“Then we did most of the world’s great musicals—Annie Get Your Gun, South Pacific, The Sound of Music, Oklahoma!—like that. Funny thing . . .” he seemed momentarily lost in thought, “when it came to the musicals, she was always better than I was.”
“Better?”
“Yeah. Like she was a better Annie than I was a Frank Butler. She was a better Julie Jordan than I was a Billy Bigelow. A better Maria than I was a Baron Von Trapp. Come to think of it, when she was Nellie Forbush, I was just a gob in the chorus. Isn’t that funny, Father? There’s a whole segment of show biz—musical comedy—that she does better than I do.
“But she was so . . . oh, I don’t know . . . self-effacing, maybe . . . so sweet about it that she never let on. And, would you believe it, Father: It never dawned on me till just this minute—she didn’t want me to feel bad because she was better at musical comedy than I was, so she never let on! All these years . . . I ask you, Father, is that some kind of girl!”
The doorbell rang. The Chases had arrived.
Cindy went to the door. As a cold blast of air entered the room, Koesler noticed that Hoffman shivered, then blew his nose. It occurred to the priest that if anyone should feel the cold, it ought to be Cindy. She certainly was wearing less than anyone else. No doubt about it: She was some kind of girl!
There was the usual confusion and profusion of greetings between those at the door and those in the living room. Charles Chase wore a blue suit almost identical to that worn by Hoffman, only slightly darker and more severe in cut. Louise Chase’s floor length gown was full enough to mask the blemishes of time, yet revealing enough to state that she was still an attractive albeit matronly woman.
The two newcomers circled the room, the men shaking hands, the women leaving lip pecks on cheeks and in the air. Finally, as if cued by musical chairs, all were seated. Waiter and waitress took drink orders from the Chases.
Peripherally, Koesler had noticed that of those present, the Hoffmans’ glasses were being refilled far more often than anyone else’s. Emma was drinking what appeared to be martinis. Frank’s was an amber liquid that Koesler took to be the renowned perfect Rob Roy.
In short order, the conversation again broke down into at least temporarily homogeneous groups. Ratigan and Hoffman were now joined by Chase in sorting out the pressing problems of Big Business. Emma and Cindy discussed the coming winter’s effect on the greenhouse occupants. Mercury had disappeared, presumably in the kitchen checking on dinner preparations.
Koesler found himself seated next to Louise Chase. Ready or not, they were about to open conversation.
Throughout his years at St. Anselm’s, Koesler had always thought he would like Mrs. Chase. He could not be certain, because their relationship had always been on a professional pastor-parishioner basis. And even then not on a frequent basis. She seemed to have a good sense of humor without having discovered much to laugh about. She wore that seemingly bored visage common to very wealthy women. But her countenance seemed relieved by a private joke she was sharing with no one.
Louise leaned toward Koesler, who turned his chair slightly to face her. “I don’t suppose you are interested either in horticulture or the vagaries of foreign trade, Father?”
“I’m afraid not.” Koesler felt himself almost redden. As if he should be interested, but, in truth, was not.
“Well,” she said in a philosophical tone, “there are other things in life. I think we noticed you at the symphony the other night.”
“It’s very possible. Bishop Ratigan was kind enough to take me.”
“What did you think of it?”
“To be frank, about the only reason I went was for the Brahms Fourth. But I was truly surprised by their opener. It’s almost as if once you’ve heard the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto, you’ve heard it no matter who plays it. But Thursday, with Andre Watts at the piano, it was almost as if I had never heard it before!”
Louise turned full attention on him. It was a rarity these days to find a music lover with whom one might be in total agreement. “And I suppose you were one of those boisterous aficionados on your feet and shouting when the concerto was concluded?”
“Yes, I was,” Koesler admitted.
“So was I!”
They continued their discussion on classical music, discovering to their mutual delight that they shared much the same taste: Almost nothing could excel the great romantics; they could neither understand nor abide anything by Schoenberg or any of his disciples, especially Bartok; John Cage should be deported; Gershwin and Copeland belonged with the immortals.
While they conversed lightly and amicably, Koesler became growingly aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere.
He had been vaguely aware that as he had been refusing refills, Emma Hoffman had been taking advantage of each new opportunity to add to her martini intake. He had not noticed her eating anything, just drinking. And, as the martinis had been going down, her voice had been rising. He also noticed that as Emma’s voice became more strident, across the room her husband had been increasing his Rob Roy intake. Somewhere down the line, Koesler feared, a commotion was about to take place.
Koesler was by no means alone in taking notice of Emma Hoffman’s escalating manifestation. In his clique, Bishop Ratigan had slightly raised his volume in an attempt to distract the others from Emma’s vociferousness. And Koesler’s tête-à-tête with Louise had become a monologue as she ranged from topic to topic in another attempted diversion from the one who was quickly becoming the focal point of this gathering.
“I must admit,” said Louise, a bit more forcefully than necessary, “that I was surprised when Charles and Frank began working together so well. I would have expected there to be more friction, more competition at The Company . . . especially with a newcomer on the scene.”
Koesler became aware that, for the first time this evening, Louise was not maintaining eye contact. She was, in fact, looking just over his shoulder. He, in turn, glanced over her shoulder and saw that Emma was nibbling on an hors d’oeuvre. Getting some food into her system to offset all that liquor was a step in the right direction. But he feared it might be too late.
“Mmmm,” Emma popped the remainder of the hors d’oeuvre in her mouth. “My dear,” she said to Cindy in a tone devoid of sincerity, “this is delicious! What is it? It tastes like a combination of crabmeat and shrimp. You must let me see your recipe. But it must be terribly, terribly expensive!”
She went out of her way to emphasize the final word. It was but one in a series of sarcastic remarks she had been making. Koesler noticed that Cindy’s face had reddened.
“It is probably the result of what can happen when good Christian men get together to do a job,” Louise continued almost mechanically. “Their relationship must be a source of edification to the rest of the executives at The Company.”
Koesler suspected that Louise did not fully know what she was saying, but was making conversation from embarrassment.
The waitress brought Emma still another martini. And, on her way out of the room, she deposited another perfect Rob Roy before an obviously angry Frank Hoffman.
Koesler winced as Emma immediately downed nearly half her drink in a single gulp.
“Oh, yes.” Emma looked directly and argumentatively at her husband, while ostensibly addressing her comments to Cindy. “Oh, yes! These hors d’oeuvres are outstanding. What’s this one? Caviar? Caviar and something. My dear, how do you afford such delicacies? Angie must be doing fabulously! Strange; I haven’t seen any notices in the papers.”
“Why, Frank has even given—yes, given, for all practical purposes—a couple of his closest advisors to Charles.” From her tone it seemed clear that even Louise knew no one was paying any attention to her. “My guess would be that you’d have to search far and wide to find such a generous spirit of cooperation, especially in a major industry.”
Angie Mercury popped into the archway in much the same manner as an effervescent KoKo might make h
is entrance in The Mikado.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “dinner is served.” Then a frown crossed his face. He had perceived that Cindy looked beleaguered. He did not know why and there was no time to discover the reason.
The guests filed silently and ill at ease into the adjoining dining room.
Mercury directed his guests to their places. He and Cindy sat at opposite ends of the table. The Hoffmans sat across from each other at mid-table. Both had quaffed their latest drinks before entering the dining room.
All took their seats in silence.
Easily qualifying as the ranking clergyman, Bishop Ratigan was delegated to lead the grace.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts,” Ratigan traced the sign of the cross over the table, “which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, Our Lord, Amen.”
Although he was rather proficient at extemporaneous prayer, Ratigan was at a loss for an ad lib sentiment that would not be a mockery in this situation. Invisible waves of anger were flowing across the dinner table. Thus, the bishop had fallen back on the most traditional Catholic formula for grace before meals.
Ordinarily, Mercury would have begun to roll the conversational ball. But he was preoccupied with whatever it was that was troubling his wife. He kept looking over the long expanse of table for some sign or signal from her. But Cindy kept her eyes down. Her cheeks were still flushed.
Bishop Ratigan broke the heavy silence. “Anybody notice in the paper last Sunday, they’re predicting a long, hard winter?” Weather he considered to be neutral.
“Oh, yes,” Louise Chase quickly responded, “I couldn’t more agree. Have you noticed the bushes are just almost overburdened with berries? And judging from the animals I’ve seen, their fur seems a lot thicker.”
The waiter and waitress began serving the soup course.
“Hell of a lot more acorns on the ground, now that you mention it,” Charles Chase agreed.
“What an exquisite pattern,” Emma Hoffman remarked, fingering the soup dish. “Someone’s inheritance, is it?” She directed question and gaze at Mercury.
“Are you kidding, Em? You know we may have a skeleton or two in the closet, but neither of us had any rich relatives.” Unaware of Emma’s intent, or what had gone before, Mercury answered straightforwardly.
“You do now,” Emma purred.
“What? What are you talking about, Em?” Mercury missed her meaning since he had not been searching for it.
Most of the others knew what she was driving at, and grew more ill at ease.
Koesler foresaw an explosion and wondered only at what point it would come. Seated next to Emma, he looked across at Hoffman, who placed a tablet or pill of some sort in his mouth and downed it with water. Hoffman was obviously angry with his wife, but his complexion was ashen, which Koesler considered odd. People usually flush when angered.
“The way I see it,” said Ratigan, “it can’t be a long, hard winter. We’re not ready for it. They haven’t repaired last winter’s potholes yet. Why, Outer Drive looks as if it’s been through a war.” Ratigan toyed with his soup. It was delicious. But, since it was vichyssoise, he didn’t have to worry about its getting cold.
“No atheists in potholes, eh, bishop?” Mercury quipped.
The ensuing laughter sounded forced.
“Where are you performing now, Angie?” Emma feigned ignorance. “I haven’t noticed your name in any of the theater ads.”
“Oh, just some dinner theater, some community theater, Em. Not much.” Mercury was beginning to wonder why his sister-in-law was zeroing in on him. Ordinarily, she paid him little or no attention.
“Just the same, it must pay well,” said Emma. “I mean, a catered meal and all . . .” Her speech was beginning to slur noticeably as the martinis assaulted her system.
Koesler fervently wished she would eat something. If he could, he would gladly have literally spoon-fed her the soup.
“How about Bloomfield Hills, Charlie?” said Ratigan. “I don’t suppose you’re plagued by potholes out there. Probably against the law.” His eyes danced around at the others. Sort of a visual jab in the ribs.
“Well, no.” Chase was almost apologetic about the absence of potholes. “But then we live in one of the newer developments. The pavement hasn’t been there long enough to wear out and breakup.”
“Really, Angie,” Emma wore that silly smile that sometimes marks the inebriated, “I don’t know how you can afford all this luxury. You must save a lot from the milk money!”
Her implication finally reached Mercury. He clenched his jaw and dropped his spoon to the table.
“For God’s sake, Em, will you shut up! You’re drunk!” Hoffman was furious. His wife’s blatant, snide verbal assault on Mercury had created the very situation Hoffman had hoped to avoid. He had intended to pass this evening colorlessly, just as he did at The Company. Now, due to his wife’s petty spite, he could no longer avoid becoming the center of attention. “One more word, and I’m taking you home!”
“One more word, is it, my lord and master?” She turned on him as if all along he had been the one she really wished to rip into and only now had he given her the opportunity. “So, you’re going to take the little woman home, are you, big man? And then what? Then it’s off to the mistress for the night, is it?”
She was now almost shouting. The waiter had half entered the dining room but when he caught the tone of her voice, he thought better of it and returned to the kitchen.
Cindy Mercury began sobbing uncontrollably. She covered her face with her napkin and rushed from the table down the hallway to the bedroom.
Mercury sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair. He threw his napkin to the table. “Damn it, Em! Now look what you’ve done!”
Hoffman, too, rose from his chair. “You bitch!” He spat the words. “If you could, you’d ruin everything. I could throttle you!”
Suddenly, Hoffman doubled over as if he’d been poleaxed, then fell to the floor. For a moment, his body shuddered violently. Then he lay still. Very still.
“Oh, my God,” Louise Chase shrieked, “he’s dead!”
Emma Hoffman seemed to experience instant sobriety.
14.
“He’s certainly not dead,” pronounced Dr. Rambeau, as he closed the door to the guest bedroom behind him. “Now, let’s see if we can find out what happened.”
Frank Hoffman’s collapse had been followed by several minutes of panic occasionally relieved by chaos.
Louise Chase had screamed her premature obituary. Emma Hoffman became demonstrably sick to her stomach several times on her way to the bathroom and several more times inside the bathroom. Angie Mercury had loosened Hoffman’s clothing—one of the few positive steps taken. Cindy Mercury, startled by the commotion, had run from the bedroom to the dining room, where she had fainted. Bishop Michael Ratigan had tried very hard to remember the formula for absolution. Charles Chase had applied a cold towel to Hoffman’s brow, another positive step. And Father Koesler had phoned Dr. Rambeau, yet another positive step.
Rambeau was by no means the only doctor in St. Anselm’s parish. But he was the one Father Koesler called on in emergencies. First, because Rambeau always came, and second, he always did something. In his professional life, Dr. Rambeau had been an internist, a surgeon, and also a pathologist. Thus, he embodied the aphorism that an internist knows everything but does nothing, a surgeon knows nothing and does everything, while the pathologist knows everything and does everything but it’s too late. In addition, Dr. Rambeau was getting on in years, refused to stop smoking, and did not expect to live much longer—and so couldn’t have cared less about malpractice suits.
Now, Louise Chase was assisting Emma Hoffman from the bathroom. Emma appeared very pale and slightly unsteady. She had paid a stiff price for all that gin and vermouth undiluted by food.
Introductions were unnecessary. All were members of St. Anselm’s and the doctor had at least a nodding acquain
tance with each of them. He addressed Emma.
“Your husband’s vital signs are strong, Mrs. Hoffman. His blood pressure is satisfactory and his reactions are adequate. That is, in the context of—at least for the moment—a very sick man, you must remember. His nostrils are irritated. Has he had a cold?”
“Oh, yes, doctor,” Emma said weakly. “A bad one for the past couple of days.”
“Is he on medication?”
“There’s this.” Angie presented a small container to the doctor. “It fell out of his pocket when he collapsed.”
The doctor tilted his head back to allow the bottom section of his bifocals to focus on the container’s label. “Hmmm: Dynatab. A prescription drug and powerful. He was taking these?”
“He was eating them like candy.” Emma seemed to be regaining vigor.
“People!” The doctor shook his head. “They think a doctor’s prescription is meant for lesser beings. How about alcohol? Had he been drinking, especially before dinner?”
An embarrassed silence. Everyone was acutely aware that both Hoffman and Emma had been imbibing heavily.
“He had quite a few drinks, doctor,” Ratigan at length volunteered. “I was sitting with him before dinner.”
“What did he have?”
“Rob Roys . . . uh . . . perfect Rob Roys.”
Rambeau whistled softly. “Pure booze! On top of a probable overdose of Dynatab! How about pressure? Has he been under any stress?” The question was directed at Emma, but the answer came from Angie. “Plenty!” he blurted, as he glared at her.
“Well, that does it,” said Rambeau. “Too many pills, too much booze, too little food, and plenty of stress! Mrs. Hoffman, my guess is that your husband has the constitution of a bull moose. Otherwise, he might well be dead now.
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