“The car! Calling from the car! Imagine!” Eliza Russell exclaimed, raising her white-gloved hands in mock horror. “I’m so old, I remember when you had to turn a crank to talk on the telephone!”
“The wonders of modern science, Eliza,” Givens said, and immediately called the meeting to order, cutting off further small talk.
After the preliminary formalities, including a treasurer’s report confirming that the Foundation’s total income for the previous year had been $7.4 million, Dr. Baxter reviewed the research proposals that the Bloemendael staff was asking the board to approve. The agenda booklet contained a summary of each, but she gave a brief description anyway, pausing for comment afterward.
If there had been any fear that the directors’ comments would be critical, it was groundless. After a description of the largest grant, $1.6 million to an experimental addiction program at a midwestern university, Dr. Persky commended “Dr. Givens or Dr. Baxter, whoever is responsible.” He praised the program as innovative and as being one that held out great promise. And also as one being run by a former student of his.
“Thank you,” Dr. Baxter replied pleasantly. “As a fellow pharmacologist, I agree with you.”
While another grant, to a research team in Indiana, was being described, Blair McKenzie interrupted to ask if one of the recipients wasn’t “Meredith Owen’s son.” Told “yes” by Dr. Baxter, he nodded approvingly, as did others around the table who knew Meredith Owen, the beloved president emeritus of a local university.
When Dr. Baxter had finished, Alvin Michaelson asked, “How much did we give away today?” and was told $4 million. “Not bad for a little family foundation,” Michaelson said.
Not to be outdone in the praise department, Gregory Bonner called the staff’s efforts “dynamite” and “phenomenal.” He screwed up his face and closed his eyes as he spoke, his customary signal that he was saying something important.
“There’s an awful lot of talk out there concerning drugs. We saw it in the last election campaign. And, believe me, we hear it all the time at the network—from our listeners, from our producers, from everyone. But mostly that’s what it is—talk. It’s a great thing to sit here and learn that something is being done. I think you’re right on track, Wayne, and I want you to know we’re all behind you.”
There was polite applause in the room as Dr. Givens modestly accepted the praise running his way.
Reuben couldn’t help but notice the congenial atmosphere that prevailed. What a contrast to the meetings of the National Ballet board at which he presided, with its prima ballerinas (and those with the temperaments of prima ballerinas), its factions and its general disorganization! What accounted for the difference? he wondered. Was a foundation dedicated to science necessarily more sedate than a nationally recognized ballet company? Then the reason struck him: his ballet board had to raise money—this one had only to spend it.
Those who picked the NatBallet directors were on the prowl for separate and independent checkbooks, which meant an assemblage of separate and independent egos, all vying for attention and stroking. The Foundation’s Great Kill dividends gave Wayne Givens the luxury of picking directors who were not buying their seats. They might, as Reuben had concluded, earn their places in other ways, but they did not have to provide or raise funds.
Givens could pick and choose as he saw fit. Frost saw it all while the new grants were being described. Tobias Vandermeer may have been an accomplished needlepointist, but Givens was an accomplished weaver who had wrought a harmonious tapestry in which the individual strands did not clash.
And look at the interconnections of those strands, Frost reflected, extending the metaphor in his own mind. Several directors were otherwise beholden to Wayne Givens. Dr. Wayne’s highly successful television show appeared on Gregory Bonner’s network. Emory Bacon and Mark Small were presumably grateful for the accounting and legal work the Foundation provided. Glenda Warren and Alvin Michaelson, who practically made a profession of being outside directors, must have been happy to add the Bloemendael to their list. And Marguerite Baxter, of course, owed her job to Givens.
Some members of the board had forged close bonds elsewhere. Reuben knew of a few instances and was sure there were even more. Blair McKenzie and Michaelson, quintessential icons of capital and labor, were close advisers to Norman, the Mayor, and had formed a symbolic united front at City Hall on several difficult occasions. Dr. Persky and the Reverend Price had served at the same time on the house committee of the Gotham Club, which Reuben knew from his own experience bonded the committee members together in dealing with the often petty and oddball complaints of the Club’s members.
And, if he was not mistaken, the present Mrs. Michaelson had been the first wife of the still-absent Jerry Halpern. That might have created a lifelong rift between Michaelson and Halpern in the hinterland, but not among members of New York’s civilized ruling elite.
It was ironic, Frost thought, that the only “outsiders” on the Bloemendael board, the only strands that didn’t mesh, were Bill Kearney and the late Tobias.
Frost’s musings were brought to an end when Givens introduced the next item of business, a resolution memorializing Tobias. He described to an attentive audience the events of Sunday night—“one of the most horrible occasions of my life”—and was peppered with questions from his fellow directors.
“Wayne, I can’t believe that Tobias was poisoned,” Eliza Russell said. “It must have been something else. A heart attack or, or … alcohol, or anything except poison.”
“I’m afraid not, Eliza,” Givens replied. “I was there when he died. There’s no question that it was poison. He died of cyanosis. From cyanide, that is.”
One or two shocked asides were heard around the room, and Givens quickly brought the meeting back to order, focusing attention back to the draft resolution in the directors’ green folders. Dressed up with many “whereases” and “resolveds,” the text was not unlike the eulogy at Tobias’ funeral, as interesting for what it didn’t say as what it did.
“I think this is super,” Gregory Bonner said, once again screwing up his face. “A great tribute to a wonderful man. I commend the draftsman.”
“Mark Small can take credit for that,” Givens said. “Do I hear a motion?”
The resolution, needless to say, was passed unanimously.
“All right, that completes our business, except for one small item,” Givens said, his voice smug, his remark causing laughter in the room. “We have with us this afternoon Robert Millard, and Reuben Frost, of course, from the law firm of Chase & Ward. That fine firm has represented the Vandermeer family over the years, and we’ve asked Mr. Millard to join us and explain how Tobias’ tragic death affects us here at the Bloemendael. Mr. Millard? Why don’t you come over here?” Givens made room at the table and Millard moved his chair to the open space.
“Thank you, Dr. Givens,” Millard said, adjusting both his horn-rimmed glasses and the two sheets of notes on legal foolscap he had placed in front of him. “As Dr. Givens told you, my firm is counsel to the Vandermeer family. I have been in charge of its affairs for the last four years, since the death of my partner, Arthur Tyson.
“The story I have to tell you today is very short. Most of you will recall that the Foundation was started in 1963, with an initial gift of two million dollars from Hendrik Vandermeer—the gentleman in the portrait up there. When Hendrik died eleven years later, his will, which had been executed in 1964, provided that half the stock in Great Kill Holdings Corporation would come to the Foundation. Great Kill is, as you know, the corporate entity that owns the Vandermeer real estate interests and, as your treasurer’s report said earlier, the Bloemendael’s income to this day derives largely from the Great Kill stock.
“The rest of Hendrik Vandermeer’s estate was placed in a trust, called the Vandermeer Trust, administered by Bill Kearney here and the First Fiduciary Trust Company, as co-trustees. Pursuant to the will, the ultimate beneficiaries of t
he Trust were the children of Tobias or, if there were none, the Bloemendael Foundation, subject to a life estate in the income to Tobias and, after Tobias’ death, a further life estate in such income that Tobias appointed to Robyn.
“What life estate to Robyn?” Mark Small interrupted. “Tobias didn’t appoint a life estate to her. I read the copy of his will you sent over, Bob, and there’s not a word in there regarding a life estate for his widow or anybody else.”
“Mark, I agree with you, there’s nothing in Tobias’ will. But you will recall that there was a codicil to his father’s will that allowed Tobias to appoint a life estate to Robyn. He appears to have done that in an irrevocable deed he executed back in 1974.”
“What are you talking about—a deed?” Small asked, in a not especially pleasant voice. “I would have thought any appointment would be in his will.”
“Mark, I agree with you. That would have been the normal procedure. But Hendrik Vandermeer’s will seems clearly to permit an appointment either by will or by deed, and Tobias chose to do it by deed.”
“Damned unusual, I’d say,” Small replied. “Have you got a copy with you?”
“Of Hendrik’s will, or the deed?”
“Both.”
Millard pulled copies of the will, together with the later codicil, and the deed Tobias had given to Robyn, from his attaché case and handed them across the table to Small. The latter put on a pair of half-glasses and flipped through the documents.
“I see your firm didn’t draw up this deed,” Small said accusingly.
“That is correct. Tobias apparently wanted to keep this private between himself and his wife.”
“He delivered this thing to Mrs. Vandermeer?”
“That’s correct. He gave it to her on an anniversary trip to Paris.”
“Is that good delivery—in Paris?”
“I believe it is. But for good measure, he gave a second copy to Bill Kearney.”
Eyes turned to Kearney, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“When did you find out about this?” Small asked Millard.
“Tuesday afternoon. I tried to reach you yesterday, but we missed each other,” Millard said, not explaining that he had been avoiding Small’s return call on Frost’s instructions.
“Does this mean what I think it does? That the Foundation won’t get the Vandermeer Trust income, or the corpus for that matter, until Robyn dies?” Wayne Givens interrupted.
“That appears to be the case,” Small said.
“That isn’t what you told me when we talked three months ago,” Givens said, clearly angry, as he gave Small an exasperated look.
“Wayne, this is the first I’ve heard of this thing,” Small replied defensively.
“No one has ever told anyone here about this life estate,” Givens said. “Are we sure this, whatever you call it, is genuine? It seems very strange to me that it comes to light only after Tobias’ murder.”
“Now, Wayne, the instrument appears to be valid on its face, though of course we’ll have to satisfy ourselves that it is,” Small temporized. “Meanwhile, let’s not be hasty.”
Givens was not mollified. He turned on Kearney and asked why he had never revealed Tobias’ action.
“The subject never came up. It never occurred to me.”
“Never occurred to you that it might help us to plan how this Foundation operates?” Givens shot back, raising his voice.
“I was under orders from Tobias not to mention to anyone what he had done. And besides, Wayne, the subject only became relevant four days ago, when Tobias died unexpectedly,” Kearney said icily. “As long as Tobias was alive, it didn’t matter what Hendrik’s will or that codicil or Tobias’ deed of appointment said. It was totally irrelevant to the Foundation.”
Givens, evidently realizing that his outbursts were subject to an unpleasant interpretation, calmed down and apologized. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen. It’s just that this comes as a great shock to me.”
Mrs. Russell said she was confused and asked Millard to review the legal situation once again, which he did, to the discomfort of the others.
“I should have thought Tobias would have taken care of Robyn from his own estate,” she said in exasperation when he had finished.
“Well, he chose not to, Mrs. Russell,” Millard said.
“All I can say is, it looks like there’ll be a lot more fighting of illiteracy than dope addiction,” she replied with asperity.
Givens, still shaken but by now aware that further recriminations might tear a hole in his tapestry, asked for a motion to adjourn the meeting.
“I don’t understand why we didn’t know this,” he said to Millard, as the group broke up.
“I’m sorry, Wayne. It was a surprise to Reuben and me, too.”
“You knew this on Tuesday. You at least could have told our counsel.”
“I apologize,” Millard said. “I did try.” But not very hard, he might have added.
Millard and Frost, as the bearers of bad news, thought it politic to leave as unobtrusively as they could.
“Bob, they should have put you through a security gate before that meeting,” Frost said to his former partner, once they had reached the lobby.
“What do you mean?”
“That was a pretty big hand grenade you lobbed onto the table,” Frost answered.
“Yes, I guess it was. You know, Reuben, I’m not so sure it was right for me to avoid Mark Small’s calls.…”
“I’m sorry I put you on the spot, Bob, but thanks for doing as I asked,” he told his puzzled colleague.
Frost was smiling broadly. It was not every day that he could both embarrass Mark Small—through no fault of Small’s own—and perhaps, just perhaps, get closer to solving Tobias’ murder.
15
Pace Padgett
It was an elated Reuben Frost who recounted the tale of the stormy Bloemendael meeting to his wife that evening.
“So what have we got here?” he asked his wife, when he had finished his description. “It’s absolutely certain that Wayne Givens thought the Foundation would get everything in the Vandermeer Trust right away if Tobias died. And—and—as I told you, he was so mad he blurted out that he and Mark Small, Esquire, had had a powwow not too long ago on the subject. Well, maybe not a powwow, but they’d certainly discussed it.”
“I agree that what you say is very interesting, dear. There are two problems. If Tobias was poisoned in one of his drinks, Wayne wasn’t anywhere near him. And we have no idea whether he went upstairs to Tobias’ bathroom.”
“We know he didn’t while we were there, but he could have before we arrived.”
“Yes, he could have. Are you going to tell Mattocks and Springer about this?”
“What is there to tell them? They already know Givens was there on Sunday. It would look like I was trying to shift the blame from me. If it were Luis, I’d tell him in a minute. But I don’t see the point with the other two, or their friend in the DA’s office.”
There continued to be silence from the police, though Springer did come by the Frost townhouse one afternoon a few days later to ask some follow-up questions about Pace Padgett, the waiter at the Vandermeers’ ill-fated dinner. Springer was not especially forthcoming, but Frost had the distinct impression that Padgett had disappeared. The address he had given Byron Hayden at Bright Lights had turned out to be a fake. And the social security number he had furnished was not his own.
Padgett’s telephone number was in reality the number for a commercial answering service, which had no forwarding information for him and was in touch with him only when he called in. He came by in person each month to pay the subscription charge—in cash. The service’s receptionist recognized the “identi-kit” picture the police had prepared from the descriptions of Padgett they had been given, but no one else there, nor Hayden, could offer the police any other help.
After this latest intelligence from Springer, Frost decided to pay another call on Roby
n Vandermeer to question her about a number of things, including Padgett.
As he had already done with others, he asked the widow if she had any theories about Tobias’ strange behavior before he died, shouting at Sherman Deybold and energetically stitching “prick” into his needlepoint. And if either of the Givenses had gone upstairs at the beginning of the evening.
Robyn was no help with either of these questions, though she did say she’d left the Givenses alone for a few minutes when they arrived, so that, conceivably, one of them could have sneaked upstairs. Nor did she provide new information about the elusive Padgett. Robyn told Frost that he had first been assigned to the Vandermeers by Bright Lights early the previous autumn, to serve at a luncheon Robyn had given for the vice-chairmen of the benefit committee for the READ ball.
He had seemed pleasant enough, Robyn said, and when she wanted a waiter for the reading club meeting at the Vandermeers’ in November (Miss Boyle having made her demand for extra help by then) Byron Hayden had asked if he should sent Padgett, and Robyn had readily agreed. He had returned several times since.
“He was a totally unexceptionable young man,” Robyn said. “You saw him—quiet, competent, unobtrusive. He got to know his way around the kitchen and the dining room and was really very efficient. Miss Boyle got along with him, too. Which was important as far as I was concerned.”
“Did he have any quirks? Anything odd about him?”
“No more than any out-of-work actor. Actually he was a good deal less flamboyant than most of them. I was always glad when Byron sent him over. He reminded me of a servant I had when I lived in Chicago.”
“Chicago? I didn’t know you ever lived in Chicago,” Frost said.
“You didn’t know about my Chicago period, Reuben? That’s hard to believe.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it before.”
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