Final Edit

by Robert A Carter

  “Pretty harsh.”

  “Anyway,” said Tim, “we know he never read The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, or he would certainly not have picked the title he did for his essay.”

  We sat in silence for some time. I decided to let Tim pick a subject. “Nick,” he said after a while, “you haven’t said much about the ABA.”

  “There isn’t much to say.”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.”

  Out of the ordinary? What had I done out of the ordinary? I do not do much sight-seeing at ABAs; there’s not really time for it, but I did make an exception for Washington. There were two places I felt I ought to visit, as pilgrimages, so to speak.

  The first was the Lincoln Memorial. Inside that massive Doric temple is what many consider one of the great sculptures of the modern world, Daniel Chester French’s statue of the seated, contemplative Lincoln. One can only stand in silence before it, and marvel—if there are not too many busloads of rambunctious children around; unfortunately this day there were. Much better to visit it at night, when it is floodlit and spectral. “He was a mountain in grandeur of the soul,” wrote Walt Whitman. “He was a sea in deep undervoice of mystic loneliness, he was a star in steadfast purity of purpose and service, and he abides.”

  That might be a touch hagiolatrous, but still… I have always admired Abe Lincoln, not least because he wrote one of the best and most succinct book reviews ever published. It was one sentence long. “For those who like this kind of book,” he observed, “this is the kind of book they will like.”

  “I went to the Lincoln Memorial,” I said to Tim.

  “And?”

  “And afterward I walked the short distance northwest to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.” At least three of the more than 58,000 names inscribed on those two long black-granite walls were friends of mine—classmates at Princeton.

  “What a sad and futile waste of the young that war was!” I said.

  “Sad, all right. Futile, sure. Even more futile…” He let out his breath in a sigh that was almost a moan. I could read Tim’s thoughts in his face. Even more futile and sad than to be crippled for life in a stupid accident. The tree Tim fell from while attempting to climb it had long since been cut down, but neither of us would ever forget it. One day Tim walked and ran and swam and rode horseback; the next day he was a paraplegic. He was right; at times it is a shitty world.

  Yet, as I reminded Tim, every visitor to Washington ought to see the memorial, I feel, to run their fingers along those walls, to remember and honor those dead. The walls are enough; the statue of the three soldiers and the three women at the entrance plaza, even the flag flying nearby—in my prejudiced opinion—are superfluous. No, the walls are enough.

  “Both those memorials commemorate wars,” I said, “for after all, Lincoln was only a wartime president. The tragedy is that he was never given the chance to govern in a time of peace.”

  Tim nodded. “How different our history might have been,” he said.

  “That son of a bitch John Wilkes Booth. I’ve never forgiven him.”

  “Or Lee Harvey Oswald. Or Sirhan Sirhan.”

  The solitary killer, I thought. Always striking without warning. Like whoever murdered Parker.

  Sunday afternoon was bright and clear, and there was a breeze just soft enough to ruffle the deepening grass in our meadow. I walked out with Bonnie and Zachary, our two Labs, who romped happily through their own green pastures, barking, sniffing the wild timothy, and chasing in vain after the resident birds. Summer in Connecticut is a season of incomparable small pleasures: fresh berries, cool running streams, the shade of towering oak trees, and the occasional glimpse of a deer straying out of the forest to nibble on our bushes and trees.

  Yes, I find summer in Connecticut a source of considerable satisfaction. As is spring in Connecticut. And fall. And while we’re at it, there’s a little something to enjoy about winter, too, although I’m not quite sure what it is, if you don’t ski, go ice-skating—or shovel snow.

  As usual, I was storing up sensations as one absorbs sounds and odors, fleeting memories that would strengthen me against whatever pressures or obligations the coming week would bring.

  To begin with, Parker Foxcroft’s funeral tomorrow.

  Chapter 14

  The Foxcroft obsequies were scheduled for eleven o’clock in the Church of the Transfiguration on East 29th Street. I arrived at my office at half past nine, as usual. I had no sooner settled in than Hannah buzzed, and told me that Lester Crispin wanted to see me.

  “Send him in,” I said.

  Crispin wasted no time with small talk, not even bothering to greet me. He made himself at home on my couch, crossed his legs, cleared his throat, and said: “Nick, I know I got upset and quit last Tuesday—”

  “Upset?”

  “You mean you don’t remember?” He shook his head and sighed.

  “Well, with so much going on around here…” I couldn’t blame him for being annoyed. It’s true, I had forgotten, but it’s possible I didn’t believe he really meant to quit. “I assume you’ve changed your mind now that Parker”—I leaned forward and drew my forefinger across my throat—” is no longer with us.”

  I could swear Crispin blushed, at least with that part of his face that wasn’t hidden behind his beard.

  “Well, yeah, as a matter of fact, I have changed my mind.”

  “I’m glad. I’d hate to lose you.” I meant it, too; Crispin was a damn fine art director.

  “I came back as soon as I heard the news.”

  “In time to be grilled by the police, I suppose.”

  He nodded. “Nick, I know I said some pretty harsh things about Foxcroft—”

  “So you did.” That part of the episode I did remember.

  “Well, hey, whatever I may have threatened to do, I wouldn’t have gone so far as to kill the son of a bitch, you know that.”

  “Yes, I do know.” I was lying; I knew no such thing, but it seemed a matter of politesse to agree with him.

  I got to my feet, expecting Crispin to follow suit, but he remained seated.

  “Something else?” I said.

  “Yeah. Do you happen to know if the cops have any suspects?”

  “I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

  He grunted. “All the same, I’d rather no one knew how much I disliked Foxcroft.”

  “I don’t see how that can be kept a secret. Somebody’s bound to mention it. However, they certainly won’t find out about it from me.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Incidentally, Les,” I said, “I know it’s none of my business—but I’m sure you got asked this, anyway, just as a matter of routine—where were you last Tuesday evening?”

  “I was here at the office until almost seven, packing my stuff in cartons so I could have it shipped to my apartment. After that I had dinner. At home. Alone. Why?”

  “Did you see Parker while you were here at the office?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I heard someone come in, and I thought it might be him, so I decided to avoid the bastard.”

  “I see.”

  Crispin rose from the couch. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll get back to work.”

  My next visitor was Mary Sunday. The word for my sales manager is “diminutive”—or better perhaps, “dynamic.” This morning she wore a frown, which masked the cheerful face she usually displayed to the world—at least that part of it concerned with Barlow & Company books.

  “Bad news, Nick,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s self-evident, Mary.”

  “I didn’t know I was so transparent. Anyhow—” She crossed to the couch and plunked herself down. “Anyhow, Nick, the problem is Jerry Hart.”

  Jerry was one of our top sales reps, as well as one of the most loyal, and he had been working the southern territory out of Miami for twenty years. I couldn’t imagine him causing trouble, not i
n this millennium.

  “It’s his wife, el jefe,” said Mary. “The Big C.”

  “Oh my God, what a hell of a shame.” Jerry’s wife, Ellen, I knew, was as much company as he was. They’d been married at least forty years.

  “Jerry wants to be taken off the road,” Mary continued. “He doesn’t want to be away from home overnight anymore. I think we’re going to have to let him retire or resign.”

  “But hell, Jerry’s been with the company since my father was running it. He’s probably one of the few employees we have who remember my father.”

  “I know, but what can I do? I don’t have a slot open in New York or Connecticut. New Jersey, either.”

  “Well, we’ve got to do something,” I said. “Is Jerry in town?”

  “Yes, he is. He came back to put Ellen in the hospital for chemotherapy.

  “Tell him to come and see me sometime this afternoon.”

  “What are you going to do, Nick?”

  “I don’t know, Mary—I’ll think of something. Christ, after all these years… Jerry gone? I just can’t see it.”

  “I’ll tell him. But right now I’ll start looking for a replacement, okay?”

  “You do that, Mary.”

  As I sat there thinking of what I could do about Jerry Hart, Hannah notified me that the clock was inching toward eleven, and I’d better move myself northward. Get me to the church, I’d told her, be sure and get me to the church on time.

  Most people call the Church of the Transfiguration “the Little Church Around the Corner.” There’s a story in that, a story that visitors to the church are usually told by anyone who knows the place. The church, which was built in 1848, was never completed. Only one wing of the transept was built. The transept is that lateral aisle crossing the nave of the church just before the apse, creating the cross-shaped plan that has been standard for many Christian churches since the Middle Ages. In any event, the good fathers of the Church of the Transfiguration built beautifully, but ran out of money before they could complete the cruciform, and they ultimately had to sell the ground on which the other part of the transept was to be constructed.

  Anyhow, the story. The church was not especially fashionable in Victorian New York. The high-toned ladies and gentlemen of the period patronized another, much larger establishment on nearby Madison Avenue and 30th Street. To that other church—long since torn down—came Joseph Jefferson, the great actor and theater manager, one day. A leading man in his company had died, and Jefferson was there to request that the church conduct a funeral service for him. “Oh dear me, no,” clucked the rector. “We couldn’t hold services for an actor. Why don’t you try the little church around the corner? I’m sure they’ll oblige you.”

  At which point Jefferson said: “Then God bless the little church around the corner.” The story spread; the church became so popular with theater people that it was also soon known as “the actors’ church.” One of the stained-glass windows portrays Jefferson playing his favorite role, Rip Van Winkle; another window in the part of the transept they finished shows Edwin Booth as Hamlet. While there may be more imposing Episcopal houses of worship in the city, the Little Church is certainly one of the loveliest. My father and mother were married in it, and so was I. It wasn’t the church’s fault my marriage didn’t last.

  We (I wasn’t the only Barlow & Company staffer present: Mary Sunday and Mortimer Mandelbaum accompanied me) got to the church a few minutes short of the appointed hour, to find it almost packed. Parker would have been pleased to see the turnout, which reminded me of the old Hollywood story about Harry Cohn’s funeral. Few producers, apparently, were as cordially despised as Cohn. When one of the actors present commented on the size of the attendance, his companion, another actor, quipped: “Well, if you give people what they want, they’ll come out for it.”

  I found an empty spot in a pew on an aisle near the altar; Mary and Mort settled several rows behind me. The organist was already warming up with Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” which I hope they’ll play one day at my funeral, along with “Sheep May Safely Graze.” Up front and not far from where I was sitting was Parker’s casket, a massive mahogany affair, the white plush-lined lid back, flowers of every botanical persuasion banked around it.

  Curiosity is probably my besetting vice, and of course I succumbed to it now, looking around to see who I could see. It was quite a distinguished gathering: a bevy of literary agents, a pride of literary lions, and as many editors and publishers as usually turn up at the annual Literary Guild party, which is always the industry’s hottest ticket. On the other side of the center aisle I spotted Susan Markham, her hair shimmering in the light of one of the church’s chandeliers. She was wearing a black silk dress, and when she turned her head to talk to a neighbor, I could see a rope of pearls around her neck. I made a mental note to call her and suggest a meeting; after all, she had offered to be of help in her note. She might know something about Parker that would help explain his murder. Just then she looked my way, and when I caught her eye, I smiled. She nodded and smiled in return.

  I would have lingered after the service and spoken, but something so extraordinary happened that I missed the main event.

  While I watched, several people approached the casket and looked down at Parker’s remains, to pay their last respects to this paragon of editors, I supposed, or perhaps to assess the quality of the undertaker’s handiwork. I myself refrained from viewing the corpse; I find the whole procedure morbid, and I wondered who had arranged for it all. Who was Parker’s nearest and dearest of kin?

  The last of the viewers was a woman in a bright green dress, with a flowered hat and a veil. As she stood in front of the casket, she raised the veil, leaned over, and spat in Parker’s face.

  Chapter 15

  For a moment, I was unable to move from where I sat. Surely I couldn’t have been the only person in the church to have witnessed the woman’s act, but no one else showed any sign of having seen what she had done. Had I imagined the whole thing? Not bloody likely. As I watched, the woman hurried across the chancel and down the side aisle of the church. I rose and walked out of my pew after her, stepping over the legs and feet of a couple sitting next to me.

  “I’m terribly sorry…”

  “Well! Really.” This from an overdressed woman in a mink stole. Mink on a summer day, of all things. There was no time for explanations; they’d have to put me down as rude and let it go at that.

  When I reached the entrance at the back of the church, the woman in green had already left the building and was hurrying toward Madison Avenue. I hung a hard right and followed, although I wasn’t altogether sure what I would say when I caught up with her. “Madam, I just saw you spit in Parker Foxcroft’s face, would you mind telling me why?”

  Before I could overtake her, she hailed a nearby cab, which quickly engulfed her. I hailed another one right behind her and jumped in quickly when the driver braked to a stop.

  Then I said the words I have longed to utter ever since I first heard them long ago, seated in a dark movie theater, watching one long-forgotten thriller or another.

  “Follow that cab!”

  The driver, a large black man in a short-sleeved mesh sport shirt, turned around and looked at me in bewilderment. Don’t tell me he doesn’t speak English! I glanced at the identification card on the dashboard. Achille Belcon. A Haitian?

  “Suivez ce taxi-là,” I commanded, jabbing my finger in the direction of the first cab.

  “Oui, m’sieu,” he said, and gunned his engine.

  It was a long ride we took up Madison Avenue, through traffic thick and thin. There was no further conversation; Achille was concentrating on tailgating his quarry and I was hunched forward on my seat, impelling our cab on by sheer force of will. At 59th Street we almost lost the chase in a bedlam of trucks and vans heading for the Queensboro Bridge, but my driver recovered quickly and we picked up speed.

  Somewhere in the Sixties, the driver leaned
back toward me, and without taking his eyes off the street and his rearview mirror, said: “M’ sieu. On nous suivit.”

  “What?”

  “We are… followed? Nest-ce pas?”

  I looked out the back window. Another cab was right behind us, and as we drove on, I felt sure the driver was right; we were being followed. Somebody was sure as hell playing games with us—the same game we were playing.

  At 89th Street we were still a block behind when the first cab pulled to a stop on the northeast corner, and the Woman of Mystery, as I had begun to think of her, got out and crossed to the opposite side of Madison Avenue and headed west. I shoved a ten-dollar bill into Achille’s hand, murmured “Merci bien,” and started after her.

  As I stepped out of the cab, I looked back at the one behind us, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever the passenger was, but as I watched, the cab swept on by, still heading north.

  Meanwhile, half a block up 88th Street, my mystery lady turned right under a canopy and disappeared.

  Number 19. So now I knew—or thought I knew—where she lived. All I had to do next was find out who she was.

  When I reached the entrance of the apartment building, the doorman’s attention was on a teenage girl holding two leashes, on the end of which was a pair of white bichons frisés, pulling at their tethers and barking out orders.

  “Hi, Victor,” said the girl.

  The doorman raised his hand to the bill of his cap. “Hello, Miss Stacey.” Looking down at the dogs, he said: “Hello, Sunshine. Hi, Snowflake.” One of the dogs immediately jumped up and put its forepaws on Victor’s pant legs. It was apparent from the expression on his face that he did not share the creature’s enthusiasm.

  Well, at least I now knew the doorman’s name. That was a start, anyway.

  When the two bichons had whisked Stacey off down the street, I approached Victor. He was a large, broad-chested specimen of the breed, wearing a bulky gray uniform with silver piping that made his shoulders appear even broader. He stared at me unsmiling, with hard gray eyes. His cheeks and hands were quite sunburned.