“Think nothing of it, Mr. Frost. It happens all the time. So give me an update.”
Frost told the officer what he had learned about refilling the water carafes—omitting the homosexual misunderstanding—and gave as good a secondhand account of the Executive Committee meeting as he could. He also told him of his conversations with Keith Merritt—swearing him to secrecy about the tax problem—and with Perry Griffith and Grace Appleby.
Bautista was silent until Frost had finished.
“Let me ask you some questions,” he began. “First off, I assume that the Appleby woman doesn’t know that you know about her stock manipulations?”
“That’s right.”
“And nothing will be done about firing her until this thing is over?”
“I’m sure that’s right. But I’ll make sure of that with Bannard.”
“Good. And your private detective fellow is still tailing her?”
“As far as I know.”
“Now what about this man Griffith? Do you know what he saw Donovan about Tuesday morning?”
“No idea.”
“And he didn’t volunteer that he’d seen Donovan just before he was poisoned?”
“Not a word.”
“I wonder what should be done about him?”
“I wanted to ask you that. My first instinct was to call him back to my office and confront him with it. But then I thought it might be better to leave him on the loose for a little bit.”
“I think you did the right thing. Give him a little rope to play around with.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
“Now let’s see. Tyson. He’s a tough customer, as I found out on Tuesday. But would you say his temper tantrum was typical or not?”
“He has a terrible temper, certainly. But I think the episode yesterday shows that he is very nervous.”
“Guilt perhaps?”
“I hope not.”
“And this Keith fellow—”
“Merritt.”
“Yeah. He’s under a lot of strain too. Right?”
“Definitely.”
“That leaves, if my fine memory is correct, Bruce Donovan and Roger Singer,” Bautista said.
“Yes. I can’t tell you any more about them. I haven’t seen or talked to young Donovan at all. And come to think of it, I haven’t seen Singer since the funeral.”
“Is that unusual?”
“No, not at all. Weeks sometimes go by when I don’t see some of my partners. Former partners, I mean.”
“Anybody else who belongs on that list?”
“Not that I’ve thought of. I’d say it’s plenty long enough as it is.”
“Mr. Frost, I think you’ve done a good job. And, in the process, you’ve probably learned just about as much as I would have by asking questions around your office myself.”
“Glad to hear it,” Frost replied, finding himself more than a little pleased at the detective’s praise.
“One other thing. When I visited Donovan’s office yesterday, I concluded that Miss Appleby was the only one who would have had a direct view of those going in and out of his office. I’ll recheck that the next time I’m there, but is that your impression?”
“Yes, that’s right. Some offices face a bank of secretarial stations. But Donovan’s faces only Miss Appleby’s desk.”
“Okay.” Bautista drummed his fingers on the cocktail table in front of him, momentarily lost in thought. “A couple more questions, Mr. Frost. I assume at this point you don’t have a theory as to who did it?”
“No, I don’t. I know all the people we’ve talked about, except Donovan’s son.”
“Okay, then. If you don’t have a prime suspect, can you tell me which ones you think might be capable of murder?”
Frost sighed and sipped slowly from his drink. “I would have said that none of them was. But maybe I’m just not a good enough judge of human nature.”
“That I doubt, sir,” Bautista said.
“Maybe all of them are capable of having done it. As to which ones might be more likely …” Frost’s voice dropped.
“Yes?”
“No. No. I really can’t say one is more likely than another. I’m sorry.”
“Well, keep pondering it,” Bautista advised. “Meanwhile, here’s what I’m thinking. We’ve got the Appleby woman under surveillance, or so we think. I think I’m going to try and see Mr. Bruce Donovan sometime over the weekend. Otherwise, let’s just wait until Monday and see what happens. If one of the suspects is really guilty, maybe he—or she—will do something to show it. I think that’s all we can do. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“On Monday I’ve got to testify in court in the morning,” Bautista continued. “So I think I’ll come by your office right after lunch. To make an appearance for Mr. Bannard’s benefit so he doesn’t get me in trouble with the Mayor, if nothing else. Meanwhile let’s keep thinking and watching and see what we can come up with.”
“Fine.”
Consciously or unconsciously, Bautista had slipped into the first person plural as the conversation ended. Reuben Frost found himself secretly pleased at the new but unspoken bond this evidenced and was pleased too when the detective gave him a vigorous two-handed handshake as they parted company on Fifth Avenue.
DINNER DANCE
15
If a public opinion poll were taken among the associates at Chase & Ward and their wives, the result would probably show about half wholeheartedly in favor of the firm’s annual lawyers’ dinner dance and the other half dead set against. The tradition had started before any of Chase & Ward’s present lawyers came to work there, making it a truly venerable one. As the firm had grown, what had begun as a relatively intimate social affair had taken on the dimensions of a charity ball—indeed, only the largest public rooms in the city’s hotels could now accommodate its partners and associates and their wives and guests.
The partners of the firm, and most of their spouses, were in general positive about the dance. For those curious about the young lawyers, the dance was an opportunity to meet, talk and socialize with some of them and guests. Support for the dance was not quite as enthusiastic as it had once been, however, since changing sexual mores had introduced an element of social confusion daunting to even the most socially accomplished. In times gone by, the charming, sweet young thing at one’s left at dinner was the wife or girlfriend of an associate (wife if the name was the same, girlfriend if different). Today, the sweet young thing was just as likely to be a lawyer employed by the firm. And the difference in surname with her escort meant nothing: she could be a genuine date, in the old-fashioned sense of the term; a woman asserting her feminism by retaining her maiden name after marriage; or an unmarried live-in companion. Ice-breaking conversations had become perilous, with the initiator often falling through the ice. Some of the more seriously wounded in these skating exercises were less than happy with the dance.
Among the younger lawyers and their wives, opinions were divided. There were many, but by no means a majority, that regarded the event as an invasion of privacy, a surreptitious attempt by the partners to assess the social graces of their associates—and their spouses. Others, children of the sixties in fact or in spirit, deplored what they perceived as the ostentation of the affair. Donate the cost to a worthy charity, they would say; don’t spend good money on needless bread and circuses.
The more prevalent view was that the dance was a fine occasion to dress up in black-tie—not a common occurrence in the lives of most of the hardworking young lawyers—drink some good wine, smoke a decent cigar, and in general spend an opulent evening at Chase & Ward’s expense.
Frost, when he had been the Executive Partner, had never been a great enthusiast of the dance, but he had been required to attend by virtue of his position. And to be polite to the likes of the young lawyer, emboldened with drink, who had told him how to run the firm, and the embittered young wife who had blurted out to him that Chase & Ward’s demands
on her husband’s time and energies were wrecking their marriage.
This year, under police instructions to keep his eyes open, he actually looked forward to the dance, although he conveyed some forebodings to Cynthia while they dressed for the evening.
“Don’t forget,” Frost said to his wife, “not one word about the murder business. The partners of course know about it, plus that associate I told you about, Perry Griffith.”
Frost had in fact brought his wife fully up to date on developments, including the Merritt-inspired list of suspects.
“I wish I could carry Keith Merritt’s list with me,” she said. “I could use it like a dance card and keep track of the culprits.”
“Very funny, my dear,” Frost said. “I’m sure you can keep track of everything without a list.”
“By the way, will the Singers be there tonight?” Cynthia inquired.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, under all the circumstances and given Anne’s situation and all …”
“I’m sure they’ll be there. The last thing I should think either of them would want would be to call attention to themselves by staying away,” Frost said. “Now, are you ready? It’s time to go.”
“Yes, I’m ready. And just a little bit excited. After all, how often do we go to dances where a murderer may show up? That ought to liven up the old dinner dance for once!”
There was no receiving line at the dinner dance. Several years before, a very stuffy wife of one of the older partners had suggested that there be one. It would add a properly formal tone to the evening, she said, and underscore to the young lawyers just who was underwriting the affair. Frost, then still the Executive Partner, had vetoed the idea outright. The young lawyers were perfectly well aware of the dance’s sponsorship and what it needed, if anything, was less formality rather than more. Nonetheless, Cynthia and Reuben Frost, among the first arrivals at the Manhattan Room of the Standish Hotel, stood near the entrance and informally welcomed many of the guests as they arrived.
The black-tie requirement for the dance was meant to add a touch of elegance to the proceedings but did not entirely accomplish its purpose. As Frost observed the entering guests, he saw several outfits that he, at least, would not classify as black-tie—a powder blue tuxedo on one, a blue lace dress shirt on another, a shiny velvet dinner jacket on a third (this one a partner). They looked, Frost thought, like refugees from an ethnic wedding.
The women fared somewhat better. Many, mostly thrifty wives of the older partners, wore dresses that had been seen at least once, and in some cases many times, at previous affairs. At least a few designer dresses were evident, usually on the backs of the firm’s women lawyers or working wives. And, true to form, there was one girl, a date of a brand-new lawyer, whose breathtaking décolletage was the cause of much comment.
As Frost mingled in the crowd, he found that when the partners mentioned the murder at all, it was in such a guarded way that no one overhearing them could catch their meaning. And if the wives had been told (as he was almost certain most of them had been) they certainly did not let on, showing, in the case of one or two of the more burbling spouses, either admirable restraint or ignorance. In the best Chase & Ward tradition, he kissed each of them as they met. (Kissing of partners’ wives and the firm’s women partners was permitted, and indeed expected in most cases. Kissing by partners of associates’ wives and women associates was neither permitted nor expected. Kissing of male associates by partners’ wives was optional with the wives. Kissing of male guests by other male guests, commonplace enough in ballet circles, as Frost well knew, was not even for a moment contemplated.)
Frost was grateful when the signal was sounded for dinner. Retrieving Cynthia from a nearby conversational knot (“noose” she would have called it, had she been asked to describe it), he passed into the Standish’s main ballroom, which was decked out for the evening with be-flowered tables for eight.
The tables were numbered, since it had been decided some years before that assigned seating was the only way to mix up the crowd; otherwise the dance would in effect be a series of small cliques of those who worked together at Chase & Ward on a regular basis. And the partners—and retired partners—would not be evenly distributed around the room. Individual place cards made the seating even more precise, separating spouses to avoid the huddling together of bashful couples, an exception being made for the unmarried and newlyweds, who were permitted to sit side by side.
Frost usually reviewed the seating list for the dance when it was circulated at the office. By comparing it with the file of associates’ biographies provided to all the lawyers, he could mentally scratch out small talk for use at the dinner table. (A remark like “I understand you clerked for Judge DuBois” could be a lifeline for rescuing a sinking conversation.) But his day on Friday had been sufficiently full that he had not had time to do his homework, so he picked up a seating list from a pile at the ballroom entrance. He quickly discovered that he and Cynthia would have as dinner companions that evening Harold Collins, a fiftyish permanent associate in the firm’s real estate department, and his wife Marcie (decent but bland, Frost thought); Laura Acheson, a new associate in trusts and estates that Frost had not met, and her date, Martin Daniels (unknown quantities); and the Griffiths, Perry and Alice (potential trouble, though Frost remembered Alice Griffith from previous encounters as both pretty and bright and, he seemed to recall, a student at Cornell Medical School).
Examining the place cards at the assigned table, Frost discovered that he was to be seated between Alice Griffith and Laura Acheson. Cynthia was across the way, between Griffith and Harold Collins.
The society band had already begun playing a bouncy fox-trot from a current Broadway show and had attracted a number of guests to the dance floor. The Frosts waited patiently at their table, but eventually the whole group assembled, necessary introductions were made, and all sat down to eat the rather soggy seafood crepes (crêpes de fruits de mer maître d’hôtel, the souvenir menu for the evening called them) that began the meal.
Frost groaned inwardly when he tasted the white wine being served—not, because of its quality, which was excellent, but because of what he was sure was its healthy price. Every year the cost of the dance increased, not geometrically but certainly substantially. The event was planned entirely by a committee of associates and neither Frost nor Bannard nor the managing partner in charge of associates ever quite had the courage to lean on the committee to exercise restraint. Hence the grand cru Chablis that he was now drinking.
Making the best of adversity, he turned to Miss Acheson, a tall, open-faced brunette with swept-back hair sitting at his left, and pronounced the wine “excellent.”
“It’s very nice,” she replied. “Do you know a great deal about wines, Mr. Frost?” she asked, looking him directly (flirtatiously?) in the eye.
“Not a great deal, Miss Acheson.”
“Laura.”
“Laura. But I can tell this is very good.”
“I went to Stanford, and we had some wonderful wines in California,” Acheson said.
Oh my God, a California wine bore, Frost thought. He did not express his long-held view that all California wines were made in one of two (red or white) tinny vats and tasted almost precisely alike.
“Have you ever been to the wine country in California?” the girl continued.
“No, I can’t say as I have,” Frost said.
“It’s fabulous, it really is,” Acheson said with great conviction. “We used to go for weekends up into the mountains and visit the wineries. The wines were really super, and the country was nice too.”
“No, the closest I’ve ever gotten to the California vineyards was the Loire Valley. That’s pretty nice as well.” Frost would have looked pointedly at Laura Acheson as he said this, but his view was blocked by the burly waiter yanking away plates from the first course.
Dancing started in earnest again between the courses. Frost, eager to terminate the Calif
ornia wine conversation, asked Cynthia to dance.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Lovely, Reuben, lovely. I’m hearing all about Harry Collins’s garden.”
“Oh, God,” Frost murmured. With the possible exception of descriptions of car trips—and California wines—gardening conversations were at the top of Frost’s boredom list.
“He’s had a vegetable garden for the first time this year,” Cynthia said. “He’s only had flowers before. Want to know what he raised?”
“No,” Frost said, twirling his wife around hard to emphasize his feelings. “Shut up and dance.”
“You sound like Jerry Robbins, dear,” she replied.
Back at the dinner table, Frost turned from left side to right and struck up a conversation with Alice Griffith.
“Alice,”—he was not about to be reprimanded for formality again—“do I recall correctly that you are at Cornell Medical School?”
“Well, Mr. Frost—”
“Reuben.” He could play the game too.
“Reuben, I am actually now doing my residency there. I’ve finished medical school and my internship,” she answered.
“At New York Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“What is your residency in?”
“Geriatrics.”
“Geriatrics? Hmm. That means you’ll be able to take care of me,” Frost said.
“Maybe. But lawyers live so long and remain so healthy they’re not really ideal patients for us,” she answered, a warm, teasing smile breaking over her face.
“I guess that’s so, isn’t it?” Frost said. He thought of Dorrance Ward, who had died at the age of 101—in a car accident.
“Yes, I think it is. Just look at all the healthy old men at Chase & Ward,” she said.
“What about Graham Donovan?” Frost asked, embarking on a voyage that he hoped would be one of discovery.
“Oh, that was a terrible surprise,” the young doctor said. “My husband used to work for him, you know.”
“Yes, I did,” Frost replied.
“I can’t say we were ever very close to Mr. Donovan,” she said, but without any apparent animosity. “It seemed quite odd for a man in his late fifties, who I guess was in good health, to die so suddenly.”
Murder for Lunch Page 16