Murder Times Two

by Haughton Murphy

  “What should I write on?” he asked. The autograph seekers had not considered this problem. Givens asked for a menu, upsetting the waiter patrol further, signed it and handed it to the couple.

  “Thanks, Dr. Wayne. We’re much obliged,” the man said as he steered his wife toward the door.

  “My public,” Wayne said wryly, though unquestionably he was pleased. “Unfortunately, I still have to pay half the check.”

  Outside the restaurant, the two couples briefly discussed logistics and decided it would be most convenient to take separate taxis home.

  “Thanks again for the entertainment,” Reuben said. “We ended up talking about the Vandermeers, but not the murder. That was a blessed relief. I’m afraid nothing you said got us closer to a solution, though.”

  “Did you expect that it would?” Dr. Givens answered.

  “Did you really mean that?” Cynthia asked her husband, once they were in a taxi.

  “Mean what?”

  “That the things Wayne told us didn’t get us any nearer to solving the … problem?” Cynthia said, refraining from using the word “murder” in the presence of the driver.

  “I think we’d better wait till we get home.”

  “Why did you try to shut me up back there?” Cynthia demanded, once they were inside their front door.

  “Look, my dear, our pictures are all over New York Magazine. I have no idea whether taxi drivers read it. They probably don’t. Half of them can’t read anyway. But I didn’t think it was such a hot idea to talk in front of him, and have him running to Springer and Mattocks.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. What’s the answer? Do you think Wayne’s extraordinary story helps us any?”

  “I don’t know,” Reuben answered, slumping wearily into a chair in the living room. “I’m of two minds about what he said.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve known right along that Robyn is a determined lady. But the more we hear, her determination seems almost genetic, to the point where I’m about ready to believe she was steely enough to poison her husband. You agree?”

  “Reluctantly, but yes.”

  “The other theory is pretty obvious.”

  “And it is?”

  “That Wayne told us that tale so we would be more suspicious of Robyn. He admitted he’d sought us out for dinner so he could tell it.”

  “In other words, the more suspicious we are of Robyn the less likely we are to be suspicious of him?”

  “Precisely.”

  19

  Details

  The next Friday, Cynthia reminded her husband that they were scheduled to leave for Rio de Janeiro in one week. For years their friends Alfredo and Luiza Herculano had been urging them to visit.

  Alfredo was an entrepreneur in a country where it was not unusual for individuals, or at least individual families, to own their own banks. In Alfredo’s case it was the large, prosperous and successful Banco Abrantes, S.A. Eager to hedge his bets against Brazilian inflation and potential upheaval, he had years earlier retained a group of American advisers to assist him in investing some of his massive wealth in the United States. On Citibank’s recommendation, these advisers included Chase & Ward, and Reuben Frost in particular.

  Frost had always treasured the relationship. Herculano was a generation younger than he was, but this was an asset rather than a detriment. Unlike the go-go financiers in the United States, who increasingly preferred to take advice from Yuppies like themselves, rather than venerable figures like Frost, Herculano was delighted to have access to the wisdom and astute counsel of an older lawyer.

  As so often happened, what had begun as a narrow professional engagement—to help Herculano buy a significant minority interest in a medium-sized New York bank—broadened into a rapport in which the younger man consulted the wise lawyer on many matters, ranging well beyond technical points of American law.

  Their personal friendship blossomed as well, and Reuben and Cynthia became avuncular confidants of the younger Alfredo and Luiza. The Frosts always socialized with the Brazilians when they came to New York, and over the years had also met up with them in places as diverse as Hong Kong and Portofino.

  Where Reuben had never been was Rio—Cynthia had stopped there briefly back in her ballerina days—despite endless importunings. Somehow the scheduling never worked out, though both of the Frosts very much wanted to see their friends in their home territory.

  Finally Alfredo Herculano, on a visit to New York the previous January, had invited the Frosts once again.

  “After so many, many years, it is ridiculous you have not come,” he had said to them both. “I put it to you, you’d better come while you can.”

  It was uncertain whether Alfredo’s admonition was directed at the Frosts’ age or deteriorating political conditions in Brazil. It had its effect, however, and Reuben and Cynthia had agreed to come for a week at the end of March.

  “You remember, there’s a little problem about leaving the City. That young Perry Mason in the DA’s office said we couldn’t leave without his permission.”

  “That’s why I’m reminding you,” Cynthia replied. “Everything else is in order, so it would be a shame to be held up by your officious friend.”

  “I hate the idea of even talking to him,” Reuben said, groaning. “He’s so damnably naive that if I even mention Brazil he’ll go crazy. He’ll have us in preventive detention. I’m sure Brazil to him is just a likely getaway spot without an extradition treaty, and that he’s incapable of understanding that someone might actually have friends there. Why couldn’t we be traveling to Russia or China, or some less sensitive place like that?”

  “What happens if we just go?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I can’t believe we’re on any sort of watch list so that we’d be stopped at Kennedy Airport. That isn’t the point. I gave him my word that I’d notify him if we left town, so I have to do it.”

  “Why don’t you go to the top and call Larry Vickers?” Cynthia asked, referring to the New York County District Attorney.

  Reuben groaned again. “If I were just an ordinary citizen, I could. But I was on Larry’s finance committee in all three of his campaigns. Normally that’s supposed to give you ‘access,’ as the euphemism goes. But Larry’s so straight, he’s apt to treat a phone call from me like a bribe offer.”

  “Oh, come, Reuben, don’t exaggerate. You’re not really asking a favor. All you’d be doing is keeping your promise and telling them you’re going away for a week.”

  “You’re right, as always. But I will call Vickers. At least he’s a grown-up.”

  Someone had once said that Lawrence Vickers, the veteran District Attorney, was so zealously incorruptible that if the necessity arose he would prosecute his own mother. Or, more exactly, would stand aside because of the conflict of interest and let another lawyer prosecute her. Reuben Frost did not look forward to confronting this rectitude, even on the telephone.

  Eventually he braced himself and made the call. “Hello, Larry, this is Reuben Frost.”

  “Hello, Reuben. Nice to talk to you. What can I do for you?”

  “How’s Jeannette?” Frost inquired, either not hearing or at least not answering the District Attorney’s question.

  “She’s fine, thanks. And Cynthia?”

  “Very well. She sends her regards.”

  “Thank you. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Frost realized he had clumsily delayed as long as he could. “Larry, you know about Tobias Vandemeer’s murder?” he said, perceiving too late that this was a particularly dumb question.

  “Of course, Reuben. It is after all, the most important unsolved murder case in the City.”

  “And you may know that I was, ah, present when Tobias died.”

  “Yes. I’ve been fully briefed on the case.”

  “When I talked to your Mr. Munson the night of the murder he requested me to notify him if I had any plans to leave town.”

  “Yes?”


  “Well, Cynthia and I want to go to Brazil.”

  “Really?”

  “We have friends there and we’ll be gone a week.”

  “I see. Have you told Joe Munson this?”

  “No. I guess I wanted to check with you to make sure there was no problem.”

  “Reuben, I can’t imagine there is. You’re obviously, uh, important to the Vandermeer investigation, but I don’t see it as a problem. You should call Munson, though. He’s the ADA in charge.”

  Was this a reprimand or advice? Frost could not tell. It was clear he had failed in his effort to avoid talking to Munson.

  “Many thanks, Larry, I appreciate it.” Frost said, though he was not sure what it was he appreciated.

  “Any time, Reuben. Nice to talk to you.”

  Bowing to the inevitable, Frost called Munson, only to find that he was in court. He returned Reuben’s call later in the day.

  “Mr. Munson, when we talked the night of Tobias Vandermeer’s death …”

  “I remember it. I questioned you in the Vandermeer kitchen.” “Questioned,” not “talked with,” Reuben noted.

  “Yes, that’s right. At any rate, you said that I should notify you if I had plans to leave the City.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Thus the purpose of my call. My wife and I have had plans for some time to visit old friends in Rio de Janeiro, starting a week from today.”

  “You’re going to Brazil?”

  “We are planning to. I wanted to notify you in accordance with our understanding.”

  “When did you make these plans?”

  “Oh, in early February, I would say.”

  “Not since Mr. Vandermeer’s death?”

  “No, indeed.”

  “You didn’t mention this when I brought up the subject of travel at the Vandermeers’.”

  (You young hotshot, Reuben thought to himself.)

  “No, that is quite accurate. Can I say in my defense that I had other things on my mind at the time?” Frost said coolly, reining in his temper.

  “I understand. As I recall, you were a bit confused that night.”

  (You little bastard! Frost shouted inwardly.)

  “How long will you be gone?” Munson asked.

  “One week. Seven days.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Frost hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re traveling to Brazil, but you’re not sure where?”

  “We’re going to Rio. Rio de Janeiro. To visit some old friends named Herculano. People I’ve known for twenty years,” Frost said, wanting to say “People I’ve know since before you were born.” “I only hesitate because I’m not certain if we’ll be staying at their home or if we’ll be put up in a hotel.”

  “I see, I see,” Munson said, slowly and deliberately. “When will you find out?”

  “I’ll call them tonight.”

  “Would you let me know?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’re coming back at the end of the week, the end of the seven days?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a flight booked for your return?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have the information in front of me. A Varig flight, I believe.”

  “Can you get me that information as well?”

  “Of course.”

  “This is quite unorthodox, you understand, allowing a key figure in an investigation to leave the country. I remember we did it a couple of years ago. Let a guy go to Palermo to visit his sick mother. He never returned and we couldn’t indict him.”

  “Am I about to be indicted, Mr. Munson?” Frost demanded, seething.

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, Mr. Frost. But I agree your circumstances are somewhat different than the party I mentioned.”

  “Thank you. And I do point out that you have a statement from me covering everything I know about the case.”

  “So you tell me. Everything that you remember.”

  “So where do we leave this?” Frost asked, eager to wind the conversation up before giving young Munson a lecture on manners. “If I tell you where we’ll be staying, and our return-flight information, may I assume there will be no difficulty concerning our trip? No obstacles?”

  “Based on the facts I have now, your assumption is correct. However, facts could change in the next week, so I can’t give you an unqualified okay.”

  “But if there’s no change, if there are no surprises, we can go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Frost had to restrain himself from slamming down the telephone. That myopic little twerp! he thought, as he drummed on his desk to calm himself. Oh, well, he reflected, as equilibrium returned, he probably doesn’t deal with nice fellows like me all the time.

  Douglas Gilmore, Reuben’s elderly computer guru at the Gotham Club, was an expert on other subjects as well, particularly those involving bargains or, as Gilmore put it, “good value.”

  One of Gilmore’s tips, when Frost mentioned that he had to buy some “summer gear” for his jaunt to Brazil, was Banana Republic, a clothing store featuring tropical wear.

  “The one I go to is down in the Village, on Bleecker Street. Don’t be put off, it’s mostly for young people, but they have good things.”

  Late the next morning Reuben set out on the Lexington Avenue bus for Gilmore’s bargain store. The bus was unusually crowded, and when he boarded, a young woman sitting at the front got up and offered him her seat.

  “No, no, miss, please sit down,” he said.

  She smiled and pointed to the printed message to the effect that the seat was to be given up “for the elderly and the handicapped.” Frost was appalled, but saw no alternative except to sit down.

  Did he look that old and feeble? he asked himself. If so, why was he headed to a youth-oriented clothing store?

  He carefully inspected the windows of Banana Republic before entering, concluding that he might be able to find something. Once inside, he was taken in tow by another attractive young woman, this time a smartly dressed black. He started off by asking her about a bathing suit.

  “Is it for your granddaughter or your grandson?” the girl asked innocently.

  Is every young person in New York trying to persecute me? he wondered.

  “Actually, miss, it’s for me.”

  The girl gave him a dubious look, which Reuben understood when he saw the selection being offered. Surfer’s trunks were not what he had in mind; perhaps his new swimsuit should come from Brooks Brothers.

  He did find, with careful looking, two cotton sport shirts, a pair of khaki walking shorts and a lightweight bush jacket. He was tempted by a billowing and good-looking pair of tan trousers but, thinking of the Michelin-man clothes Sherman Deybold and Michael Costas had worn to the fateful reading club meeting, he decided against them.

  “How about one of these?” his guide asked him.

  “What is it?”

  “A genuine Italian waiter’s jacket. It’s great for the summer.”

  “I don’t think so, thank you.” He paid for his purchases and thanked his young helper; she probably thought he was senile and crazy, yet had the decency not to show it.

  Out on Bleecker Street, Frost realized that his shopping had gone with such dispatch that he had time to kill before the lunch he planned to have at the Gotham Club. His memory so recently jogged about Deybold and Costas, he decided to visit their downtown gallery. He had never been there; he knew only that it was located in nearby Soho. He went back inside and found the address in Banana Republic’s telephone book, then headed east to Broadway.

  Deybold/Costas, as it was called, was one of a number of galleries in a loft factory building in the heart of Soho, handsomely refurbished inside in post-modern style. Located on the second floor, it was a large, light space with a polished wooden floor and white walls. There appeared to
be no one else in the gallery except a woman sitting behind a counter at the far end. She paid no attention to his entrance, so he took a leisurely stroll around, looking at the works of Vitalia Ashley, the artist on exhibition at the moment.

  The ten works of Ms. Ashley on display were all enormous. Frost estimated that the very smallest was ten feet by eight feet. Why do so many young artists paint to museum scale? he wondered. Wouldn’t smaller paintings, appealing to the buyer interested in works for a home or apartment, be more appropriate?

  All Ms. Ashley’s paintings were similar except for variations in the colors used. Each consisted of a painted background in pastels, with what appeared to be melted wax dripped across this surface. Jackson Pollock’s drip-painting it was not, Frost concluded; in fact, his impression was that it wasn’t much of anything. The canvases were pleasant enough as decorative color patterns, but to his eye they seemed boring as works of art. The muddled printed description of the artist’s work did not help, either:

  The vibrant surfaces of Vitalia Ashley’s wax paintings are distinctive with this artist. The melted wax superimposed on a pastel background forms a tactile pictorial plane that is resonantly beautiful to the viewer, and also suggests the oxymoron “receding surface.” The use of wax also recalls an earlier, less complicated time before the advent of electricity and our technological society, as well as the mystery of ancient religious rituals.

  Frost was trying to decipher this masterpiece of commentary when Michael Costas appeared from a rear room. No Michelin man today, his clothes were skin tight—a red T-shirt and white Levi’s, both accentuating a neatly sculpted body. The Greeks must be given credit for Adonis and Costas, Reuben thought; certainly the young gallery owner was more attractive than anything on his walls.

  “Mr. Frost! What brings you here?” Costas asked warmly.

  “Hello, Michael. I was in the neighborhood doing some shopping, so I thought I’d have a look at your gallery. I’ve never been here before.”

  Costas either did not notice or ignored Frost’s Banana Republic shopping bag. “How do you like Vitalia’s work?”

  “It’s very colorful,” Frost replied, latching on to the only compliment he could make. “How’s the show doing?” he asked.