Murder Times Two

by Haughton Murphy

  “Pretty well. Around half the things are sold, I guess. Vitalia doesn’t like us to put up those colored dots showing what’s been sold. She says it detracts from the pictures.”

  “Interesting,” Frost said, not certain that he believed the young man’s explanation. “What do they go for?”

  “They’re all fifteen thousand. She was in the last Whitney biennial.”

  In Frost’s opinion Ms. Ashley’s output was overpriced. And he knew enough about the Whitney credential to know that it and five dollars would buy a tube of paint at Pearl Paint, a few blocks down on Canal Street. And, for that matter, so would five dollars.

  “How does Sherman feel about these paintings?” Frost asked.

  “I think he likes them okay. He’s a traditionalist, but he’s very open. We pretty much divide things up. He lets me do what I want down here. He’s very good about it.”

  “I see.”

  “Anything new about Mr. Vandermeer?” Costas asked.

  “Nothing that I know of. How about you?”

  “No. Those cops keep coming around every few days, asking the same old questions. Sometimes one, then the other, then both of them, like they’re trying to trick me. They seem disappointed when they get the same answers every time.”

  Frost wanted to ask if any of the questions concerned him, then thought better of it. No sense in giving the young man ideas. “It’s a puzzle. Do you have any theories?” he asked instead.

  “Me? Wish I did. The uncertainty isn’t too cool.”

  “I agree with that.”

  The two men shook hands and Frost left the gallery. Taking the bus to the Gotham Club, he could not help thinking that Michael Costas was a costly toy for Sherman Deybold. The Deybold/Costas gallery space must be expensive and, unless it represented artists more promising than Vitalia Ashley, was unlikely to be paying its way, let alone Michael’s upkeep.

  Maybe the whole thing was a tax dodge, offsetting Sherman’s profits from sales of old masters. Or perhaps Deybold/Costas was a large cash drain. If so, could that relate somehow to Tobias and his murder? The bus took forever to get uptown, but it wasn’t long enough for Reuben to figure out any connection.

  20

  Flying Down to Rio

  Friday night, Reuben and Cynthia settled themselves into first-class seats aboard the Varig 747 bound for Rio. Reuben had had a slight frisson of fear at the check-in desk, half expecting ADA Munson to loom up and block their passage. Now that he was on the plane, he felt liberated.

  This feeling intensified after the aircraft took off, temporarily leaving behind everything that had to do with Tobias’ murder.

  “Reuben, what on earth are you humming?” Cynthia asked as her husband started his first cocktail of the flight.

  “Why, ‘The Carioca,’ of course. From Flying Down to Rio. Didn’t you recognize it?”

  “No, truthfully, I didn’t. You’re so exuberant you’ll be out dancing on the wings, like Fred Astaire in the movie.”

  “Who wouldn’t be exuberant? Getting away to visit old friends, in a place that’s supposed to be beautiful. Why not?”

  “Oh, my dear, I quite agree. We’ve had an awful month. We deserve a celebration. And, in fact, I’ve got some things here to celebrate with.” She pulled out a canvas tote bag from under the seat in front of her and produced a can opener, a knife, a box of water biscuits and a six-ounce jar of Beluga caviar.

  “Good Lord, Cynthia. They have caviar here on the plane, you know.”

  “They never have enough anymore. And these days they try to stretch it by mixing it with dreadful other things.”

  Reuben attacked the canapés Cynthia prepared with enthusiasm, trading his martini for a glass of cold vodka as an appropriate accompaniment.

  “Cynthia, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “Good. It gets harder to surprise you after all these years, but I try. Which reminds me, I have another surprise.” She reached back into her bag and produced a letter, which she handed to Reuben.

  “What’s this?”

  “It came this morning from my new friend in Chicago, Diane Schrader. She’s the woman who’s trying to start a new ballet company there. I’d met her before, but I spent a lot of time with her on that flying trip to Chicago a month ago. She’s a real dynamo and I liked her a lot.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Read it and you will. You remember when we were trying to reconstruct Robyn Vandermeer’s life, the Chicago piece was missing. I wrote Diane and asked if she could help. I think you’ll agree she has.”

  Reuben looked at Cynthia incredulously as he took the letter from its envelope and began reading the bold, cursive handwriting:

  DEAREST CYNTHIA,

  What a pleasant surprise to hear from you! When I received your letter, I hoped it brought word of an increase in the promised grant for New Chicago Dance, but after getting over my disappointment I set to work immediately on finding out everything I could about Robyn Vandermeer (or Robyn Weldin, as she was known in her Chicago phase). It turns out that Mummy and some of her friends knew her then, and I also got Ardis Sutherland, the dance critic you met out here, on the case. She came up with several nuggets from her newspaper’s files.

  Even our Chicago papers were full of accounts of Tobias Vandermeer’s death. When most murders are related to narcotics these days, an old-fashioned poisoning of a wealthy man can still attract attention, I guess.

  Even so, I had no idea Mrs. Vandermeer used to be Robyn Weldin until I read your letter. Her husband was Bernie Weldin, a very rich heir to the Weldin Parts Company fortune (your friend Robyn seems to know how to pick them). His family had been on the fringes of Chicago society for many years—let’s be brutally frank, the segments of Chicago society that money can buy. (Meat-packing has always been okay as the basis for a Chicago fortune; auto parts not so much so.) Mummy knew Bernie, though not very well, and tells me that he was quite the playboy, both here and in New York, where he didn’t have to be as discreet as he was around home. I’ve met him several times. He’s all right, but not very interesting. Just rich. He’s been married to the same woman now for years and has a large family of kids, half of whom seem to have gone to Harvard or Yale and the other half to two-year colleges in Illinois. (His wife is on my New Chicago Dance committee, but I don’t think you met her.)

  According to the newspaper files, Robyn Mayes and Bernie were married at City Hall here on September 22, 1951. She was described in the story as an actress from New York and there wasn’t anything about parents or college or things like that. Mummy says there always was a rumor that Bernie had picked her up in a bar in New York. Nobody claims to know the particulars.

  A friend of Mummy’s, who did know her pretty well, says that she and Bernie’s mother got on famously. The mother, Doris, was trying every which way to make it big in Chicago and she took her new daughter-in-law under her wing. This friend remembers her as being shy and a little clumsy at first, with a hairdo that looked like a cheerleader’s (or a waitress’s maybe?).

  That changed in a hurry. Robyn was really good-looking and pretty soon the hairstyling and the clothes were the best money could buy. The Weldins were at all the charity benefits, and Robyn fit right in. The news photographers loved her, if the old clippings are any indication.

  As best I can find out, Doris and Robyn were very active in one of the ten thousand attempts to have serious dance in Chicago. It failed, of course, like all the others (except, dear Cynthia, the effort your Foundation is going to back!!) but it brought Doris (and with her, Robyn) a step closer to the important social circles here. (Robyn herself spent a lot of money helping an early American music group here that still exists today, resurrecting both classical and jazz music. Robyn apparently was quite the expert on jazz and ragtime, though nobody knows where she came by her knowledge.)

  Robyn and Bernie split up very quietly around 1958. There was no one else involved, at least that anyone knows about. The rumor was that Berni
e wanted children and Robyn either wouldn’t or couldn’t have any. (Given the comfortable life she was leading, I’d guess the former.) At any rate she disappeared and, according to the gossip, took a big block of stock in Weldin Parts with her. (My husband says that Weldin Parts went public around this time, so she probably received stock that could be sold on the market.)

  As near as I can tell, Robyn closed the Chicago door forever when she took off. Everybody seems to have heard of her marriage to that Italian count, or whatever he was, but I don’t know anyone who’s been in touch with her, and I’ve really asked around.

  You wanted to know if anybody had strong impressions of the Mrs. Weldin that was. Mummy’s friend who knew her from the beginning says the transformation was amazing and fast—from actress to very cultivated lady. People liked her, but I’m told that those who worked closely with her on committees, etc., found her very single-minded and stubborn when she put her mind to something. Usually it was for a worthy cause, not that that made it any easier for those coming up against her. I don’t think she was much missed after she disappeared.

  That’s really all I can tell you, Cynthia. If you want me to keep digging, I’ll be glad to, but I thought you’d be interested in this preliminary report.

  Best to you—and I’ll say it unashamedly—to the Brigham Foundation.

  Love,

  DIANE

  “I’ll be damned,” Reuben said, when he had finished. “This is very intriguing. Why didn’t you show it to me before?”

  “It just came this afternoon. I wanted it to be a surprise. And I didn’t want to take the very slim chance that somehow you’d want to cancel the trip.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, this letter does add to the impression that Robyn is a very, very determined woman.”

  “Determined enough to kill Tobias, you mean?”

  “You said it, Reuben. Now that we’re forty thousand feet up and over international waters, is there any point in denying it any longer?”

  “No,” Reuben answered deliberately, “no, there isn’t. We’ve had our suspicions about Robyn all along, and they’ve hardened in the last few days. That cool performance at Gracie Mansion, for example. The way she was treated, the fortune she stood to get, her easy access to Tobias’ pill bottle—and her determination—all add up as far as I’m concerned.”

  “It’s not easy, is it? Realizing that a person one’s been a friend to is a murderess?”

  “No, it certainly’s not.”

  “What an embarrassment for NatBallet—having one of its major contributors a criminal!”

  “I’m glad to see you’re putting first things first, my dear. What about all those newly literate little children, now able to read about their benefactor in the Daily News?”

  The flight’s dinner service afforded a welcome (and comparatively tasty) respite to the Frosts’ dark thoughts. They ate in near-silence, commenting tersely on the food, each knowing that it would be hopeless to try to start a real conversation on any subject other than the Vandermeers.

  Finally, over coffee and brandy, Reuben said that he had concluded “that NatBallet and the little literates are safe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re never going to pin the murder on Robyn. She planned it too well. Unless, of course, they can prove she bought some weed killer containing cyanide in Nutley, New Jersey, or something like that.”

  “She did have to get the poison from someplace.”

  “Anyone who can start out as a pregnant cheerleader and end up as the venerated Robyn Vandermeer is probably pretty good at covering her tracks,” Reuben said.

  “These things have a way of coming unwound, my dear.”

  “They’re going to have to come unwound without me. I’m becoming a beach bum for a week. And right now I’m going to rest up for it.”

  Both Frosts reclined their luxurious stretch seats, put on eye masks and slept until awakened for the enormous breakfast their first-class passage entitled them to.

  “I can’t eat all this,” Reuben complained.

  “Then don’t. Besides, if you’re going to be a beach bum, you should watch out for your figure.”

  21

  Cidade Maravilhosa

  The Frosts’ arrival amid the never-ending confusion of Galeao International Airport was made easier through the deft help of Delfim, the Herculanos’ driver. Through some magic (the payment of a few novo cruzados, in fact), he met them at the arrival gate, carrying a cardboard sign saying FROST, and shepherded them with comparative ease through customs and the baggage-claim area.

  It had been established by telephone—Reuben had needed the information for his friend, ADA Munson—that the Frosts would be staying at the Copacabana Palace Hotel, rather than the Herculanos’ residence.

  Delfim guided them to a waiting Mercedes. “We go to Dr. Herculano at two o’clock for lunch,” he said. “Now we go to the hotel so you can rest.”

  The driver, a dark, mustachioed man who appeared to be in his late forties, was full of smiles, and the Frosts were grateful for his aid. They were slightly disconcerted, however, when he placed a menacing-looking revolver on the leather seat beside him and locked the doors before starting out. He neither apologized for nor explained his precautions.

  “Is very old hotel you go to,” he said, as they drove into Rio proper. “I think is better than the new ones. Very sympathetic.”

  He also told them they would be staying not in the main hotel building but in an adjoining building of apartamentos. “Is better,” he told them.

  The Herculanos’ driver stayed with Reuben and Cynthia until the luggage arrived in their spacious two-room suite. He opened the door to the balcony overlooking the hotel’s huge swimming pool and pointed out Avenida Atlantica, Copacabana Beach and the invitingly blue Atlantic beyond.

  “Is very beautiful,” he commented.

  “Yes, indeed,” Reuben said. “Is it always this busy?” he asked, gesturing toward the colorful horde of bodies on the beach, beyond the distinctive wavy black-and-white-mosaic sidewalk.

  “Many people come every day,” Delfim said. “Saturday and Sunday, everybody comes.”

  “I can see why,” Cynthia said. “It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  Delfim thanked her for the compliment and said he would meet them in the lobby at one forty-five. “Now you can rest or take a swim, whatever you want,” he said.

  “Rest for me,” Reuben said.

  “Me, too. Maybe we should wait until Monday for the beach, when not everybody comes.”

  Promptly at the appointed hour the Frosts were on their way to the home of their friends.

  “Cosme Vehlo,” Delfim explained, as he drove up a hill below Corcovado Mountain. “That is Corcovado. The hunchback. It’s a clear day. You can see the Christ at the top.”

  Indeed one could. The massive statue of Christ the Redeemer was silhouetted in the cloudless sunshine at the top of the peak.

  The Mercedes stopped at a closed gate well up the hillside. An armed security guard opened it, admitting the car to a long driveway surrounded by lush green foliage and brightly colored tropical flowers. Delfim drove to the front of an inviting colonial house, its cool pink color a relief from the day’s bright sunshine. A houseboy in a white jacket admitted them and in mixed Portuguese and English, accompanied by interpretative gestures, indicated that they were to wait in the living room.

  “Welcome to Cidade Maravilhosa!” Alfredo Herculano boomed out, as he entered the room moments later. Luiza came in behind him, and the foursome was soon locked in a melange of abraços, kisses and laughter.

  Alfredo, casually dressed in a sport shirt and slacks (in contrast to Reuben’s jacket and tie), was a lighter-skinned version of Delfim, with slicked-back hair and a thin mustache. His wife looked glamorous in a simple cotton dress, her trim figure and smooth, unlined face giving no hint that she was the mother of six, let alone already a grandmother several times over.
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  “We finally got you here!” Luiza said. “I almost don’t believe it.”

  “You were here before, Cynthia, yes?” Alfredo asked.

  “For four days, back before the invention of the wheel,” Cynthia said. “I’ve seen more on this trip already than I did then. Copacabana Beach and the ocean, for example. Back then I saw my hotel room, my dressing room and the stage of the Teatro Municipal.”

  “We’ll fix that,” Luiza said, laughing. “We’re not going to give you a minute’s peace.”

  “How about a drink?” Alfredo asked, as the butler reappeared. “The usual martini, Reuben?”

  “Not today. I’m still a little rocky from the flight. Can I have a gin and tonic?”

  “Good. And Cynthia?”

  “Campari?”

  “Sure.”

  The houseboy returned with a tray containing bottles and ice, deftly mixing three gin and tonics and a Campari and soda to individual specifications.

  “Let’s go outside,” Luiza directed. “It’s not too hot.”

  She led the way out to a stone terrace, with a breathtaking view of the ocean in the distance.

  “Is that Sugarloaf?” Reuben asked.

  “Yes indeed. You’ve been reading your guidebook,” Alfredo said.

  “Not really, Alfredo. Even I have heard of Sugarloaf.”

  “You New Yorkers should feel right at home here,” Alfredo said. “Our murder rate is around five hundred a month, even higher than yours. We have cocaine and all kinds of drugs. Just to keep up-to-date, we now have crack. And AIDS.”

  “I noticed the … guards,” Reuben said, tactfully not mentioning Delfim’s revolver.

  “A necessary evil, my friend. We have to keep alive so that the inflation can kill us.”

  “How is your hotel?” Luiza asked.

  “It’s fine,” Cynthia replied.

  “We decided it was better to have you there,” Alfredo said. “It will be more restful. We still have two children at home, and there are grandchildren running around all the time. This place is more like a railway station than a home. You are better off at the Copacabana, believe me.”