Going Out in Style

by Gloria Dank

  “Oh, don’t go, Bernard,” called Maya. “We’ll stop if you want. Oh, well. Let’s see here. How about an ancient Etrurian city, four letters?”

  A little while later Snooky finished up his meal and went to the kitchen phone. He dialed rapidly. “Hello, this is Snooky Randolph calling. Is Bella there, please?”

  Maya, still seated at the table, could hear the sound of a woman’s high-pitched voice on the phone.

  “I’m a friend of hers,” Snooky said. “I was supposed to meet her in the city last night. Why? What’s wrong?”

  There was a pause. Snooky slumped suddenly against the doorjamb.

  “I see … yes … yes … I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. Yes. I’ll … I’ll call again.”

  He hung up and turned to Maya, who was horrified to see his eyes filling with tears. His face was even paler than usual. He looked like a small animal that had just been hit.

  “She’s dead, Maya—dead! Murdered on her way out the door!”

  She went up to him and put her arms around him.

  “I’m sorry, Snookers,” she said. “I’m so sorry!”

  Two elderly women stood talking in the kitchen of the Whitaker mansion, a large Georgian redbrick house with white pillars.

  “Murdered,” said the first one. She was tall and thin with a wizened little face. She spoke with a certain melancholy satisfaction. “Murdered, here, in this very house. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

  “Shut up, MacGregor,” said her companion, without heat. She was a short squat woman who formed what appeared to be a perfect cube: all hard angles and edges. She had white hair pulled back into a tight bun. She was drying the dishes as MacGregor was washing them.

  MacGregor apparently did not have the slightest intention of shutting up. “Strangled,” she went on with relish. “Who would’ve believed it?”

  “Shut up, I’m telling you, MacGregor.”

  “Police everywhere, swarming all over the house like—like insects. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

  “MacGregor, I’m telling you to shut up. Do you hear me? Don’t you go shooting your mouth off to the police, either. You’re just hoping for a chance to talk to them, even though you don’t know a thing about it, aren’t you? Now, close that rattling mouth of yours and go ahead with what you’re supposed to be doing, which is the dishes. And for heaven’s sake, stop splashing that water everywhere, you’re getting me wet. And no more talk about my poor niece Bella. It’s none of your business, you understand?”

  “Yes, Miss Pinsky,” MacGregor responded meekly. “Whoops! Watch that water!”

  Detective Paul Janovy looked around him with a dissatisfied air. He was standing in the luxuriously furnished living room of the Whitaker mansion. Janovy was a tall, fair-haired man with a broad, rather coarse face and a normally cheerful disposition. At the present moment, however, he was unhappy. One of Ridgewood’s leading citizens had been murdered and so far he had not the slightest clue as to who had done it.

  He said, “Fish?”

  His subordinate, Detective Martin Fish, materialized at his side. Janovy’s eyes dwelt on him with approval. Martin Fish was an excellent second-in-command, a careful and reliable detective who happened to have been cursed with a marked resemblance to his own name. He was tall and thin, with a long sad face, large bulging eyes and a round mouth habitually pursed in thought. He looked, thought Janovy with affection, exactly like a flounder. When he was thinking hard he would open and close his mouth as if flapping his vestigial gills.

  Now he flapped his mouth several times before saying, in a querulous tone, “Sir?”

  “Fish, let’s go over it one more time.”

  Fish nodded and said: “Bella Whitaker was found by her son, Albert Whitaker, when he arrived home last night at approximately twelve-thirty A.M. The deceased was lying, fully dressed in black evening clothes, on the floor of the front hallway near the door. She had been strangled with a narrow cord which lay on the floor nearby. We did a complete search of the house. Nothing was missing except the deceased’s left earring, which could not be found.” Fish paused. He was much too fond of the word “deceased,” thought Janovy in irritation. He would have to mention it to him.

  “What did your men find? Had any of the doors or windows been tampered with?”

  It was a cold night, replied Fish, and the windows were all locked from the inside. So was the back door. Albert Whitaker had stated that the front door was locked, as usual, when he came home. Fish’s men confirmed that the lock had not been tampered with.

  Janovy nodded. So the murderer, whoever it was, had a key to the house. Either that, or was well enough known by Mrs. Whitaker to be allowed in. “What did the medical examiner say?”

  Fish consulted the report. “Death by strangulation, between seven-thirty and nine o’clock P.M. No signs that the deceased put up much of a fight. She must have been taken by surprise.”

  I’ll really have to talk to him about this “deceased” business, Janovy thought irritably. Aloud he said, “I imagine death by strangulation is nearly always a surprise. All right, Fish. Please tell Albert Whitaker I’d like to see him now.”

  Fish ushered in a big, hulking giant of a man, who crossed to where Janovy was standing, shook hands affably, looked around vaguely as if trying to figure out where he was, sat down on the opposite sofa, and knocked over a small brass table lamp. Albert Whitaker muttered, “ ’Scuse me,” righted the lamp, wiped his hands hastily on his trouser legs, ran a hand agitatedly through his thick fair hair, looked around, dropped his wire-rimmed glasses, and spent a minute or two fumbling for them on the sofa. Finally he put the glasses on with a certain dignity, sat up, and said, “Yes. How can I help you, Detective?”

  Detective Janovy had watched all this with curiosity and interest. Naturally Albert Whitaker was his primary suspect—he had found the body, after all—and the man certainly had the strength necessary to strangle his mother. Not, Janovy reminded himself, that it would have taken much strength to overcome Bella Whitaker, who was, after all, nearly seventy years old. But now, upon first acquaintance, it seemed somewhat unlikely that Albert Whitaker would murder anyone. He didn’t seem coordinated enough, for one thing. And there was a gentleness in his face that seemed at odds with the idea of violent death.

  “Mr. Whitaker, please believe that we’re very sorry to have to trouble you at such a time.”

  “Thank you,” he said, again with that curious dignity.

  “Would you please tell me where you were last night?”

  “Certainly,” said Albert Whitaker, and dropped his glasses again. He retrieved them quickly, muttered “Damn!”, wiped them with a corner of his sweater, put them back on, stared in a startled, inquisitive fashion at Janovy as if he had never seen him before, then said matter-of-factly, “I was out for the evening with a good friend of mine.”

  Fish was ready with his notebook open and pen poised. Janovy said, “Your friend’s name?”

  “Gretchen. Gretchen Schneider. She lives at forty-three ninety-five Fungus Grove. No, excuse me, it’s not Fungus, it’s that other word … I always get the two confused.…”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Whitaker. We can look it up.”

  Albert Whitaker was peering worriedly out the window. The winter sunlight, pale and clear, flooded in and lit up his face. He was handsome in a rumpled, mussed-up way; even his face looked curiously disarranged, the nose a little too big, the mouth too wide, the eyes moonlike behind the lenses. It was a pleasant, sensitive face. He said, “No, not fungus … damn, what’s that other word?… I always forget.…”

  Janovy glanced at Fish.

  “Fruitcake … no … I know, I have it, it’s Palomino,” Whitaker said at last in triumph. “Forty-three ninety-five Palomino Grove.”

  Janovy regarded him doubtfully. “You get ‘Palomino’ confused with ‘Fungus’?”

  Albert Whitaker gave him a sweet smile. “Yes … yes, stupid, isn’t it? It has some
thing to do with something I read once … something about cowboys galloping across fields of mushrooms … somewhere out west … I can’t remember now.…” He paused and squinted out the window again.

  “Mr. Whitaker. Please go on. You were out with your friend—”

  “Oh, yes. We had dinner at the Golden Eagle, you know, that restaurant in the center of town—”

  Janovy nodded. Everyone in Ridgewood knew the Golden Eagle, famed for its hearty portions and low prices. “You went there straight from work?”

  “Yes. We went together. I’m a professor of European history at Edgemont, the local college here, you know, and Gretch—Dr. Schneider, I mean—teaches English. We met after classes and went straight over to the Golden Eagle.”

  “What time did you arrive there?”

  This took a bit of figuring out. The class was his last of the day, the one on Florence and the Italian Renaissance, and it was usually over … let’s see now … around five-thirty, so that would mean he went over to the administration building to meet Gretch—he corrected himself, Dr. Schneider—around five forty-five, so they would have been at the restaurant by …

  “Six-fifteen,” said Janovy. Edgemont College, a small unpretentious place which gave an excellent education, was no more than half an hour’s drive away, if that. “Thank you, Mr. Whitaker. Dr. Whitaker, I should say. And after dinner—?”

  After dinner, around eight o’clock, they had walked over to the art gallery in the center of town, a little place called Happy Dreams. Thinking on this, Albert Whitaker became quite enthused. He ran his fingers through his hair, dropped several pencils from obscure pockets in his clothing, and unfastened his watch and fastened it on again.

  “Fascinating show. Fascinating show of aboriginal art. The most amazing drawings I’ve ever seen. I would have loved to have bought some—in fact I’d have bought everything I saw, the whole show, except of course on a professor’s salary I couldn’t afford it. Still, Gretch and I are thinking of pitching in together—oh!”

  He gazed, stricken, at the two detectives.

  “Now you’ll think I wanted the money. Damned stupid thing for me to say to the police, I guess. Damn it. Oh, well.”

  “How much money did your mother have, Dr. Whitaker?”

  Janovy expected a startled stare and some obfuscations, perhaps some more pencils or pens dropping out of unexpected places, but instead Albert Whitaker merely nodded and came to the point with unexpected brevity.

  “One hundred and twenty million dollars, Detective.”

  It was Janovy’s turn to be stunned. One hundred and twenty million dollars! As luxurious as the Whitaker mansion was, he somehow had not expected them to be that rich. “Yes, well,” he said, casting a glance at Fish, whose impassive face and bulging eyes revealed nothing. “Yes. And who stands to inherit the money?”

  Albert Whitaker said calmly that there were just the two of them: himself and his sister Susan. “There’s also my great-aunt Etta—she’s around here somewhere today, probably in the kitchen—but I’m fairly sure Mother didn’t leave her anything. My great-uncle left Etta very comfortably off.”

  Janovy nodded. “Please go on, Dr. Whitaker. How long were you at the art gallery?”

  Albert Whitaker said he and his friend were at the gallery until it closed, at ten o’clock. Then they went over to the bar in town, The Painted Man, for a drink or two. He drove Gretchen to her house and got home himself around twelve-thirty. He went into the house—

  “Was the door locked?” interrupted Janovy.

  Albert paused. Yes, yes, the door was locked, just like always. He used his key to get in.

  “Who else has a key to the house besides yourself, Dr. Whitaker?”

  Albert Whitaker looked baffled. Just his mother and his sister, he said. No one else that he knew of. Oh, and Mrs. MacGregor, of course.

  “She’s our combination housekeeper and cook. She’s been here for years. You’ll find her in the kitchen if you want to ask her about it.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Whitaker. Please go on. You were out for the evening with your friend.…”

  Oh, yes, said Albert Whitaker. It was a pattern, you see … he and Gretchen always went out on Friday nights, had dinner, took in a show or a movie, then ended up the evening at The Painted Man. He usually got home at around twelve-thirty. Last night, as he was saying, he had opened the door just like always and gone in.

  At this point in the narrative he stopped abruptly and turned a delicate shade of green.

  “Thank you, Dr. Whitaker. You don’t have to tell us any more. Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind. Was anyone supposed to come by and see your mother last night? Anyone at all?”

  “No, not that I know of. You see, my mother was going into New York City last night, so naturally she hadn’t made any other plans.”

  “New York City,” Janovy said thoughtfully. “Why? Was she meeting someone?”

  “Yes, a young friend of hers. His name is Snooky Randolph. He comes in from time to time to stay with his sister, and always calls my mother to say hello. I must have his sister’s address around here somewhere … let me think.…” He gazed around him doubtfully. “Now I wonder where I could have put it …?”

  “What’s his sister’s name?”

  “It’s an unusual name,” Albert said helpfully. “Starts with an M, I think, or maybe an N. Sounds something like ‘Aztec.’ No, that’s not right … hmmmm … let me see now.…”

  It took several minutes of wild guesses and random word associations before Albert managed to dredge up the name. “Maya,” he said triumphantly. “Maya Woodruff.”

  “Thank you. Do you know where your mother and her friend were planning to meet downtown?”

  “No … no, I don’t. All I know is she got all dressed up to go out. She was so excited about the date … she hadn’t been to New York for such a long time.…” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes,” said Janovy briskly. “Once again, Dr. Whitaker, you’re sure you don’t know of anyone who might have come by here last night—perhaps just dropped by?”

  “Oh. No, I don’t. I was away all day, you see. You’ll have to ask Mrs. MacGregor about that. She would have been here until around six or six-thirty, I guess.”

  “Fine. One last question, then. Was the money your mother’s absolutely?”

  Oh, yes, Albert said. His father had made a fortune in pins, and had left everything to his mother.

  “Pins?”

  “Pins. Straight pins, safety pins, diaper pins—until they went out of fashion—all kinds of pins.”

  “None of the money was left to you or your sister?”

  Oh, no, Albert replied. His father had trusted his mother’s judgment implicitly on everything, including the distribution of his wealth. And his mother had not so much distributed as doled out her money in dribbles.

  “But it’s not the way it seems,” Albert said earnestly. He moved forward with an expansive gesture, and the brass lamp tottered on its base. “We’re not murderers. You don’t know us, that’s all. You’ll see when you meet my sister. It’s not the way it looks.”

  I’ll be the judge of that, thought Janovy. Aloud he said, “Thank you very much, Dr. Whitaker. You’ll be hearing from us if we have any more questions.”

  Detective Janovy ran Mrs. MacGregor to earth in the big old drafty stone-walled kitchen. The room was cold and damp, and MacGregor was mopping the floor with a lugubrious expression. At the big wooden table in the middle of the room, someone who Janovy realized could only be Great-aunt Etta stood rolling dough around and around in her floury hands.

  “Mrs. MacGregor?”

  Mrs. MacGregor grudgingly stopped what she was doing and leaned on her mop. “Yes?”

  “I wonder whether you would mind answering some questions about last night.”

  Mrs. MacGregor looked more sour than ever and said she didn’t know. She cocked an unfriendly eye at him and said she didn’t cotton to having police in the house
, if he got her meaning.

  Janovy said yes, he did, but if she could only answer a few questions—

  MacGregor announced that it wasn’t a matter of whether she could answer his questions; it was more a matter of whether she would, if he took her meaning.

  Janovy said yes, but—

  “Go ahead and talk to the man, MacGregor,” said Etta Pinsky with sudden vigor. “You’ve been dying to talk to the police all day.”

  MacGregor was offended. That wasn’t true. She was just doing her job—

  “She’s been talking about nothing else,” Great-aunt Etta said dryly. “Go ahead, MacGregor. Here’s your big chance.”

  Detective Janovy said that he was very interested in finding out who might have come into the house the previous evening—say, around seven-fifteen or perhaps later? Was Mrs. MacGregor in the house then?

  MacGregor gave a loud sniff and said she was not, she was home by that hour, as every decent soul would be. She had left the house a little after six-thirty. Although now that he mentioned it …

  “Yes?”

  MacGregor cast a sly look at Etta Pinsky, who was busily rolling the dough back and forth. Well, she had been in the back of the house, MacGregor said. In the kitchen, where they were now. And just before she left, she had heard the front door open and close.

  “What time would that be?”

  MacGregor looked sour and said she didn’t know. Around six-fifteen or six-twenty, maybe. Just before she left. But when she went out into the front hall to get her coat, there was no one there.

  So the murderer came in earlier, thought Janovy. He or she came in and waited somewhere for Bella Whitaker to leave. “Did you leave by the front or the back door, Mrs. MacGregor?”

  MacGregor looked upset and had to be calmed down before she would continue with the questioning. The back door, indeed! Who did he think he was, implying that she would sneak in and out the back door like—like a servant! Why, she had been here nearly ten years now.… She was like a member of the family. How dare he?

  “I’m sorry,” said Janovy hastily. “So you left, naturally, by the front door. Did you notice anything wrong with the door, or the lock?”