Final Edit

by Robert A Carter

  “I might tell you that some of my best friends are authors, but it wouldn’t be altogether true. I’d much rather hang out with painters, actors, even musicians, the least intelligent of all the artists. And cops, especially cops. Anyone with a good story to tell.

  “So,” I wound up, “I’m sure you have a good story to tell. Will it make a successful mystery?”

  “I hope so, Nick. You’ll know when you read my outline, which I intend to start writing this very day.”

  “Good. What else can we talk about?”

  “How about true crime?”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  “Parker Foxcroft.” he said. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

  “You’re not the first person to ask me that,” I said. “Nor do I expect you to be the last. Anyway—”

  I told Poole about my visit to Judith Michaelson. Somehow I felt she had the strongest motive I’d discovered so far. She hated Parker, and it would only have been poetic justice for her to murder him with the same gun her husband had used to kill himself. “Don’t you agree, Herbert?”

  “At this point, I can’t say. I just don’t know enough.”

  I ran down the list of suspects involved, winding up with Harry Bunter—which reminded me that at some point I ought to talk to his wife.

  “Now you know just about everything I know,” I said to Poole. “If you get any bright ideas—”

  “You’ll be the first to hear them,” he said.

  That was the end of our conversation for that day. He left my office, promising to come back on Monday.

  “I’m off to a house I have on Fire Island for the weekend.”

  “The wages of Pan?”

  “There’s nothing like a best-seller,” he said. “It’s a money tree for sure—as you well know.”

  “Until Monday, then, Herbert.”

  Three o’clock rolled around, and it was time for me to meet Sarah Goodall. I suspected that I would wind up editing Icepick, or whatever the name of her book was. Sidney Leopold, whose discovery she was, did not like to work on books in which victims were put to death in grisly and violent fashion, or in which the hero got badly beaten up, as in most P.I. mysteries; he turned that sort of thing over to me.

  At any rate, promptly on the appointed hour, a knock came at my office door. It was Sidney and Sarah Goodall.

  Not knowing what to expect, I cannot say that I was altogether taken by surprise by La Goodall—only a trifle taken aback.

  She was of medium height, rather stocky, her hair cropped quite short. She was wearing a tee-shirt imprinted with the words “QUEER NATION.” That didn’t bother me particularly, but what I did find disquieting was the tiny gold earring dangling, not from her ear, but from her right eyebrow.

  “Muh-meet Sarah Goodall, Nuh-Nick,” said Sidney.

  “Happy to meet you,” she said, thrusting out her hand. Her voice was almost as deep as mine, and her handshake was strong enough to crack a few of my metacarpi. Well, I thought, unable to come up with anything original, it takes all kinds.

  “My pleasure, Ms. Goodall,” I said. “Have a seat, please.”

  Either spotting or suspecting my bewilderment at this apparition in my office, Sidney was quick to take charge of the conversation.

  “Nuh-Nick has read your buh-book, Sarah,” he said. “And luh-likes it, right, Nick?”

  “Oh, I most certainly do.”

  “Surely you have some changes you’ll want made,” Good-all said, cocking her head while squinting her eyes, and leaning on every word.

  “That’s true. We editors are never completely satisfied.”

  “Editors? 1 thought you were the publisher.”

  “That’s true—but like the general who has come up through the ranks. I still relish the heat of combat. The smoke of battle.”

  This time her eyes narrowed, setting the ring in her eyebrow—should I call it an eyering?—to trembling.

  “You make the editorial process sound rather like the Second World War,” she said.

  Sidney obviously thought he’d better butt in to save my face. “Oh, Suh-Sarah, Nick is a great kuh-kidder. He doesn’t muh-mean we don’t get along with our authors. Nuh-not at all.”

  At this, she subsided. “I hope not,” she muttered.

  “Well,” I announced, “shall we talk contract? I understand that you have no agent, Ms. Goodall?”

  She shook her head. “Knowing what I know about publishers’ advances,” she said, “I figured I couldn’t afford to give away fifteen percent. I sent the book directly to Mr. Leopold myself.”

  I smiled—no, I beamed. An author without an agent is easy prey for an unscrupulous publisher—even a scrupulous one, such as me.

  An hour later we adjourned, and I found myself wishing Sarah Goodall had an agent; we might have made a better deal. She was one tough cookie, that was for sure.

  “Wh-what do you thu-think, Nick?” said Sidney, when we were alone. “Doesn’t she have an in-the-fuh-face face?” He started to giggle.

  “Please, Sidney,” I said. “The joke is bad enough without you laughing at it yourself.”

  “Suh-sorry, Nick.”

  “We’ll do all right with this one, don’t you think, Sidney?”

  “Oh—” He struggled to push the word out between his lips. It was coming, coming—there it was—“absolutely!”

  Dear Sidney Leopold. I don’t know how I could possibly manage without him.

  Chapter 19

  It seemed a long time before Friday evening finally arrived, but when it did it brought Susan Markham to my doorstep.

  “So this is where you live, Nick.”

  She was carrying a silk handbag large enough for her personal accessories. Clearly we both expected her to stay the night.

  “Welcome to number 2 Gramercy Park.”

  I had given Oscar and Pepita the weekend off, and they had decided to spend it with Pepita’s cousins in Flatbush. Pepita left behind all the ingredients I would need to whip up dinner: the veal scallopini pounded almost paper-thin and ready to be breaded, browned in oil, and garnished with melted butter, lemon slices, capers, and anchovies. Sliced potatoes for pommes de terre sautées. A spinach soufflé ready to warm up in the oven. Finally, a zabaglione with lady fingers for dessert. I opened an ice-cold Connecticut varietal, half chardonnay and half Riesling, poured two glasses, removed my apron (one that resembles a full-dress dinner jacket, complete with dickey, white stiff shirt, and red bow tie), lit the candles, et voilà! as the French say. We ate in my wood-paneled dining room, on a refectory table set with silver and crystal.

  “A sinful meal, Nick—I hate to think of the calories, not to mention the cholesterol. But delicious. Do you cook often?”

  “Almost never.”

  “What a waste of talent.”

  “And when I do cook,” I said, “I pick the easiest dishes I can find. Also, Susan, I have a limited repertoire.”

  “Well, anyhow, it was all lovely.”

  When we finished dinner, it was still much too early to head toward the bedroom, so I poured us each a snifter of Armagnac, and we settled down on a couch in the living room.

  “I can’t help thinking—” I started off.

  “Isn’t it better, now and then, not to?”

  “Think? I suppose so. ‘The pale cast of thought’ and all that. Still—”

  “Go ahead, Nick, spit it out.”

  “Spitting it out,” I said, wagging my brandy snifter at her, “is not what I had in mind.”

  Careful, Barlow. Easy does it.

  “I’m sorry. What was it you were thinking?”

  “I’m not sure how to put this question so it won’t sound… gauche.”

  “You’d like to know why I found Parker Foxcroft attractive.”

  “My God, you read minds.”

  “No, body language. You were fidgeting, Nick. You were embarrassed to ask me that question, because you thought it might offend me.”

 
; “Well… yeah.”

  She reached out her hand and touched my cheek with the tips of her fingers.

  “I’m really not that interested in the sexual prowess of Parker Foxcroft,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out what made Parker run.”

  “I won’t answer your question right now. But I will tell you this, Nick Barlow. Parker did not have half the style or strength of character or animal magnetism that you have. And that’s just for starters.”

  “I wasn’t fishing for compliments, really.”

  “I know.” She leaned closer to me, so close I had little choice but to put my arms around her and kiss her.

  “While I still have my wits about me,” I said, “in spite of inhaling Armagnac fumes and your seductive perfume, would you answer one impersonal question? Impersonal, yes.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know of any enemies Parker may have had? That is, anybody who would be happy to see him dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yet you spent a good deal of time with him. Didn’t you ever notice anything—well, odd about his behavior? Anything suspicious?”

  “Such as?”

  “Surely you must have known how extravagant he was. Did he ever give you any idea of where all the money came from?”

  She frowned and leaned back on the couch. Apparently I had started a fruitful train of thought. “Well… there was one thing he said—”

  “Yes?”

  “We did talk about money once—just once—and Parker said something odd. He said, if I remember it right—’I’ve got an annuity. An Irving of my own.’

  “An Irving?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you suppose he meant?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Nick.”

  “Anything else, Susan?”

  Again she frowned; this time the frown was directed at me.

  “Why are you so curious about all this, Nick? Can’t we just let the dead bury the dead?”

  At this point, I stood up and began to pace. If I got any more exercised, I’d start to jingle the coins in my pants pocket.

  Don’t ruin the evening, dummy.

  I sat down again.

  Du calme, baby.

  “My company has been dealt a serious blow,” I said, lowering my voice to basso profundo. “Parker, a pain in the ass, if I may say so, was, according to everybody else I know, a legend in his own time, a latter-day Max Perkins. His murder leaves a void—not just in my office, but in my next spring catalog. Money is at stake. Also, my staff has been harassed and badgered by the police, who would like to know who killed that—that—”

  “Don’t say it, Nick.”

  “I know, I know. Anyway, you can see why I might be distressed, and why I might do anything I could to help find Parker’s murderer. Until then, it’s hard—no, it’s impossible—to let the dead bury the dead. So, Susan, if you can help me—please do. Please. Think about it, anyway.”

  “The only thing I can think of—”

  “Yes?” Her hand was in mine now; I stared deep into those blue-green eyes. Give, darling, give.

  “One night,” Susan said, “I was in his apartment. You’re sure you want to hear this, Nick? Absolutely sure?” Her speech was beginning to sound slurred. So, I suppose, was mine.

  “Go ahead. I can take it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “He thought I was asleep, only I wasn’t. He had gone into the other room, his office, to have a cigarette, I thought, or whatever. You know?”

  “Go ahead, my dear.”

  “The computer screen was lit up, and he was punching things into the keyboard. I was standing behind him, looking at the screen. There were names on it, and numbers, I think.”

  “Did you recognize any of the names?”

  “Not really, Nick. Before I could, he turned around and saw me. He was furious.”

  “Really?”

  “’What the hell are you doing here?’ he said in a nasty tone of voice—well, I tell you, I was shocked. Shocked, Nick. He’d never spoken to me that way before. Never.

  “’I came looking for you,’ I said to him. ‘Why don’t you come back to bed?’ You’re still sure you want to hear this, Nick? Darling?”

  “Well, if that’s all there is…”

  “That’s all there is.”

  “It’s—not so bad,” I said, but in truth I felt slightly nauseous. The picture of Susan in Parker’s bed was a disquieting one.

  The picture of her in my bed, on the other hand, was quite attractive, as I realized when my stomach stopped churning. Let the dead bury the dead applied to love affairs as well. And here she was, Susan Markham, intensely alive, like a lovely surprise, an unexpected gift.

  “Shall we get ready for bed?” she said. A mind reader as well as an authentic beauty.

  “Let’s. You first,” and I led the way to my bedroom.

  Dropping her silk handbag on the bed, she looked around, appraising the room and its contents—my mahogany chest of drawers, the Chippendale secretary, the light blue velvet chaise near my emperor-size bed—nodding in approval.

  “You live well, Nick.”

  “Thanks.”

  She crossed the room to my clothes closet, which took up almost the length of one wall. Opening it, she ran her hands along my suits, which hung all along the closet.

  “So many suits,” she murmured, rather like Daisy Buchanan admiring Jay Gatsby’s shirts.

  “There’s a reason for the quantity,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “There are really three sizes of suit in this closet,” I said. “Those on this end are worn when I’m a middleweight. Those in the middle when I’m a light heavyweight. And those on the far end—”

  She laughed. “I can guess. I do have one suggestion, though, Nick.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If I were you, I’d switch from Brooks Brothers to Giorgio Armani.”

  I sniffed somewhat haughtily. “Actually, some of them are made for me in London, by a tailor on Savile Row. He bespoke suited my father, and he bespoke suits me as well. Occasionally.”

  “I stand corrected,” she said with a smile.

  “Now, why don’t you get ready while I fix us a nightcap?”

  When I came back from the living room with a snifter of brandy, she was waiting for me, stretched out on the chaise. She was wearing a black lace body stocking, which brought out every detail of her body and yet remained quite beautiful in itself.

  I’m sure she could read the admiration in my eyes. “Daring enough for you, Nick?” she said.

  “A dare I gladly accept.”

  It was time for me to prepare for what I hoped would be, like our first rendezvous, a night to remember. In my dressing room, which is also my bath, I quickly undressed, shaved, and rubbed lotion on my face. Then I slipped into a robe and returned to the bedroom.

  Susan was still lying back on the chaise, sipping brandy.

  “Nick,” she said, “I wasn’t going to mention Parker ever again, but I just know there’s one thing you’re curious about. If I tell you, will you promise not to ask me about him again?”

  “Well—”

  “Promise, Nick.”

  “I promise.”

  “You want to know what made him so attractive to women.”

  “That’s right. I found him singularly unattractive.”

  “It’s quite simple. His body smelled of honey.”

  My mouth fell open, and for a moment I was altogether speechless. When I found my voice, I croaked: “Honey?”

  “That’s right. Now you know. And now it’s time to keep your promise. And also time for you to come over here and kiss me—before I run out of patience.”

  Although I’m not at all used to being ordered about, I found this command only too easy to obey. What ensued was only to be expected. The bed was near at hand. Off came the body stocking. Slowly, inch by inch, with many delicious pauses along the way. Then off came my robe,
and on came the night.

  Much later, just before dawn, I lay awake thinking, while Susan breathed softly at my side, one hand resting on my chest as she slept.

  What she had told me was, clearly, all she intended to tell me, that much I knew for sure. Still, had she told me everything she knew? Suppose she even knew the identity of Parker’s murderer and was afraid to tell me. Afraid—or reluctant?

  It wouldn’t take a genius to surmise that I was smitten with Susan Markham. Smitten—or about to be, I wasn’t quite sure which myself. Sex always confuses the mind, even as it sweeps away any indecision. “The awful daring of a moment’s surrender,” as Eliot wrote, “which a lifetime of prudence can never retract.” Of course, he might also have been speaking of murder.

  It occurred to me—just as a second sleep, deep and restful, overcame me—that I was probably… falling in love… with Susan Markham…

  … but… could I trust her?

  Chapter 20

  Much as I wanted to take Susan with me to Connecticut on Saturday, I decided it was much too soon to spring her on my mother. Although she claims to be a broad-minded party, Mother is in actual fact rather old-fashioned, and I could not visualize her permitting Susan and me to occupy the same four-poster. Moreover, she is forever accusing me of “getting involved with another woman.” The truth is, she cleaves to Margo, heart and soul, and wishes that we two were together again. I didn’t want Susan to have to compete with an idealized Margo Richmond.

  I did, however, tell Tim about Susan, sparing only the graphic details.

  “So she was keeping company with Parker as a career move,” said Tim.

  “That’s right.”

  “And how do you know that’s not her motive in sleeping with you?”

  I tensed up a bit. The implication that ambition not lust was what burned in Susan’s breast put me on my guard. Suppose it was true that she only had advancement in mind—and not romance?

  “I admit that might be the case,” I said, “but I’m in no position to help her career, and I wouldn’t if I could.”

  “No?” Ever the skeptic, my brother.

  “No—most emphatically not. There’s enough nepotism in this family as it is.”

  Tim grinned. “I can see you’re a little touchy on the matter, so we won’t pursue the subject any further. In any case, Nick, I hope it all ends well.”