuuurrgghhh,” he said from under the blankets. “Go ’way. Leave me alone. I’m asleep.”

  The door opened and a person who looked just like himself, but female and a bit older, came in. She sat down on the edge of his bed and regarded him impassively.

  “The little birdies are all awake, Snookers. They woke up seven hours ago. What about you?”<
br />
  “Go ’way. Leave me alone.”

  “I remember when you were a little boy,” his sister said. “Much shorter and cuter than you are now. Every morning you’d sleep through the alarm, and I’d have to come in and drag you out of bed and get you ready for school. How I loved those days. William would stand at the foot of the stairs bellowing something about how you were a slothful toad, and I’d be screaming and dragging you out of bed by the collar of your pajamas. I’d feed you and make sure you were dressed properly, all in two minutes flat.” She sighed. “Those were fun days, weren’t they, Snooky? Special days. Silly of me to think they were all over when you went away to college.”

  “Go ’way,” said her brother stubbornly from beneath the pillow. “Leave me alone.”

  Maya regarded the inert mass beneath the blankets and her face lit up with an enchanting smile. She looked just like her brother: the same straight golden-brown hair, crooked elegant nose, pale face and rangy build. He was in his mid twenties and she was five years older, but otherwise they could have passed as twins.

  “How was your date last night?”

  Snooky Randolph opened one eye. “It wasn’t. It didn’t happen. She didn’t show. Okay? Feel free to laugh at me.”

  “I won’t laugh. Poor Snooky. Did you wait all evening?”

  “Yes. And why? Because I’m an idiot.” He slouched down farther under the covers. “I have no luck with women.”

  Maya regarded him soberly. He had arrived on her doorstep fresh from a painful breakup with a woman he had been living with in California. “Don’t let it get to you, Snookers.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s depressing, it really is. My male ego is on the line. I’m shaky … vulnerable.…” He sighed and moved restlessly underneath the covers. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “Pathetic?”

  “Yes, Maya. Pathetic. That’s the right word. That’s what I am. A shattered wreck of a formerly joyful human being.”

  “You were never joyful. Were you?”

  “I think so,” said Snooky. He moved his head restlessly on the pillow. “Wasn’t I? I can’t remember anymore. I can’t remember anything that happened before a few weeks ago.”

  “Poor Snooky.”

  He sat up. His face looked sleepy and vulnerable, making him look, Maya thought with a pang, terribly young. Not so different from the seven-year-old she had shaken out of bed all those years ago. He rubbed his eyes, looked foggily out the window and said, “Cold in here, isn’t it?”

  “It’s freezing.”

  “Bernard?”

  “Yes.”

  They often talked this way, in verbal shorthand. Now Snooky nodded and yawned. “Okay.” He got up, draped the blankets around him, and wandered out in the direction of the bathroom. Maya shivered, pulling her sweater tightly around her. She glanced around the guest room, with its hardwood floor, antique bedstead, and sloping timbered ceiling. Her husband Bernard kept the third floor at subzero temperatures throughout the winter. He claimed that this was to save on heating bills, but the real reason was to discourage guests from staying very long. Snooky accepted this, as he had accepted everything about Bernard from the day five years ago when he had met him. “Bernard’s crazy about me,” he often confided to his sister, “absolutely crazy about me.”

  “It’s true, Snooks. He does say you make him crazy.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Now she got to her feet, called “See you downstairs,” and went down to rejoin her husband at the breakfast table.

  When Snooky slouched downstairs fifteen minutes later he went into the kitchen and made himself a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Then he sat down at the broad mahogany dining room table and eyed his brother-in-law warily.

  “Can I ask you a question, Bernard?”

  Bernard was eating his way steadily through an enormous pile of flapjacks smothered in syrup. “No.”

  “Why in the world is the third floor freezing cold?”

  Bernard regarded him sullenly. “Because nobody lives there.”

  Snooky was hurt. “I do, Bernard.”

  “No, you don’t. Nobody lives there. You just visit from time to time.”

  “It’s the end of January, Bernard. Have some pity.”

  “No. Please pass the syrup.”

  Bernard Woodruff was the antithesis of his wife and her younger brother. He was a big man, solidly built, with none of their pale, lean elegance. He had dark curly hair, a bristling beard, and soft, surprisingly amiable brown eyes. He looked like a different species altogether: like a brown bear mistakenly caged with a pair of whippets.

  “Here’s the syrup,” said Maya.

  “Thank you.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake,” Snooky said. “It’s inhumanly cold up there. Inhumanly cold. You could go up there one day and find me frozen to death.”

  Bernard favored him with a pale glance. “I doubt it. I never go up there.”

  “I looked up the word ‘inhuman’ the other day. It means ‘of or suggesting a nonhuman class of beings.’ Is that what you consider me, Bernard—a nonhuman class of being?”

  Bernard picked up the paper and began to read. Snooky sighed and dug morosely into his scrambled eggs.

  Maya looked over at him affectionately. His real name was Arthur, but from infancy he had been nicknamed, for some obscure reason, Snooky. He had shown up at her house two weeks earlier, with a piece of battered luggage, a toothbrush in a brown paper bag and, he claimed, a heart recently broken in two by a siren from California named Deirdre Maxwell. They had been serious—quite serious, he said emphatically—when he came home one day to find that she had removed all her possessions from the apartment and left him for her medieval history professor at UCLA. The professor was a man in his late fifties with graying hair and, Snooky reported, a terrible paunch. Snooky was devastated; he had given up the apartment, boarded a plane to New York City, and appeared without warning on Maya’s front step. One look at his face and she had taken him in without any questions.

  Bernard, however, said he had a question.

  “When is he going to leave?”

  “Bernard,” said Maya. “Please.”

  Bernard shrugged and turned away. He was used to Snooky’s visits by now; they had occurred with a monotonous regularity ever since Snooky had turned twenty-one, come into his inheritance, and graduated from college. “A triple threat,” his older brother William had said morosely at the time. “Rich, of legal age, and loosed upon the world to create havoc and destruction. We’ve created a monster, Maya. Do you understand what I’m saying? A monster of sloth and ingratitude.”

  William had raised the two of them after their parents had died in an accident. Maya was only twelve years old at the time and William, who was ten years older and well on his way to a successful career in corporate law, had taken care of them. In his considered opinion, Maya had turned out well: she had a job writing on various science topics for a small magazine called The Animal World, she was married and hardworking and respectable, she spent her money on sensible investments like a house. Snooky, on the other hand, was, in his older brother’s eyes at least, a menace to freedom-loving individuals everywhere. He did not believe in working for a living, and he did not seem to want to settle in any one place. He thanked William politely for his part of the inheritance and then took off, traveling around the country, living here and there, depending on his whims. William felt as if he had inadvertently, due to some unlucky stroke of fate, raised the Antichrist to maturity. He spoke about Snooky as if he were dead.

  “He was such a nice little kid,” he would say reminiscently, tears in his eyes, “such a nice little kid. So good, Maya. So hardworking.”

  “I hate to break this to you, William, but Snooky was never hardworking.”

  “At least … at least he pretended, Maya. Do you know what I’m saying? At least he made an effort.”

  After his final exams and college graduation, it
was difficult to discern what effort, if any, Snooky made about anything at all. He roamed across the country at will, avoiding only the small area of southern California where William and his shrewish wife Emily lived. Occasionally, if he felt William was living too well or getting too happy, he would pay them a visit, always calling well ahead of time and announcing in advance when he would depart. This was in sharp contrast to his sudden and unexpected ports of call in the small town of Ridgewood, Connecticut. Ridgewood was a beautiful little town with a New England flavor to it; it had a quiet Main Street lined with shops, surrounded by miles of winding lanes with tree-shaded houses, rolling hills and large blue lakes. Maya and Bernard had renovated a sprawling Victorian house on a narrow lane bordered with willow trees. The house was white with blue trim, had three floors and an attic, and was comfortable and cosy, filled with plants and antiques. Snooky had claimed the little bedroom on the third floor in the back for his own. He used the room for his prolonged visits, and sometimes, as in this case, for emotional recuperation.

  “When I’m done eating, I’m going to give Bella a call,” he said now. “Find out what’s up. She’s never actually stood me up before.”

  “Okay,” said Maya. “Where’s the paper? I want to do the puzzle. Hmmmm. Hey, Snookers. A Chinese domestic bovine. Four letters.”

  Snooky was staring vaguely out the window. “Zebu, Maya. Z-E-B-U.”

  “Good. How about ten across—an Estonian island. Seven letters.”

  “Hiiumaa. H-I-I-U-M-A-A.”

  “That fits. How about a trumpeter’s cloak, Middle Ages? Six letters, starts with a T.”

  Snooky was still staring out the window, his thoughts elsewhere. “Tabard. Come on, Maya, you should know that. T-A-B-A-R-D.”

  “I hate this,” said Bernard.

  “It’s a gift, Bernard,” said his wife. “Fourteen down. Neat and tidy, five letters, blank A blank T blank.”

  “Natty,” Snooky said dreamily. Bernard pushed his chair back with a loud squeak and left the room.