Murder Times Two

by Haughton Murphy

  “Reuben, what the hell is this all about? Barbara and I were going to the country and now we won’t get there until the middle of the night!”

  “I’m very sorry, Wayne. But something has come up that really couldn’t wait until Monday.”

  “Well, what on earth is it?”

  Frost was in no hurry to get to the point. He introduced Rourke to Givens and offered them drinks. I should either make these very weak or very strong, he told himself as he mixed them. He made theirs weak, his own strong.

  “Gentlemen, I know this all must seem very mysterious,” he said, after they were seated in the library, Frost next to the telephone with the buzzer. “Perhaps I can lead into the subject by reviewing the state of the Vandermeer property after Tobias’ and Robyn’s tragic deaths. As both of you gentlemen know, I believe, the bulk of the Vandermeer fortune is in the Vandermeer Trust, created by Tobias’ father.”

  Rourke nodded and Givens looked troubled. Who was this fellow who knew the terms of the Vandermeer Trust?

  “On Tobias’ death, Hendrik’s will dictated that the Trust assets are to be distributed to the issue of Tobias, or failing issue, to the Bloemendael Foundation, subject to a life estate in the income that Tobias appointed in favor of Robyn. With her death, this means everything will go to you, Mr. Rourke, as Tobias’ surviving son.”

  “Reuben! What are you saying?” Givens shouted. “Tobias had no son!”

  “That’s what we originally thought, Wayne. Until Mr. Rourke came forward.”

  “But he must be a bastard! Tobias never had any children by his wives. He didn’t want any children.”

  “Wayne, the polite legal phrase these days is ‘born out of wedlock.’ And legitimate or illegitimate, a child can inherit. That’s the law, at least in New York. And Mr. Rourke is Tobias’ son.”

  “So my Foundation gets nothing?” Givens said, maddened enough by Reuben’s calm and the complacent look on Rourke’s face to refer to the Bloemendael as his very own.

  “Normally you’d be right. Mr. Rourke is Tobias’ son and would receive everything in the Trust. Unfortunately, that is not likely to be the case.”

  It was now Rourke’s turn to explode. “Why not, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Because, Mr. Rourke, there’s a rule in New York that says you can’t inherit if you’ve committed murder in order to do so.”

  “Old man, you’re crazy! Why are you talking about murder?”

  “The police are now convinced, Mr. Rourke, that Tobias Vandermeer was poisoned by Pace Padgett, the waiter from Bright Lights who was working at the Vandermeers’ the night Tobias died. And they’re also convinced that you are Pace Padgett.”

  “But I was at home then!”

  “If that’s true, it’s very odd that your phone records show that your calls were forwarded to the Vandermeers’ that afternoon. And I don’t think anyone there is going to have trouble identifying you, mustache or no mustache. Wig or no wig. Green contacts or no green contacts. You were there. Wayne, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Givens had now gotten control of himself and was positively giddy after the scare Frost had given him. “Reuben, you’re right. He’s the waiter!”

  “You made very elaborate preparations, Mr. Rourke, to make sure Pace Padgett disappeared and that you had an alibi. They weren’t good enough. Though I’m confident they’ll be sufficient to establish that your crime was premeditated.

  “And if I were a betting man, Mr. Rourke, which I’m not, I would wager that your friend, Ms. Hartley, doctored up the Inderal capsules that killed your father.”

  Rourke, who had been sitting in an almost catatonic state while he listened to Frost, now shouted, “Leave her out of this!” and edged forward in his chair. Frost ignored him and coolly turned to Dr. Givens.

  “I’m sorry I scared you that way, Wayne, but I wanted to take things in order. If Mr. Rourke is convicted, and I don’t think there’s much doubt about that, the Bloemendael Foundation will take everything from the Vandermeer Trust.”

  “I want my lawyer!” Rourke interrupted.

  “Yes, of course you do. If you’ll just be still for another minute or two, you can call him,” Frost said, then turned back to Givens.

  “Just to finish up fast, Wayne, I’m sure the Bloemendael Foundation will prevail. It’s only a pity you won’t be around to run it in its new golden age of prosperity.”

  “What does that mean?” Givens said, losing his aplomb anew.

  “I don’t think the Bloemendael directors will want to retain a murderer as their President. I don’t think the likes of Eliza Russell would find it seemly.”

  “What? What are you saying?” Givens almost came at Frost physically.

  “Wayne, there seems to be pretty solid evidence that you strangled Robyn Vandermeer sometime between three and three forty-five last Tuesday afternoon.”

  “That’s unmitigated crap! I was with Marguerite Baxter the whole afternoon. At San Felice and then at her apartment. She was sick.”

  “She’s feeling better now. Relieved,” Frost said, surreptitiously poking the buzzer by the telephone.

  “But you’re wrong! I can prove it. The headwaiter, Marguerite, everyone will support me.”

  “Maybe so. But there’s always the Jasper Johns in Dr. Baxter’s closet to explain away. A nice attempt to implicate Sherman Deybold, but it didn’t work. And if I do say so myself, Dr. Givens, murdering Robyn was certainly a very strong reaction to your deep-seated neurotic anxieties, whatever they may be.”

  Givens went out of control as Frost mentioned the painting and his psychoanalysis of Becky Sharp, but the detectives broke into the room, guns drawn, and with Bautista in the lead, before he could do any harm.

  “All right, gentlemen, let’s just take it easy,” Springer said, slipping handcuffs on Rourke, while Mattocks did the same to Givens. As the prisoners were piloted toward the door, both shouting obscenities to no avail, Frost stood up, as if out of politeness to his departing guests.

  When they had disappeared, he gripped the desk. He was short of breath, perhaps even hyperventilating.

  “You all right, Reuben? You’re breathing hard,” Bautista said.

  “Who wouldn’t?” Frost replied grumpily.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s right. I guess you’re entitled to breathe hard after a home run.”

  “No, no, Luis. You’ve got it wrong. Just a double play.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Reuben Frost Mysteries

  CHAPTER

  1

  Fort Bliss

  Tom Henderson, a lanky string bean only months out of law school, realized that he was alone in the Chase & Ward library. His isolation was not surprising, considering that it was 3 P.M. on Friday, December 30, the last business day of the year.

  The partner for whom Henderson worked had summoned him earlier in the day and, after perfunctory apologies, had announced that he needed a survey of the bulk sales and vendor-in-possession laws in Arizona and five other southwestern states.

  “There’s a department store chain down in Phoenix that’s about to run out of cash,” the partner had explained. “First Fiduciary is trying to put together a package to keep the outfit alive and I’ve got to be out there Tuesday morning. One of the things they’re talking about is a sale-and-leaseback on the stores, so I need to know if we’ve got any showstoppers that would keep the bankers from doing a deal right away. Is there anything in the state laws that could trip them up?”

  With four states done and two to go, it now looked as if he should be finished in time to meet two classmates at M.K. when the club got rolling that evening. Not that he could really complain, given his $80,000 salary (which even he had to admit was probably—probably—overpayment), if his research kept him at Fort Bliss.

  Fort Bliss. The nickname, presumably coined by an older lawyer who remembered the venerable Texas army post, referred to Chase & Ward’s state-of-the-art quarters in a new skyscraper in the West Fifties of
Manhattan. For over a hundred years identified as a “Wall Street law firm” (usually preceded by the adjective “prominent” or “distinguished”), Chase & Ward had finally outgrown its offices in the financial district and had moved, the previous February, to Clinton Plaza, a complex consisting of a commercial tower, two adjacent apartment buildings and a movie theater.

  The Plaza’s neighborhood was marginal at best, bordering not only the solid, blue-collar Clinton district—once known as Hell’s Kitchen—but also the porn theaters and bookshops that had spread north from Times Square. Human and electronic security at Chase & Ward’s private entrance and elevators formed a defensive cordon—the Fort—separating its personnel from the hurly-burly outside.

  Henderson, who had never worked anywhere else, had assumed that the high-tech precautions at Clinton Plaza were typical of the world of work; they didn’t bother him at all. From his point of view, the luxurious spaciousness of the firm’s quarters more than compensated for any fancied danger.

  He was now working in comfort in a corner of the law library, his papers and books spread out before him, his long legs wound in a pretzel knot as he read. Arizona polished off, he decided to tackle New Mexico and got up to go into the stacks adjoining the reading room. He turned on the lights and smiled as he noticed the familiar sign, posted above the switch:

  HOW TO STAY ALIVE

  IN THE

  COMPACT SHELVING SYSTEM

  1. Go to the opened stack.

  2. Look for people, stepladders or books on the floor.

  3. Remove obstacles.

  4. Push red STOP/RESET button.

  5. Go to section that you want to open.

  6. Push green OPERATE button.

  7. While in the stacks, hum, whistle or sing.

  8. Keep your foot close to the kickbar which will brake the system instantaneously if somebody shouldn’t follow steps 1 through 3.

  The new shelves were ingenious. Each row of them was on a track and could be moved by starting a motor. Precious floor space was saved since one aisle could now serve four rows, rather than the customary two.

  Henderson found the precise stack he was looking for. It was flush with the adjoining one, so he pressed the green and red buttons, as instructed. Hurrying along, he entered the newly opened aisle, then backed off in horror at what he saw.

  “Holy shit!” he shouted to the world as he spotted the fully clothed body of Juliana Merriman, a senior associate in the corporate department on a bottom shelf. He was going to flee, but instead examined the apparition confronting him more closely.

  There was no need to think of first aid. There were visible strangulation marks on Merriman’s neck; her face was a dreadful shade of blue and outlined by her flowing hair, messily disarranged around her. He rushed out, grabbed the phone outside the head librarian’s office, and dialed 2222, the extension of Joe Conklin, the office security director. There was no answer but, from the endless series of directives that had been circulated on office security, he knew a beeper would alert Conklin to the call.

  Henderson slumped in the nearest chair to wait for Conklin to ring him back. And to contemplate the horrid reality that a murderer had gotten inside Fort Bliss.

  CHAPTER

  2

  A Merger Made in Heaven: I

  It was just before nine on the Monday morning after Thanksgiving. Juliana Merriman looked around Conference Room B on the thirtieth floor of Chase & Ward’s offices at Clinton Plaza.

  She was pleased that the janitorial staff had gotten its instructions straight—for once. The custodians had opened the sliding door running down the middle of the space, turning two rooms into one. They had pushed together the conference tables from the two parts to form one long, formidable surface. Supplies of yellow pads, pencils and paperclips were spread at intervals along the newly combined table and, wonder of wonders, the water in the two carafes was fresh. Juliana’s complaints about the slovens in the maintenance department, lodged after recently bringing a group into a pigsty of a conference room, apparently had been heeded.

  Juliana sighed quietly to herself as she counted the chairs around the table. There were twenty-four, which ought to be enough, but one could never predict how many would show up for the meeting that was about to begin. The only certainty was that, since everyone would be together for the first time, there would be much posturing, speechifying and general cheerleading.

  She also found herself yawning. Normally she came to work just before ten o’clock and, as a resident of one of the brand-new Clinton Plaza apartments less than a block away, did not get up until a little before nine.

  The previous night she had been unable to sleep, perhaps anticipating the transaction she was about to immerse herself in, the proposed merger of On-Line Distribution Corporation into Applications Unlimited, Inc. In addition, Harvey Rawson, the hotshot investment banker from Schoonmaker & Co., had insisted that the meeting start at nine. There was no good reason to begin so early. The purpose of the kickoff session was for all parties to get acquainted, to set a time schedule and to parcel out work responsibilities. It would take two hours at most and could have begun much later and still been over by lunchtime. But Rawson had been adamant, even though it meant that his clients, the Wylie brothers, would have to leave their homes in New Jersey very early.

  Merriman was also apprehensive because this was her transaction, the first large deal on which she would be working almost on her own. Two weeks earlier, an old friend from Stanford Law School days, Alan Lovett, had called and asked if she could represent him, and Applications, in the merger.

  Lovett had told her that his investment bankers, Harrick, Millstein & Co., had advised him to get experienced counsel, preferably in New York or New Jersey, since On-Line, the company being acquired, was located in Madison, New Jersey. Lovett had immediately thought of Juliana.

  She had explained to him that she was only an associate at Chase & Ward but would be delighted to take on the job if the firm approved. She had gone to Charles Parkes, the Executive Partner, who told her she could go ahead if William Richardson, the partner to whom she was assigned, would supervise the matter.

  Richardson, then involved on a nearly full-time basis representing the prospective junk-bond lenders in a complicated takeover of a Detroit steel fabricator, was cool to the idea when Parkes broached it.

  “I’m up to my ears, Charlie, with this Argosy thing,” he had told Parkes. “I’ll be lucky to get home for Christmas.”

  “Well, Bill, from what Juliana tells me, I don’t think a whole lot of supervision is going to be required. It’s a pretty straightforward deal, if I understand it right. Besides, from all I’ve heard about Juliana Merriman, she ought to be able to handle it pretty much by herself.” Parkes had cast a friendly glance at Juliana as he made his pitch.

  “I suppose,” Richardson had said, neither smiling nor joining in the praise of his associate. “If she’ll do all the work, I guess we can manage it.”

  Merriman had been delighted. She was independent by nature and enjoyed having responsibility. Richardson’s busy schedule seemed to guarantee her autonomy in running the transaction. She also thought that working with Lovett should be agreeable, even though in the California past she had turned aside his tentative, short-lived attempt to become her lover.

  Occasionally, when she came upon favorable news coverage of Lovett’s prospering business, Juliana almost regretted having turned him down. She had known him when she was a law student at Stanford. Lovett, then a recent engineering Ph.D. from Berkeley, had come to live in Palo Alto, where he had worked for a computer software company. Soon he had gone out on his own and formed Applications.

  Applications’ success had been quick. The software Lovett designed competed with the most advanced products of Microsoft and Lotus; his graphics-assistance program was a must for those preparing tables and illustrated material, and his financial spreadsheet was a significant rival to Lotus 1–2–3.

  Merriman
had not seen Lovett in person for several months before the previous evening, when she had gone to discuss the deal with him over drinks at the Park Lane. Years before, his appearance had matched his status as a computer nerd—mildly good-looking (very mildly), but not especially prepossessing. Now his appearance had metamorphosed as befitted a multimillionaire: he was tan, somehow more handsome and dressed in an elegant Gianfranco Ferre suit.

  This morning, as Juliana waited, she was curious about the Wylie brothers who, with their family foundation, owned On-Line. Lovett had described them hilariously Sunday night, referring to the three New Jersey entrepreneurs as the “low-tech” end of the computer business. But they had something that Applications badly needed—a distribution network capable of getting products into computer stores throughout the country, including those in the smallest towns and cities. According to Lovett, distributing computer software was for the Wylies no different from selling embalming fluid or rug shampoo, both of which they had done before their newest marketing discovery.

  The first arrival was Beth Locke, a Chase & Ward paralegal who had been working with Juliana for several months. A Vassar graduate, she was awaiting (and, with abundant overtime, was well-paid while she did so) inspiration, in the form of a concrete notion of a course of graduate study or, perhaps, in the form of a husband.

  Ms. Locke was a bespectacled young woman with short dark hair. There was nothing unpleasant about her looks, but there was nothing spectacular, either. She looked even plainer alongside Juliana Merriman, who was almost startlingly beautiful. Of medium height, Merriman had pronounced and striking features: an ample, sensuous mouth; long, tapered fingers; and wide, expressive eyes that were a soft, almost liquid blue. And her hair. No one who had met her could forget her brown-red hair, parted in the middle and cascading down her back. The total effect was not at all contemporary, but harked back to the enigmatic beauties of Rossetti and Burne-Jones. Juliana’s only evident physical imperfection was a tiny scar on her upper lip, the result of a childhood operation to repair a cleft palate. The flaw was hardly disfiguring; in an odd way it served as an offset that highlighted her beauty.