“Well, let me know if you think I ought to read them, too.”
“So far as I can tell, he’s good. He’s damn good. I think you’ve got a winner.”
“Hallelujah.”
On that Sunday, Mother as much as dragged me down Kellogg Hill Road to the neighborhood Episcopal church, whether to give thanks for my deliverance from evil, or just to improve my character, I can’t be sure.
The Emmanuel Episcopal church is as unlike the Little Church Around the Corner as two such houses of worship could be. To begin with, Emmanuel ought to be the one called “the Little Church.” It was built in the style of an early New England meeting house, and could easily be a Congregational or Presbyterian parish. Plain, down-to-earth architecture; no frills. The walls painted white, the only decoration a large wooden cross hung above an unpretentious altar. However, there is a cleanliness, a sparse beauty in that style, which I find enormously soothing, even if I’m just sitting there and not paying too close attention to the service itself. A rather Low Church service—no incense or chanting, such as you’ll find in the Church of the Transfiguration. The sun was streaming through the windows on my left, setting the chandeliers aglitter, and a breeze blew across the pews from the open windows. I found life, the world, mankind even, to be passing fair, or at least not as bad as they might be. The choir sang with gusto, the minister did not make too much of an ass of himself by preaching about original sin or man’s wickedness to man—I’d had enough of that lately. And I was making my mother happy.
When we stepped out into the bright sunshine, I took a deep breath and drew in the splendors of a Connecticut summer: flowers of every color in full bloom, the trees leafed out, and the scent of pine in the air.
Turning to my mother, I said: “One of those June days that Will Shakespeare found so rare, isn’t it?”
“It surely is,” she said, and took my arm as we followed the other members of the congregation down the sidewalk to our car.
Once again, the countryside had worked its restorative magic on my troubled spirit, and I could go back to the city much strengthened.
Chapter 24
I called Herbert Poole as soon as I reached the office next morning and told him what Tim had recommended.
“The hard drive? I ought to have thought of that.”
“Do you know anything about computers, Herbert?” Somehow I didn’t feel equal to the task ahead, not alone, anyway.
“I sure do,” he said. “I have had quite a bit of experience with them. I’ve already run through two computers and I’m putting a lot of mileage on the third.”
“Then if you don’t mind—”
“Absolutely not, Nick. I’ll be right there.”
Poole was a man of his word, as I would expect a Virginian to be. (”When you say that, smile.”) He was beginning to become a familiar figure around the office, so the receptionist did not bother to notify me that he was here, but must have waved him on through, because the next thing I knew he was knocking softly on my door. I led him immediately down the hall to Parker’s office.
At the computer terminal, he sat down, flexed his fingers as though he was about to play a Chopin étude, and while I stood looking over his shoulder, he booted the operating system. The screen lit up, and we saw four sectors on the screen—INFORMATION, YOUR SOFTWARE, MICROSOFT WORKS, and IBM DOS. He moved the cursor to YOUR SOFTWARE and clicked the mouse. We saw the following menu on the screen:
THE PROGRAM DIRECTOR
1. WORDPERFECT 5.1
2. UTILITIES
3. LOTUS 1-2-3
4. ACT
5. JEOPARDY
6. MOVIE MASTER
SELECTION:_____
“I believe this is what we want,” said Poole, and typed in the number 4. The screen told us it was loading for a few seconds, and this appeared:
AUTOMATED CONTACT TRACKING
Enter password for database C:ACTZACT.CCD:
Below that on the left was a box with eight compartments and a flashing cursor.
“This is where it gets tricky,” said Poole. “We need Parker’s personal password to get into the program.”
I clucked my tongue against my teeth. I hadn’t counted on this particular roadblock; I supposed Poole had. “How do we find that?”
“Guesswork is all we can go on,” he said. “He’s not likely to have written it down. Most people use something easy to remember. Like the month of their birth or their astrological sign. Their own name, maybe. Why don’t we start with that?”
He went to work on the keyboard and the box, and promptly typed in PARKER. No go. FOXCROFT brought the same results.
“Let’s try words that can be formed from the letters of his name,” said Poole. And he ran through PARK, PEAK, REAP, RAKE, and PERK, without hitting the jackpot. Then he typed FOX, COOP, FOOT, FORT, and TOX, to no avail.
“Do you suppose you can find out the month of Parker’s birth?” asked Poole.
“Just a phone call away,” I said, and buzzed Hannah. I told her what we wanted, and to get Parker’s file from personnel. While we were waiting, Poole explained to me what the ACT software was—a way of keeping a database of all one’s contacts, with the necessary information about them. Would Parker need such a database? I wondered. Conceivably, Poole told me.
The phone rang. It was Hannah.
“April eighteenth,” she reported.
Poole tried APRIL and APRIL18. Nothing. Then ARIES. Still no luck.
“We haven’t thought of one other possibility,” said Poole. “Did the man have a middle name?”
As it turned out when we posed the question to Hannah, Parker, like many another WASP, had not one but two middle names: Henry and Edgar.
Poole put HENRY in the frustrating little box first, and we struck out again.
But when he typed EDGAR—success! We got this:
FILE EDIT LOOK UP VIEW REPORTS
CONTACT____________ Address___________
Name_________________ City______________
Title__________________ State_____________
Phone________________ Zip_______________
LAST CONTACT____________
CALL_____________________
STATUS___________________
USER DEFINED:
NOTES:
“What do we do now?” I asked.
Poole moved the cursor to FILE and clicked it. A “pull down” window appeared in the upper right-hand part of the screen, with this list:
OPEN
NEW
DELETE
EXIT
“We go to OPEN,” said Poole.
He did so, and another window appeared just below the first one.
_____DATABASES LIST
_____AUTHORS
_____PUBLISHING HOUSES
_____AGENTS
_____PERSONAL
Now we were off and running. We went to AUTHORS first.
“See if you can find ‘Michaelson, Alexander,’ “ I said. He was not on the list.
“PERSONAL?” Poole suggested. I nodded.
And that was where we hit pay dirt—emphasis on dirt. For PERSONAL was nothing more nor less than the amorous history, “the sexual conquests” if you will, of the late Parker Foxcroft. Disgusting. As a man about town, I’ve certainly enjoyed my sexual encounters—though I never thought of them as conquests, just various successes—but to write them down, and in a database at that, I find utterly disgusting.
“How many names are there in this database?” I asked.
“One hundred fifty,” said Poole.
I considered this figure. Not enough to get Parker into the Guinness Book of Records, by far, but a substantial achievement for one not yet forty. I remembered, however, that there are star basketball players who number their so-called victories in the thousands—though it seems to me that unless they can recall the names of every bed partner and the precise details of each gratification, the numbers are inconsequential.
“It’s possible, of
course, that Parker kept other records,” I said.
“Of course,” said Poole.
It might have been squeamishness on my part, but I just didn’t want to confront the data on one Susan Markham, who was most assuredly in Parker’s files, so I asked Poole if he would mind combing through the files by himself, paying particular attention to anyone who might have even the faintest connection with Parker’s murder.
“One file I’d like to read myself,” I said. “Would you print out whatever Parker entered on Claire Bunter?”
“Glad to.”
And I left him to explore the libidinous exploits of Parker Foxcroft.
Chapter 25
The call I had been waiting for came the following morning.
“Nick, darling,” said the voice I had last heard on an answering machine, “it’s Susan. How are you?”
“Susan,” I said, “you know, you can make the most threadbare phrase in the language, ‘How are you?’ sound like you just thought it up.”
“That’s sweet, Nick—but altogether exaggerated. Anyway, I meant it—how are you?”
“The better for hearing from you, my dear.”
“I’d have called before,” she said, “except I’ve been out of town briefly. Now that I’m back—”
“Let’s get together?”
“Right.” I heard a click in the telephone receiver. “Oh damn,” she said, “it’s another call. D’you mind, Nick? I’ll just find out who it is and be back in two secs. Don’t go away, promise? Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t mind,” I said, but I did mind. Damn call interruptus, anyhow, and cursed be he or she who invented it in the first place. Perhaps I oughtn’t to complain, though; I don’t have it because I don’t need it—but what if I were without someone to answer my phone?
“I’m back, Nick. It was nothing important—just the office.”
“Stupid of me,” I said. “That’s where I thought you were.”
“No, I’m at home.”
“At ten o’clock on a Tuesday workday?”
“My trip was business, darling, including the weekend, so I decided to give myself a day off. Anything wrong with that?”
“Not so far as I’m concerned.”
“Moreover, I want you to spend it with me—part of it, anyway.”
“Which part is that?”
“Come to my place for lunch, Nick—I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“Typical reaction. It’s a surprise, that’s what it is.”
I looked down at my calendar. Mirabile dictu, no lunch date; already a pleasant surprise. I’d had lunches booked solidly every day for almost two weeks.
“What do you know,” I said, “I’m free.”
“I’ll expect you around one,” Susan said.
“Okay—”
“And be sure to cancel any afternoon appointments you might have on your calendar. Bye, dear.”
What, I wondered, was I getting myself into? An assignation, that’s all, dummy, said my inner demon. A seductive trap, said my guardian angel. You’re getting yourself entangled. Think of Margo.
But does Margo think of me? Besides, it’s a lovely way to spend an afternoon.
It is the essence, the special savor, of a love affair, to be secretive, clandestine, if you will, even if there is no reason for concealment—another spouse, perhaps. Marriage is so open, so public—everybody knows what you’re up to on Saturday night or Sunday morning—but a love affair! There you have the possibility of brief encounters, eyes across the table, legs touching on the banquette, kisses in the backseats of cars, and heart-pounding synergies—how’s that for a euphemism?—in parked cars on moonlight nights. And best of all—nobody knows!
All this ran through my mind after my phone call with Susan, until I was interrupted—not by another phone call—but by Herbert Poole.
“Morning, Nick,” he said, closing the door softly behind him. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all, Herbert. Come on in.”
He crossed the room and put two sheets of paper on my desk blotter.
“This is the Claire Bunter file you asked for,” he said.
“Oh good,” I said, lifting the sheets and holding them up at arm’s length. “Can’t wait to read this.” I stared at Poole, who was smiling at some private joke of his own. “Is it gamey, Herbert?”
“It’s”—he allowed himself another one of his chuckles—“titillating, I would say.”
“Are you still working on the hard drive?”
“Still. There’s some way to go to get to the end of this database, hear? I’m only up to number sixty-five of one hundred fifty.”
Not up to Susan yet, I thought grimly.
“Well, carry on. I do appreciate your help, Herbert.”
“Glad to be of use, Nick.” And he took his leave.
I picked up the first sheet of Claire Bunter’s file from Parker’s database.
It started with her name, address, and phone number, and then listed these entries:
LAST CONTACT: May 4, this year
CALL: Dont call
STATUS: Limbo
USER DEFINED: Former lover
It was the NOTES, however, that engaged my full attention. The entries were short and always explicit. The first one was dated over a year ago and described the beginning of the affair. They had just had a vinous lunch at The Four Seasons, and Parker drove her home in a cab through Central Park. On the journey, he kissed her, shyly, as he reported it, but when she responded by opening her mouth and tonguing him, he drew back and whispered, “Not yet. But soon,” and drew her hand down to touch his erection. This gambit apparently inflamed her latent passion, or so he remarked. Not long afterward, Parker’s editorial conferences with Claire ripened into meetings at his apartment, where he seduced her with dreams of glory and his intuitive awareness that Claire was ready, after years of marriage, to embark on a liaison with her brilliant and charming editor. “Your books have just not been properly edited, Claire dear,” he told her. “Your talent has not been properly appreciated.”
“To win a woman over,” Parker wrote in his notes on Claire, “you must always tell her what she most wants to hear, whatever it is.”
They met, I read on, in his apartment mainly, but also at a summer writers’ conference they both attended in Vermont where, Parker noted, “we ran all the changes on ‘the beast with two backs’—both in the cabins where we were housed and in the deep sun-dappled woods, on thick beds of leaves and pine boughs. Also in the lake, late at night, skinny-dipping.” Parker seemed quite proud of his ability to mount his lady love, or to sustain her while she mounted him, several times a night…
I felt, reading this stuff, knowing I had no business reading it, that I was invading Claire Bunter’s privacy, and that I had no excuse for such an intrusion except that I had good reason to suspect her of murdering Parker. If I could establish motive and opportunity, all this would be worthwhile, however unpleasant.
I skipped to the end of Parker’s entries, where he remarked: “Claire is pressing me to ‘do something’ about our situation, as though there was anything I could do. She is becoming a nag, wants more of me and my attention than I can give her, threatens to tell her husband about us and ask for a divorce so that we can marry. Not possible, I tell her, I wouldn’t marry you even if you were free. Of course I don’t blame her for being angry…”
There followed a series of transcripts of phone messages Claire had left on his answering machine, messages I found particularly weird:
You don’t know what you’re doing, walking out on me like this. You don’t know what you’re giving up. Why haven’t you called me? (Click)
Where are you? Where the hell are you? I can’t stand this, it’s disgusting. How can you do this to me, you pig? (Click)
It’s four o’clock in the morning and I just woke up.
Four o’clock—about time to reach over
and grab a breast. Who are you with this time? Is it the woman I saw you leaving your office with yesterday? (Click)
I just have to add one more comment on this whole situation ‘cause if what I think is going on, you’re really… you’re sick! I hope you have a coronary! (Click)
Last call, darling. I think you’re one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever known. You just threw it away. You just threw something good so easily away. (Sigh… click)
Really the last call, DAMN YOU! You know you’re lucky I didn’t have a knife handy when you walked out on me last week. I wanted to kill you! I still do, you bastard! (Click)
I put the file aside, leaned back in my chair, and made a steeple out of my fingertips. I had not thought that Claire Bunter, on the surface a poised, sophisticated woman, could nurture so much anger and resentment. I had read enough of her work to know that she saw life, as they say, steadily and whole. Surely she must have known that an adulterous affair, however exciting, must end sometime, and often badly. However, if I have one cardinal virtue, it is this: I am, where human emotions are concerned, completely nonjudgmental.
But not where murder is concerned. I probably ought to tell Lieutenant Hatcher about Parker’s files. First, though, I thought I’d better seek Joe Scanlon’s advice.
* * *
After my deep immersion in the erotic legacy of Parker Foxcroft, I felt I needed a bath. The next best thing, I decided, was to be with Susan Markham. I told Hannah that I would not be returning after lunch and that she should field all calls and inquiries.
“What about Herbert Poole?” she asked.
“He’s to have complete access to Foxcroft’s office,” I said, “and anything he might need.”
Stepping out on the street to head for East 55th Street, I hailed a cab, and miracle of miracles, it turned out to be a Checker. I climbed in gratefully; it looked as though it was going to turn out to be a memorable day, after all.
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