Clamour of Crows

by Ray Merritt

  “Don’t get me wrong. Ben was no saint. He had become moody. He recently said that no man is rich enough to buy back the sins of the past and he was feeling the impotence of his wealth.”

  I felt she was falling back into a personal reverie so I changed the subject. “Let’s talk about some of the others. What can you tell me about Abelard?”

  “I have no use for him!” she snapped. “I suspect he’s become Tremaine’s lover. Ben stopped all intimacy with her months ago. I found him a twit. No more than an errand boy. He came here a few days after the funeral, demanding all of Ben’s personal items other than those specified in the Will to go to others—items like his clothes, even his combs and toothbrushes. He and Tremaine treated Viggie and me as domestic help and I had no standing to complain. Fortunately I had time to gather up those items that were important to me in the days after Ben’s death. Tremaine, of course, did not invite us to the funeral.”

  “What was your relationship with Tremaine?”

  “I didn’t have one. As I said, to her I was simply the help. She did not engage me. She even had her own secretary.”

  “Did you speak to her when she called?”

  “She rarely called of late. For Ben the marriage was over. He had come to believe that she was infertile. He didn’t marry her for her companionship. She was into all the things that money could buy . . . and none of them interested Ben.

  “To be candid, I resented her. She was not like Maude. I understood that and I made accommodations. I thought his quest for a male heir was over. After Maude died, I had a full life with Ben. I became ‘Aunt Em’ to Dorothy and Leo. I raised both of them as if they were my own. And then after Dorothy left, we adopted Viggie. My maternal desires were fulfilled. And Ben and I remained very close in every way.

  “I’m sure Tremaine was very annoyed when she found out how much Ben left me. She has no clue as to our relationship. I despise that woman. Hated her from the beginning. I warned Ben, but he was on his male heir hunt again. Didn’t work this time either.”

  “Well, I’m not sure if you know, but Tremaine’s pregnant. Claims, of course, it’s Ben’s and it is a boy.”

  There was a deadening silence while she processed this news.

  “I can assure you her child is not Ben’s! He had long ago given up on her. That’s why he took up with Kati. Ben was spending lots of time in Europe of late and Kati was a better diversion than Lady Tremaine ever was. In fact, Ben had me prepare the formal letter terminating their marriage. He was to sign it on his return from London.

  “As I said, I had a full life with the only man I ever loved. And I’m not the first woman to share her lover’s affections with others. I wasn’t happy about it, but in life and in love, you have to make compromises. We remained partners in every sense of the word, including intimacy.

  “This is an awkward subject. I know young people view older people as asexual but that is just not the case. If anything, Ben and I grew even more intimate as we matured. It wasn’t routine; it wasn’t obligatory; it wasn’t daily. But it was always wonderful. The big difference was our reticence to talk about it. We zealously guarded our privacy.

  “You know, Tuck, Laurence Olivier said that inside, we’re all seventeen, with rosy red lips. Ben and I never obsessed about aging. Our sex was not about passion or drama. It was about mutual pleasure. And we didn’t need any medical assistance. That was not the case for Ben with others.”

  I sensed that I needed to change the subject. She had made her point. Her brief was compelling, but she was now gilding the lily.

  “Terry . . . a delicate question. Could Ben have accidentally or intentionally killed himself?”

  An emphatic no was her response. “Ben’s cancer wasn’t going away, but his death wasn’t imminent. He was a realist. He had to plan and the fear of its interrupting his mission was like a stone in his gut. He felt he would have to rush and was only worried that he would lose his stamina. He was more driven than ever. He was not forthcoming as to what his concerns were, but I could sense they involved Luc, Leo, and Dorothy. As to its being an accidental overdose of something, Ben was too much in control to abuse himself beyond his limits.”

  “What about Kati?” I asked.

  “I really don’t know much about her. Ben rarely talked about her. As close as we are—were—there was a place in his soul that I never gained access to. I accepted that.”

  “And Eloise Thompson?”

  “Again, I was never really involved with her. You know she was introduced to Ben by Tremaine. After Maude died, as I said, I became—by default—mother to Leo and Dorothy. Leo was always a problem. He was diagnosed as autistic. He had anger and attention problems. Yet he had many moments when he was just wonderful. Those moments became fewer and fewer and his moods got darker and darker. He got hooked on the occult—Merlin was his fixation, almost to the point of obsession. You’ve never seen his room upstairs, have you? Perhaps it’s time for a break and then we can reconvene up there. It’s best you see it. It will make it easier to understand.”

  “Fine. I’ve got some calls to make. Say fifteen minutes?”

  31

  I was beginning to question who Ben really was. My picture of him might have been just that—a picture. Clearly he wasn’t the totemic presence I came to admire. Perhaps he was the ultimate flimflam man—a huckster hiding behind a curtain of power. Maybe he was the wizard his great-great-uncle had envisioned.

  Terry poked her head in, interrupting my musing.

  “Ready to go upstairs? Best we take the stairs. The elevator struggles with two adults. It was meant only for Argos and Leo.”

  “I’m ready. I never miss an opportunity to take the stairs. It’s the only exercise I get these days. But before we go, I’d like to cover a few more matters.”

  “Sure,” she said as she sat down next to me.

  “How is your relationship with Dorothy now?”

  “Well . . .” she paused, seemingly organizing her response.

  “We were very close while she lived here. I always treated her as an ‘adult,’ even in her teens. When she went off to boarding school, she became distant. I suspected it was a coming-of-age thing. Later, when her sexuality evolved, I think she found our closeness awkward. But don’t misunderstand. She has always remained cordial, solicitous, and loving. She was the only one who called to console me when Ben died. I always felt she knew more about Ben and me than she let on. I am very fond of her. And I admire what she has done with her career . . . and her ‘coming out.’ Ben, of course, did not. He was very upset at first. It further deprived him of that elusive heir. Another instance when I wasn’t proud of him.”

  “And did you have anything to do with the Precatory Letter?”

  “As I told you before, I typed it. Ben must have added the love symbol later. The Elvish script I typed in and the letterhead we borrowed from a Tolkien drawing. We had fun doing it. Ben wasn’t morose about it. If anything, he enjoyed it. One thing though—he refused to explain it. At least now you know who Belladonna is. That’s actually a nickname that Ben pinned on me early on. Bilbo Baggins’s mother’s name was Belladonna Took. She is the only woman of strength in all of Tolkien’s books.”

  “What do you make of the letter?” I asked.

  “To me, it’s kind of a word game, confessional, manifesto and wish list . . . all in one.”

  “There was an odd reference to the Dark Lady. Do you think that was referring to Kati?”

  “No, no,” she smiled. “That has something to do with a basilica on top of a mountain, near Barcelona. I think it’s also a spiritual community. The Dark Lady is some kind of saint. Not sure, though. Ben was more into that kind of thing than I was. He was drawn to mysticism and religions. Ben would go to Barcelona—stopping over on his way to somewhere else. I think ClearAire may have some operation there. He visited a Father Jeronimo. He’s a priest at the monastery. In fact, he had a stopover there on his way to London this last trip.”

&n
bsp; That was news!

  Again trying to keep my curiosity in check, I asked her matter-of-factly to forward me his itinerary for that part of the trip . . . and also Luc’s. I remember his telling me he was on his way to Barcelona when he learned of Ben’s passing.

  “No problem, that is all at our fingertips in the carriage house,” she proudly proclaimed. “I’ll e-mail it to you.”

  “What about the last few paragraphs of his Precatory Letter that are directed at Dorothy?”

  “Can’t help you much there. Other than the obvious. I think it might be a message to Dorothy. They had—since her teens, maybe earlier—a secret language between them: coded words, obscure references. It was their private place and no one else could go there. The diaries were where he put most of that. I’m transcribing the last two weeks of them for Dorothy, along with the Precatory Letter. Do you think it’s OK to send her that? I suppose I should ask Mr. Trombley.”

  “I’ll do that for you. And I’ll also check with Dorothy. I’m not sure Evan ever sent the Precatory Letter to anyone outside the firm. As you know, it does contain language that could be read to suggest that someone might do Ben harm. That, in large part, is what generated this assignment.”

  “I know . . . and it bothers me. Ben prided himself on being slow to anger, but I sensed from the tone of his letter that he was very agitated. I’m not sure if it was his displeasure with Luc or Abelard or perhaps Tremaine.”

  “Oh, two other matters on my list. Do you know anything about any European bank accounts?”

  “Not really. Ben had a European banker, Andreas Amaroso. He is a good friend. He’s Italian but he lives in Zurich. Andreas was the one who asked us to take his nephew Viggie. I have never actually met him, although we have talked many times on the phone. I think that there were accounts for Dorothy and Leo in Zurich.”

  “Could you give me his contact info? Dorothy mentioned him to me. I’d like to reach him.”

  With a flick of her iPhone, she announced “Done” as she hit SEND.

  “OK, enough of me doing Perry Mason. Time to climb the stairs.”

  I followed her. It wasn’t that easy. She had no problem, but I was panting. I really had to get back in shape. I missed those long walks with Nip. Unfortunately the city is not conducive to trekking. Too much sidewalk traffic. Perhaps late-night jaunts would work.

  Finally we entered a labyrinth of nooks and cupolas that constituted the attic. It is best described as Merlin’s college dorm—a place of myth and magic. The decorations consisted of gryphon posters and an assortment of what I was told were “sacred Stonehenge bluestones,” all obtained, according to Terry, from eBay. The tables were strewn with vials and cans with homemade labels as well as grinding bowls, pumice jars, and incense burners. On long shelves above the desk there were ornamental daggers, wands, and what appeared to be a chalice, as well as several bells. An old leather binder held what Terry described as Leo’s Book of Shadows—a diary of handwritten invocations, spells, chants, and remedies. A large round wooden disk with five-pointed stars enclosed in a circle dominated the walls.

  Seems that Leo was homeschooled. Essentially his education came from Ben and Terry’s readings of children’s classics.

  “He got hooked on Merlin when we read the Arthur legends. Of course Ben generously embellished the stories more to his liking. Merlin became Leo’s Gandalf. When we read Connecticut Yankee to him, we edited out the references to Merlin because Twain had made him a villain.

  “For Leo, Merlin was his personal wizard. Someone his father couldn’t preempt or quote. Leo wanted to be a magician who could heal the sick and infirm. He saw Argos suffering the ravages of old age. He had seen his mother die and now he sensed his father was ill. He was not retarded; he was very perceptive. Surprisingly so. He was able to buy whatever he needed through his eBay account. So he accumulated all sorts of potions, elixirs, and herbs that he blended to cure the afflicted, particularly wounded birds.

  “Tuck, I love Leo, but as he got older, he became more and more morose and too difficult for me to control. On Dr. Thompson’s advice—you know she became Leo’s doctor—he moved to Europe to live with Dorothy and her. You see, well . . . we had another tragedy.

  “You never met Argos, did you? She was Ben’s other love. And mine too. We had her for sixteen years. I’m convinced she was put on earth to adore the two of us. You know what Labs are like. She was so much like Nip. In her last years, her hips began to give out. That’s why we installed that little elevator. When Ben wasn’t here, she would follow Leo and me around. And when Leo would go to his room, she would often lie at the bottom of the stairs and whine. The elevator solved that. She would stay the night with Leo, even sleeping on his mattress. They became inseparable.

  “Oddly, I was more worried about Argos’s health than I was about Ben’s. I just loved her so much. She was utterly sinless. I kind of agree with Kundera—one of my favorite writers—that perfect love can exist only in the love a person has for his pet. I never forgot how he put it: ‘Mankind’s true moral test . . . consists of its attitude towards those who are at its mercy: animals.’ I think Ben, Leo, and I passed that test. Argos’s death was one of the most unbearable things that we have suffered.”

  Dabbing her eyes with the side of her hand, she gained her composure and continued.

  “Did you know that autistics and animals think in pictures rather than words? You could feel the bond between Leo and Argos, especially since Ben was away so much. He became so desperate to help her when she became ill that he conjured up some potion. He found it in his sorcery book. It consisted of oils from Stonehenge, schnapps, vodka, lots of chocolate brandy, and cocoa beans. We later learned that Argos died of theobromine—chocolate poisoning. Her lips turned blue, she had a seizure and died. By the time Viggie got to her, it was too late. We never told Ben how it happened. It would have broken his heart if he knew that Leo had killed his Argos.”

  32

  I arrived early for my meeting with Eloise Thompson. She had insisted that we meet at the Plaza Hotel’s Palm Court. I didn’t demur. In fact, I was intrigued. The Plaza is one of New York’s signature landmarks. Its ownership has always titillated me. For more than one hundred years, it was at the epicenter of Gotham society, sitting regally at Fifth Avenue and Central Park South. The Vanderbilts were its first guests and it quickly became the hotel of choice for the well-heeled. Conrad Hilton bought it for $4 million in 1943; Trump later bought it for $400 million. He sold it for $325 million when Ivana left him. The buyer later sold it for double that to an Israeli-Saudi combine, which in turn sold control to a fabulously wealthy Indian.

  My reverie was interrupted.

  “Hello. You must be Mr. Tucker. I’ve heard so much about you from Dorothy. I welcomed your call and dreaded it all at the same time.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Thompson, for seeing me on such short notice, and you can call me Tuck.”

  “All right. Settled. You don’t have to call me Doctor and I won’t call you Friar.”

  The verbal jousting loosened up the atmosphere.

  Eloise Thompson was not what I had expected. Tall, thin, with short blonde hair that seemed to haphazardly frame her face. Black horn-rimmed glasses drew your attention to her prominent and welcoming eyes. She was smartly dressed—a white tailored shirt set off her black pantsuit, and black pumps completed her highly stylized androgynous look.

  Without any prompting, she entertained me with the life saga of her only aunt, Kay Thompson—“Kitty” to her close friends. Seems she was a modern-day Alice on steroids. Aunt Kitty, I learned, was Judy Garland’s mentor and best friend. And yes, her aunt was the same Kay Thompson whose enduring fame came from her Eloise children’s books, which, the good doctor volunteered, were inspired by the antics of her aunt’s goddaughter, Liza Minnelli. Her aunt had passed away a little more than ten years before, and like her, Dr. Thompson had made the Plaza her not-so-humble abode—and office—in New York.

  That was
how I met Eloise at the Plaza.

  “Before we start, let me state that I’m hopelessly conflicted. I’m Dorothy’s partner and soon-to-be spouse, I’m Leo’s doctor, and I was Ben’s adviser and Tremaine’s friend—and that’s just for starters.”

  “As I explained yesterday, I would like to debrief you about the events leading up to Ben’s death,” I began, hoping not to sound too formal.

  “I’m looking forward to this opportunity. I have a lot to say. I realize—mostly from talking to Dorothy—this is a serious investigation and there are real concerns as to how her father actually died. I’m right in the middle of this. So let me start with my story.”

  I let her keep rolling. Never shut off a witness. Every litigator will tell you that. More information flows from unprompted narrative than probing interrogatories.

  “This was my home—before Dot. Have you seen it since the restoration?”

  I gestured a negative.

  “I get to go to all of the charity events here—a sort of family perk. The hotel management has a long memory. It was here that I met Tremaine. We struck up a friendship. We had a lot in common in those days—Chanel for dresses, Gucci for leather, Manolo for pumps—and it was here she announced she was seriously dating the famous Ben Baum of Ozone Industries. After they married, she introduced me. We hit it off and he engaged me to work with Leo. You see, my specialty is counseling children and adults with autism. Through that engagement, I met Dorothy and the rest is history—in the making.

  “So much for the background. Now for more meaty matters.

  “Let me share with you my thoughts about Ben, Leo, and Dorothy, from a psychiatrist’s point of view. I will have to reveal things told to me in confidence, as well as my observations based on hours of therapy. I’ve discussed this at length with Dorothy and she has given me her consent to be open with you on her behalf as well as Leo’s. Nevertheless, I’m walking through a minefield of conflicts here. Don’t know if I should get a lawyer or a shrink,” she mused.