Murder Keeps A Secret

by Haughton Murphy

  “Please sit down,” Mrs. Ainslee said, pointing to an overstuffed chair that seemed to envelop Frost once he was seated. The chair was low-slung and gave him the feeling that he would only be able to get out of it with difficulty.

  A large, fat and unfriendly cat immediately leapt into his lap. Imprecations to “Get down, Elizabeth!” did not succeed, and Marietta Ainslee finally had to pick up the cat and shut her behind the door to the adjoining room. But not before Frost had noted, with some interest, the animal’s name.

  “I’m mighty sorry about that disturbance,” Mrs. Ainslee said. She spoke not in an unfriendly way, but already she reminded Frost of the women functionaries at the New York auction houses, Sotheby’s or Christie’s, who, while impeccably groomed and coldly polite, conveyed with their turned-down mouths their general contempt for the human race. “Would you like some juice? Or maybe some Diet Coke?”

  Frost declined, realizing that he would not get the bracing martini that, even on an empty stomach, he craved. He also wondered to himself how Diet Coke fit into the health regime he had been warned about; his own opinion, albeit a totally unsupported one, was that diet drinks were carcinogenic. He concluded that the woman’s Southern heritage accounted for the inclusion of Coca-Cola, albeit of the non-Classic, diet variety.

  “We’ll be having lunch in about fifteen minutes, but I thought we could talk a tiny bit first.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind to see me on such short notice, and to offer me lunch besides. But I guess I should never underestimate the persuasive force of Dotty Sheets.”

  “No indeed, Mr. Frost. She could charm a speckled adder.”

  As Mrs. Ainslee spoke, Frost noticed for the first time that her bright orange knitted suit matched identically the orange whorls in the room’s upholstery, all in insouciant contrast to her red hair. This was not a woman who left things to chance.

  “I assume she told you the reason for my visit.”

  “You wanted to talk about David Rowan.”

  “Correct.”

  “You’re a relative of his, is that right?”

  “No. I was a college classmate of his father’s. David was my godson, but we’re not related.”

  “I see. But you’re trying to solve his murder?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’m trying to assist the New York police, yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you after you came all the way down here. I obviously do not know anything about Mr. Rowan’s dramatic murder and I have nothing—nothing at all—to say about him.” Mrs. Ainslee’s sweet Southern tones had not changed as she spoke, but Evans’s reference to a steel magnolia became even clearer.

  “That makes things difficult.”

  “Quite possibly. Let me be very direct. I’m seeing you as a favor to Dotty, though I told her it would be useless for you to come here. She said you have great powers of persuasion and would convince me otherwise. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m a corporate lawyer in New York.” No need to mention retirement, Frost thought.

  As he spoke, he heard the front door open and moments later a hulk that he took to be Ralston Fortes came into the room. He was shorter than Frost had expected, but his neck protruded from under a paisley ascot and his arms and shoulders exploded from the tight confines of a body-hugging short-sleeved shirt. His musculature was as formidable as any Frost had ever seen. The man’s square tan face, determined jaw and closely cropped brown hair augmented the impression that he would be best suited for a life as a Marine drill sergeant or a California highway patrolman.

  “Mr. Frost, Ralston Fortes.”

  “Hi,” Fortes said, looming over the elderly lawyer. “Don’t get up.” Frost was grateful for not having to attempt a clumsy exit from his captive seat.

  “Did you get the bean curd, dear?” Marietta asked.

  “Here.”

  “Take it down to Bessie.”

  Forbes obediently took the small package he was carrying back downstairs, presumably to the kitchen. Frost’s heart sank as low as his posterior in the chair, reflecting that he would have bean curd for lunch and, worse, would have to make his case to the recalcitrant Marietta Ainslee in Fortes’s ominous presence.

  “Ralston is our writer-in-residence,” the woman said when her companion returned.

  “Yeah,” he said, his large mouth expanding into a thin, wide, and not especially intelligent smile. He took a seat on a hassock next to the sofa where Marietta was sitting, his muscled legs spread apart and his hands clasped. He sat forward in a crouch, looking directly at Frost and giving the impression that he could spring at him with very little effort.

  “What are you writing, Mr. Fortes?” Frost asked.

  “He’s written an absolutely wonderful novel,” Marietta explained. “About growing up as a poor Cuban boy in Miami.”

  “I see,” Frost said. “You’ve finished it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Marietta interrupted again. “It’s going to be published next winter by the Hammersmith Press.”

  Frost recognized with a jolt the name of Stanley Knowles’s publishing firm, and David Rowan’s publisher.

  “You must know Stanley Knowles, then,” Frost said to Fortes.

  “Yeah,” Fortes answered, permitted to speak at last. “I work mostly with Donna, though.”

  “You’re in good hands. Both Stanley and Donna Knowles are friends of mine.”

  “Really!” Marietta answered, in a fiddle-dee-dee-Rhett voice.

  “Hammersmith was going to publish David Rowan’s biography of your husband.”

  “I’m only too well aware of that,” she answered.

  “By the way, what do you intend to do now that David is dead?” Frost asked, deciding that directness was the best approach.

  “It’s very simple,” Marietta said decisively. “I’ll have to find a new biographer. I hate the thought. You know I conducted what I thought was a very discreet competition to find Mr. Rowan. Then word got out and I got letters and visits and calls from every unemployed biographer in America, and half the historians. I got rid of them all, except a really persistent terrier from Massachusetts—and David.

  “David was selected, and I thought my job was done. Now I find it isn’t. But that doesn’t matter, ’cause I’ve got some very definite ideas this time. My husband’s papers were rifled through, I understand. When your police release them, Tennessee will take them back and hold them until I designate a new writer.” She looked meaningfully at Fortes. Was she serious, Frost thought, about having this lout attempt a biography? Love conquers all, he knew, but the idea seemed preposterous, whatever Fortes’s accomplishments as a “novelist.”

  “Isn’t there a chance someone could pick up and continue David’s work?”

  “No, we’re going to start again,” Marietta said firmly. “And speaking of starting, Ralston, go and see if Bessie has lunch ready.”

  Fortes did as he was told and reported back that it was. The dining room was on the ground floor. Once there, the hostess seated Frost at the head of the table, with Fortes and herself flanking him. Bessie, the elderly black servant, slowly served soup to the three.

  “We’re having zucchini and wild rice soup to start,” Marietta explained. “I hope you like it.”

  The combination, as expected, was awful, reminding Frost of what might have been served to his less fortunate Navy colleagues in World War II, in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. But he ate heartily, fearing what might come next. He did note with some relief that the bean curd was in the soup, so he would not have that to look forward to.

  Frost decided to make a frontal attack as they ate.

  “Mrs. Ainslee, I appreciate what you said earlier about not wanting to talk about David Rowan. I respect that, and it wasn’t really why I came here. What I’m trying to do, by talking to you and several others, is to figure out who might have committed his ghastly murder.

  “Right now, there are no obvious clues,” Frost continued,
shading the truth slightly. “David seems to have been well-liked. There do not appear to have been any conspicuous enemies. So we must sift through every shred of information that we can find from those who knew him well, hoping that something, somehow, will lead us to his killer.”

  “Let me correct one thing, Mr. Frost. I did not know Mr. Rowan well. We entered into a straightforward business relationship, designed to produce a first-class, serious biography of my late husband. I never saw the man more than half a dozen times.

  “I am, as I’m sure our busy mutual friend, Dotty, has told you, independently wealthy. I’m happy, I’m content, I love Washington and the life I’m leading. My chief concern—Ralston and maybe others might call it my obsession—is that my late husband be recognized for what he was, the most thoughtful liberal voice in American politics in this century. That means I wanted—and still want—a fair and square biography of Garrett. That’s what David Rowan was to produce. Since that’s impossible, I’ve got to find someone else.”

  While the hostess was talking, Bessie returned with the day’s pièce de résistance—plates of boiled vegetables, including a mousse of sweet potato and spinach that was topped with poached eggs. Once served, Reuben looked around the table for a salt shaker.

  “What do you need?” Marietta asked.

  “Salt.”

  “We don’t use it,” Ralston said.

  “I see.”

  Bessie next brought in glasses of iced tea. Burned once, Frost did not ask for, or look for, sugar.

  “Getting back to David,” Frost said. “I realize he was not an intimate friend. But you did talk to him and, I understand, were interviewed by him. Did he ever say anything that indicated trouble of any kind?”

  “Never,” Marietta replied.

  “Did he mention Grace Mann?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Or his first wife? Or his son?”

  “We had very little social chitchat. Our first meetings were all business, about arranging access to my husband’s papers, and the others were strictly interviews. He was always very serious and down-to-business.”

  “Let me ask one more thing,” Frost said. “There are indications that you and David were quarreling over the biography recently. Is that correct?”

  “Mr. Frost, I told you I was unwilling to discuss our relationship.”

  “Who told you they were fighting?” Fortes asked belligerently.

  “Mr. Fortes, I’ve known David’s family and friends for many years. They were close to David and knew what he was about. And they’ve told me what I’ve just told you. Rightly or wrongly, they believe that you, Mrs. Ainslee, quarreled with David about certain matters concerning your husband that he’d uncovered in his research.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marietta said.

  “May I be more specific? I’ve been told that David Rowan had figured out a system of notation your husband used for recording his sexual activities.”

  “Just a minute, mister,” Fortes barked, his muscles tensing.

  “Mr. Fortes, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend Mrs. Ainslee, or you. But I’m trying to be frank and to put my cards on the table.”

  “Where did you hear this?” she asked.

  “From his father for one. And Grace Mann for another.”

  “That bastard! I should have known his family would know about our quarrel.”

  “So it’s true, then, that David had found something?” Frost said, very quietly.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Marietta replied reluctantly.

  “What did you say to him? What did he say to you?”

  “Mr. Frost, for the last time, I’m telling you that I have no intention of discussing this or any other issue between David and me.” Marietta looked pointedly at Fortes.

  “And if you keep badgering her, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Fortes added.

  “If that’s your wish, so be it,” Frost told him. “I have no authority to make you say anything. But it won’t be so easy to stonewall the police.”

  “Do they know about this?” Fortes asked, his uneasiness evident.

  “Of course,” Frost answered testily, though he immediately regretted his tone of voice, since, as soon as he had spoken, Fortes’s muscles visibly expanded and a vein in his thick neck started pounding.

  “I really think you should level with me,” Frost went on. “If the police, and a major television newsperson with an interest in the outcome, know of Ainslee’s sex code, there really is no point in trying to conceal it.

  “All of which means,” Frost declared, looking at his luncheon companions, “that you really ought to tell me what went on between you and David.”

  “I feel very put-upon,” Marietta said. “But you don’t leave me much choice. I’ll tell you exactly what happened.

  “I first heard what your Mr. Rowan was up to from the professor who lost out to him. He called me to tell me that Rowan had bragged about what he’d learned about Garrett at some historians’ meeting. I got hold of David Rowan at once and told him what I’d heard. I said that Garrett’s sex life was irrelevant to the story of his accomplishments and advised him that he would do very well to keep his mouth shut. And that if he didn’t, I knew of at least one historian who would be delighted to take over the project.

  “What I got back was a lot of folderol about scholastic integrity, warts-and-all biography and so on. I told him I was displeased, and that if he really was going to tout his biography of my husband by sensationalizing trivial, stupid and irrelevant scandal, we could just put an end to our agreement.

  “He was angry, and I was angry. But he said he needed time to think about what his final position was. I told him that was fine, but I wanted an answer right away.”

  “When was this?” Frost asked.

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “And did he answer?”

  “No. That was our last conversation. I’d about had it—it didn’t take two weeks for him to make up his mind—and was going to call everything off. Then he died. Or was killed, as you and the tabloid newspapers say.”

  “This guy really upset Marietta,” Fortes said. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Let me be clear—he never responded?” Frost asked.

  “Never. Total silence. It was obvious to me he was going to use Garrett’s little eccentricity to create interest in his book.

  “Will you have some dessert, Mr. Frost?” Marietta asked, after a moment’s pause.

  Reuben looked at his watch. He had to leave if he was to get the train for Trenton. And he saw no point in probing, or provoking, his hostess any further.

  “No, thank you. I’ve got to get back. Can I get a cab here?”

  “Two blocks down the street. No problem,” Fortes said.

  “Then I think I should be leaving. Oh, but before I do, do you have any reason to link the name ‘Elizabeth’ with David Rowan?”

  “None whatsoever,” she answered. “Offhand, the only Elizabeth I can think of is my cat, to whom you were introduced upstairs. Oh, I’m sure one of Garrett’s famous Os was probably an Elizabeth—or a Dorothy or a Mary or an Ethel. Which brings me to my last question. Do you think this silly little matter about Garrett’s date books will become public?”

  “I can’t tell. The police know about it, as I said. And it’s a tempting leak to the press.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t,” Fortes said.

  On this friendly note, Frost departed for Union Station.

  11

  Nancy

  The Merchants’ Limited, ever so seedy from too many years’ use, nonetheless seemed a welcome haven to Frost. It also gave him two hours of reflection before meeting Nancy Rowan in Trenton. Although it was neither the meal hour nor cocktail time, he gratefully purchased a whiskey and a ham and cheese sandwich offered by an attendant. The processed ham in the tired sandwich might be execrable, but at least it was meat.

  Marietta and Ralston were q
uite a pair, he concluded. The diminutive widow could not possibly have killed David, but there was no doubt in his mind that her burly friend might have. And he was now convinced that she could have encouraged him.

  He made a mental note to check out the bodybuilder-novelist with Stanley Knowles, finished his Scotch and soda and fell asleep. He woke up as the train slowed down for the Trenton stop, just in time to see a billboard emblazoned with the city’s motto, “WHAT TRENTON MAKES, THE WORLD TAKES” (or as Princeton undergraduates in his day had said, “What the world refuses, Trenton uses”).

  Frost knew that his rendezvous point with the first Mrs. Rowan was a bar near the train station. She had given him explicit directions for reaching it on foot. But he felt more comfortable taking a cab.

  Reaching the bar, called the Twilight Room, he realized he was ten minutes early, but went in anyway and staked out a relatively private table in the back.

  Nancy Rowan arrived promptly, apologizing as she did so for bringing Frost to the plastic, nondescript Twilight Room, which she explained was convenient both to the train station and her commuter bus to Princeton.

  Frost was struck by how little she had changed in the eight or so years since he had last seen her (once David had left home the Frosts, Reuben now realized with some guilt, had not made any attempt to keep in touch with her). Never an impressive dresser—though in her defense, she had had children clinging to her clothes during the years when the Frosts had seen her most often—she now wore a cheaply made navy blue suit and the inevitable working woman’s scarf/bowtie. Her black hair was short and straight, held in place with a little girl’s barrettes. Only two small gold earrings and cheerful lipstick gave touches of femininity to her not unpretty face.

  “It’s been a long time, Reuben,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Yes, it certainly has. What will you have to drink?” There did not appear to be a waiter or waitress, so Reuben maneuvered amid the after-work crowd at the bar to get two Scotches and soda.

  “Did you ever find Alan?” Frost asked, referring to the woman’s worried call the night of the Reuff Dinner.