Swan Dive - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "They were still people."

  Eleni’s chin jutted forward defiantly. "A whore is a whore, and that man, he got what God would do."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I understand you, John. I know you. If you kill him, I understand."

  "Eleni, I didn’t."

  She called out "Nikkie," then a few Greek words. She looked up to me with the smile again. "He got what God would do. Nobody should blame you."

  * * *

  I drove to Swampscott and spotted the STANSFIELD INSURANCE AGENCY sign centered over the doorway of a large white house on the main drag. I parked on the road and admired the condition of the exterior, down to the green shutters and brass hardware. It looked as if fanatic maintenance had prevented the need for extensive restoration.

  Just inside the door was a waiting area covered with an intricate Oriental rug and proud captain’s chairs, polished and positioned stiffly. It took a minute to register that the setting looked like one of those rooms in a museum that the public can view only through a sashed-off doorway, "A Typical Sitting Room of the Late Nineteenth Centu1y."

  "Can I, uh, help you?"

  I turned around and saw a rangy, fortyish man in a button-down oxford shirt, wool Rooster tie, and twill slacks. He looked harried, with one of those long, almost horsey faces that you see in some of the North Shore towns, too many generations of inbreeding around the polo iields. He did exude a sort of rawboned physical strength, the kind that would never look good but never go to fat, either.

  "I’m sorry," I said. “I didn’t see any receptionist, so I came on in."

  "I’m afraid the agency is, uh, rather closed for the day. We’ve had a, uh, death in the firm."

  "I know." There was a kid in my third-grade class who stammered. I extended a hand to try to help him feel at ease. "My name’s John Cuddy."

  We shook, his eyes blinking absently. "Cuddy, Cuddy? I’m sorry, but you’re not, uh, one of our insureds, are you?"

  "No, I’m not, Mr .... "

  “Oh, sorry about that. Stansfield, uh, Bryce Stansfield’s the name."

  "I wonder if I could talk with you, Mr. Stansfield."

  "I’m afraid—"

  "It’s about Roy."

  "About Roy?"

  "Yes. I’m a detective from Boston, and I’m looking into his murder."

  "Uh, well, then." I expected him to ask for some identification. Instead he said, "Come in."

  I followed him into a low-ceilinged office with a bay window looking onto the street from behind discreetly filtering curtains. His desk was covered with an avalanche of paperwork. I recognized some application forms moshed in with slim binders and bulkier policies. A word-processing station with a high-backed leather swivel chair dominated a wall where an executive credenza might otherwise rest. Stansfield swung the chair around to its designed position behind his desk and flipped a switch on the station, causing the monitor screen to sigh and implode the chartreuse-on-black lettering like the dying of a soul.

  "Sorry for the clutter."

  "Secretary on vacation?"

  "No, actually I initiate most of the paperwork, and, uh, the absence of staff substantially improves the confidentiality of our work."

  I shoveled my way past that and said, "I’d like to know if Marsh had any enemies you’re aware of?"

  "Enemies?"

  "Yes."

  He rubbed his chin with a bony index finger and thumb. "Well, no. No enemies."

  "I’m told he made a lot of money through the agency here. That can sometimes lead to bad feel1ngs."

  "Roy’s family situation had, uh, deteriorated rather badly recently. But he was an excellent insurance salesman. I don’t believe I, uh, ever had a complaint about him."

  "What, about the other salesmen in the agency?"

  "Others? There aren’t any others."

  "Just you and Marsh?"

  "Yes. Well, uh, actually just Roy. He was sort of the outside, customer relations man. He was marvelous at that sort of thing. A lot like my, uh, uncle." Stansfield swung the chair and plucked an old photo in a stand-up frame from a table behind the desk. It showed a man in his fifties, with Stansfield’s features but somehow stauncher, sharper. "My uncle Mark, Dad’s oldest brother. Dad, uh, died in Korea, and Uncle Mark took me in. Raised me, especially after Mother passed on." The frame wavered in Stansfield’s hand. "Uncle Mark, uh, built this agency from nothing in the forties. Of course"—Stansfield waved his free hand around as he replaced the frame on the table—"the family already had this, uh, house. The Stansfields were an old whaling family, and this was the mansion of Captain Josiah Stansfield who—"

  "I wonder if we could get back to Roy Marsh?"

  "Uh, yes. Sorry. When my uncle died, I . . . well, I was going through a, uh, divorce, and the agency was in need of a good outside chap, to meet the customers, renew old contacts, that sort of thing. Roy came along, and I was quite, uh, impressed with his enthusiasm?

  "He got along well with your customers?"

  "Yes. Well, uh, not all of them, of course. But that was hardly Roy’s fault. Many of our customers had come to rely heavily on Uncle Mark and just couldn’t, uh, imagine dealing with a newcomer. But Roy quickly made up for that, and more."

  “How?"

  "By establishing new business. You could hardly, uh, believe how successful he was in attracting clients. I could hardly believe it, and I’d already been in the business for umpty-ump years. And once he’d brought new clients into the fold, they were always, uh,

  increasing their coverage and adding riders." He moved his hand over the muddle on his desk. “Trust me, this is just the tip of the, uh, iceberg."

  "So Marsh would beat the bushes and bring in the business, and then you’d execute the paperwork?"

  "Well, uh, basically, yes. Our relationship is, uh, sorry, was amazingly symbiotic. You see, Roy didn’t care that much for the technical side of the insurance game. Matching the right, uh, rider for the right peril and so on. That’s my forte."

  Most of which is done by the insuring company, anyway.

  "I understand that Marsh maintained a pretty substantial life policy on himself."

  "Uh, you do?"

  I felt a little muscle in my stomach go "ping." "He represented during the divorce negotiations that he had a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar face-amount policy in favor of his wife and daughter."

  Stansfield looked uncomfortable. "Is the wife a, uh, suspect in his . . . death?"

  "Mr. Stansfield, is there a policy or not'?"

  "Well, yes. And no."

  "Maybe you’d better explain."

  He looked around his desk for help, but didn’t act as if he saw any. "Roy did have a policy on his life. Uh, in fact, two policies. One was what we call ‘key man’ insurance. Are you familiar with it?"

  "Where a partnership or corporation takes out a policy on an important employee?"

  "Correct."

  "And there was such a policy on Marsh here?"

  "Right. For, uh, two hundred fifty thousand."

  "Payable . . ."

  “Oh, to me. I mean, uh, the agency, technically, but Roy and I were so, uh, indispensable to each other, it’s practically the same thing."

  "And the other policy?"

  "That’s the problem, I’m afraid. You see, Roy is, uh, was such an impulsive fellow."

  "Impulsive how?"

  "Well, it was some months ago, I assume when things, uh, began to go sour at home, he came in one morning and told me to cancel the policy on him for, uh, his wife and child."

  Great. "And?"

  "And I tried to talk him out of it, of course. I, uh, told him I thought it irresponsible and that he certainly should sleep on it."

  "What did he say?"

  "He told me to go . . . uh, he told me it was none of my concern, and that the policy had best be canceled by that day, with a, uh, return to him of any unexpended premium, or else."

  "Or else what?"

  Stansfield m
ade a noise that actually sounded like "ahem."

  "Mr. Stansfield, or else what‘?"

  "Roy didn’t, uh, elaborate. He didn’t have to. He could be quite . . . uh, imposing at times. Of course, I’m certain he wouldn’t have . .

  "Swung on you?"

  Stansfield just slanted his head.

  I said, "Any chance that the insurance could still be in effect?"

  “For the beneficiaries to, uh, collect, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "No. No, I’m afraid that is, uh, out of the question. I could give you the technical reasons if you need them for your, uh, report, but any grace period would have expired some time ago."

  “Did you ever let Hanna know about the cancellation?"

  "Hanna, his wife?"

  "Right."

  "No, I’m . . . uh, I didn’t really know her that well, you see. We weren’t, that is, Roy’s and mine was really only a, uh, business relationship. We really didn’t see each other socially."

  No doubt. Unfortunately, though, that meant Hanna would have had no reason to believe that Roy’s death wouldn’t leave her and Vickie with $250,000.

  "Let’s get back to Roy’s customers if we can."

  "Certainly."

  "Was there ever anything out of line about his claims ratios?"

  "Uh, no, not at all. In fact, Roy’s clients had very low claims rates."

  "Any exceptions?"

  "Exceptions?"

  “Yes, any type of policy—casualty, theft, whatever—that seemed to have more than its share of losses?"

  "Well, uh, certainly not that I noticed."

  “How about any individual insureds?"

  "No, not really. In fact, I often had so few calls that . . . uh, well, off the record?"

  “Sure."

  "Well, Roy chose his, uh, customers so carefully that some months, we had almost no claims to speak of I mean, you’d, uh, almost have to wonder why a lot of these people were even buying insurance in the first place."

  I thought I could guess.

  ELEVEN

  -♦-

  I had a quick lunch at a waterside clam shack and called my answering service from a pay phone. I had a message from somebody named Hector Rodriguez, who declined to leave his number but said he would call back. No message from Murphy, which I didn’t find surprising. No message from Nancy either, which I did find disappointing. I hung up, got back in the car, and drove to Marblehead.

  Felicia Arnold’s receptionist smiled up at me.

  "Yes?"

  "My name’s John Cuddy. I was here last Friday."

  “Yes?"

  “I believe Ms. Arnold wants to see me."

  "She didn’t—"

  “It’s about Mr. Marsh. Roy Marsh."

  "Oh." She seemed more confused than upset. "I’m sorry Ms. Arnold isn’t available."

  "Look, I’m not trying to make your job any harder than it has to be, but Mr. Marsh was murdered and I really think Ms. Arnold will want to talk to me. Can you call her somewhere?"

  The receptionist started to say, "She said . . . ," then motioned me to a chair. "Please have a seat while I try to reach her."

  She dialed too many numbers for an inside line, which relieved me. I had no desire to dance Paulie the Pugilist around the Kurdistan rug.

  The receptionist hung up. She stood and beckoned me to her, then turned and led me ten steps toward the conference room. "Ms. Arnold wants to see you at home."

  She pointed through the picture window to an understated but perfectly positioned villa across the harbor on Marblehead Neck. "It’s that one."

  I thought about the view Arnold’s own office would have as well. “She can watch her house from here or her desk."

  "She says it gives her something to work for." The woman suddenly blushed and asked me to excuse her.

  * * *

  There was a Mercedes sports coupe, top down, in the driveway. A fieldstone path led around to the back of the house and a large in-ground swimming pool. Felicia Arnold lay stretched out on one of two chaise lounges that had never sported a Zayre’s price tag. She wore a European-style string bikini and Porsche sunglasses, which she tilted down ever so slightly as I approached her. On the cocktail table next to her was a portable telephone and two bottom-of-the-glass water rings.

  "Mr. Cuddy. Good timing. The afternoon was just growing tiresome."

  "Last night not enough for you?"

  She slid the glasses back into place. "Was it for you?"

  "Plenty." I sat down on the other chair. The surface was slick, sweaty. Up close, her legs appeared waxy smooth, no varicose veins or blemishes of any kind. She had striking muscle definition, even in her upper arms and shoulders. "The police said you directed them to me."

  “My duty as an officer of the court."

  "You don’t seem too crushed by your client’s death."

  "Perhaps I’m not the sentimental type."

  "Maybe—"

  "What the hell do you want!"

  I stood up and turned to the voice. Paul Troller, coming out of the house. He wore a leopardskin bikini bottom with a desk-job spare bulging over the front and a lot of baby oil catching the sunlight. Even so, I pegged him as a light heavyweight. There were two tall drinks in his hands, and a match for Arnold’s sunglasses rode up above his hairline.

  "I said—"

  "I heard you, Paulie. This your house or hers?"

  Troller thought about throwing the glasses, but instead set them down near the pool’s edge, clinking them a little and sloshing some booze in his rage. He started to stride manfully over to us.

  Arnold said, "Paul, I don’t want any trouble."

  "He has no right barging in here."

  "He’s not ‘barging in,' Paul. I asked Mr. Cuddy to come over."

  "You . . . asked him?"

  "That’s right. And I would like to confer with him privately now."

  "Felicia, my God, he’s wanted for a murder."

  "Two murders," I said.

  Troller’s eyes seemed to have the same problem with light as Marsh’s had. He looked at me as if he needed just one more little push.

  Arnold saw it too. "Paul, please. Leave us alone."

  Troller just about bit it back. "Give me your car keys."

  "No."

  He looked down at her, but behind the glasses I couldn’t read her eyes.

  "Felicia, you drove me over here, remember?"

  "Like it was only an hour ago, Paul. It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you jog home?"

  She had the same control over her voice that she did over her body. I couldn’t say the same for Troller, whose lips were as blue and shivering as a five-year-old’s after a day in the surf. He turned and choked out, "See you tomorrow at the office," before stomping back into the house.

  I sat down again. "You ever hear of the National Labor Relations Board?"

  She smiled. "Paul’s position isn’t exactly unionized."

  And my next line was supposed to be "And what exactly is Paul’s position?" but instead I said, "You and Paulie there are among the few people who knew Marsh and I had mixed it up."

  "And therefore?"

  "Somebody who knew that set me up to look like his killer."

  "Oh, John—"

  "I prefer ‘Mr. Cuddy.' "

  She took her glasses all the way off and stared at me.

  "Why?"

  "Maybe I’m not crazy about the way you treat people you call by their first names."

  “You are a bit different, aren’t you?"

  "Let’s talk about Marsh instead."

  "Why bother? He’s dead, so the divorce case is over."

  "The murder case isn’t."

  “Oh, a lot of people could have known about you and Marsh. His girlfriend the nurse, his friends--"

  “Assuming he had any--"

  "——the police, Christides, Hanna . . ." Arnold stopped.

  "Because Marsh had no will, Hanna gets everything, doesn’t she?"


  "Roy was rather stupid in a lot of ways, Mr. Cuddy."

  "Tell me about them."

  "Look, anyone who lives on the coast up here tends to hear stories."

  "What kind of stories?"

  "About fishermen whose insurance rates have gone so high they can’t pay the premiums. But the banks that lent them the money to buy the boats won’t let them leave the docks without full coverage. The real estate developers are bidding wharf space so high God herself couldn’t keep up with it. So one night, one dark, rainy night, the lobsterman brings in a few bales instead of a few pots and clears in five hours what it’d take him five years to earn legitimately."

  "Marsh wasn’t exactly your overwhelmed fisherman."

  "Everybody has pressure on them. Marsh gave me a handsome retainer, Mr. Cuddy. In cash. Drugs? I didn’t ask. He would have settled, and I . . .Christides would have gotten Hanna a nice nest egg to start a new life. So instead you have to play El Cid with Roy, and he looks for love in at least one wrong place and ends up dead. Forever. If you just could have waited till he was over the spouse-lock, nobody--"

  "The spouse-lock?"

  "Yes. It’s a term some pop psychologists throw around. It means being fixated on the spouse you’re about to lose, or already have lost through death or divorce."

  I couldn’t avoid thinking about Beth as Arnold went on.

  "Roy didn’t care about Hanna in the loving sense anymore. Maybe he never did. But he wasn’t about to let her go. Not until he was finished with her. I was like that with my husband. He died, out drinking with the boys and killed in a car crash. I was twenty-one years old. Fortunately we hadn’t started a family yet, and I damn well wasn’t interested in starting one without him. He had a whole-life policy that saw me through law school without any debts. That way I could start on my own, instead of for some potbellied lecher who was the only lawyer interested in hiring a ‘female associate’ back when I graduated. But I couldn’t get my husband off my mind for months afterwards, even though it was his fault that I was alone and without him."

  I was still thinking about Beth when Arnold said, "Are you all right?"

  I said, "Yeah, fine."

  "You look a bit weary. How about a drink?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Oh, come on. I’ll bet we have a lot in common."

  I looked at her a little too long. "No, I don’t think so." I stood to go.