An Accidental Corpse Page 15

  “By the way,” Steele continued, “Iris says their father is planning to persuade Ruth to sue Pollock’s estate. The auto insurance will pay the hospital bills, but he wants her to go for pain and suffering, lost wages while she’s laid up, and psychological injuries.”

  “What?” Nita was appalled. “I thought Mr. Kligman was out of the picture.”

  “He is—that’s to say he and their mother are separated. From what Iris tells me he’s some kind of businessman, sort of a hustler. Swoops in every now and again, takes her or Ruth out to dinner and a show, then drives his fancy car off into the sunset. Only turns up when it suits him. Iris called him to tell him about the accident and right away he sees dollar signs. He knows Pollock was a big-shot artist, so he probably figures he was loaded.”

  Nita’s sympathies were all with Pollock’s widow. “Boy, I hope Ruth doesn’t go through with it. As if losing your husband isn’t bad enough, imagine being dragged into court by the woman he was cheating with when he died.”

  When they pulled into the parking lot behind the Sea Spray cottages, Nita invited Steele in for a glass of lemonade and a strategy session.

  “Let’s see if the boys are around. I think we’re going to have to take this investigation into the city, and I’d like to get Fitz’s opinion on how best to handle it.”

  “You think Metzger’s boyfriend is a suspect?”

  “Sure he is,” said Nita. “He would have had a motive if she was putting pressure on him to dump his wife. Suppose she told him to think it over while she was away for the weekend, even gave him the details of where she was going and warned him that she’d spill the beans if he didn’t come through when she got back to work on Monday.”

  She continued to speculate. “So how about the opportunity? He could have followed her out on the train, hung around town until it got dark, even walked up to Springs—plenty of time, and he wouldn’t need to take a taxi that could be traced.

  “Let’s say he gets to the house, finds Metzger alone—she’s waiting for Pollock and Kligman to come down, remember—and they go outside to talk things over. But she doesn’t see things his way, they start arguing, it turns into a fight, and he decides to shut her up for good. Maybe that was even in the back of his mind all along. What do you think, Harry?”

  “I can see that,” agreed Steele. “He could have walked back to town and hopped the westbound milk train. Goes through East Hampton at midnight, give or take.”

  “Milk train?”

  “That’s the late-night run that collects from the dairies out east and takes the milk into the city for morning delivery. Don’t normally take passengers on that run, though every now and again somebody hops on. If he did, the conductor would likely remember him. But even if he did come and go by train, how would he know when she’d be at the house?”

  Nita considered the logistics. “Well, he could have gone up to Springs during the day, kept an eye on the place, waiting for his chance to get her alone. Of course if he was just planning to reason with her it wouldn’t matter if she was alone, and maybe even a good thing if there were others to back him up, tell her to be sensible and not upset the apple cart.”

  Steele was skeptical. “How likely is that? There’s Kligman, convinced that Pollock is going to get a divorce—why wouldn’t she encourage Metzger to hope for the same deal? Even Pollock might side with her, give the guy some man-to-man advice on the benefits of trading in the old model.”

  “As it happens,” Nita reminded him, “again according to Kligman, who I’m inclined to believe, Pollock was taking advantage of those very benefits when Metzger was strangled. And Doc Abel says the medical evidence confirms that Kligman did have sex that night. So the coast was clear for Nick to make his move.”

  “Who is this Nick, anyway?” asked Fitz, who had just come in from the beach with TJ. Having caught the tail end of Nita’s narrative, the boy’s ears were burning.

  Fitz approached Nita and bent down to give her a kiss on the forehead, brushing aside a stray curl—a gesture of casual intimacy that brought a smile to Steele’s lips. “You two are a great team,” he observed.

  TJ piped up. “What about me? Dad says I’m a detective, too.”

  Nita reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately. “And so you are, Juanito. Wait ’til you hear how your sleuthing paid off. Let’s grab the lemonade and go outside, then Harry and I can put you both in the picture.”

  Once they were settled on the deck, Nita and Harry recounted the morning’s developments. Now that the homicide was front-page news, there was no point in holding back any details from TJ, who soaked it all up avidly. He and Fitz had already been quizzed about it on the beach, and his father was proud of the way TJ handled himself.

  “The kid’s got the makings, all right,” he told Nita. “He’s already perfected your skill of talking without saying anything,” he teased, earning a poke in the ribs. “What I mean is, he didn’t give anything away. You don’t have to worry about him blabbing to the other kids. He knows how serious it is, don’t you, son?”

  Considering the next steps, they agreed it was vital to get the lab report as soon as possible. Chances were it would reveal the killer’s blood type, which could be matched against the suspects. So far there were only two—Ted Dragon, with the suspicious scratches on his arm, and Metzger’s boss-slash-boyfriend.

  “Obviously we need to track down Nick,” concluded Fitz. “This Beautique Salon shouldn’t be hard to find. It must be in the phone book. I can take a quick trip into the city and question him, look for any telltale marks.”

  Nita had a better idea. “How about I call Hector? No offense, honey, but you know what a master interrogator he is, and he’s right there in the city.” When she worked with Hector Morales on the Lam murder case back in ’forty-three, she had watched him question a prime suspect and marveled at his ability to tell truth from fiction in seemingly noncommittal answers. El Zorro was a nickname he had earned many times over.

  “Are you kidding?” replied Fitz. “No offense taken. If only you can persuade Hector. Better use the pay phone so we don’t alert the whole town.” He went inside the cottage and came back with a handful of dimes.

  “I’m going back to the station,” said Steele, “see if I can get Riverhead to hustle up that report. It’s been four days already. They should have it by now.”

  Forty.

  Lee slept late. She had finally allowed exhaustion to overtake her, leaving the mess from the post-funeral reception to deal with in the morning, but the morning was gone by the time she woke up. Dreading what she would face downstairs, she took her time washing and dressing, but when she finally went down, the place was neat and tidy. Ted, Cile, and Sherry had been there and taken care of everything. There were even fresh flowers in a vase on the breakfast table, and a plate covered with a napkin. She removed the napkin, and found three newly minted Dreesen’s donuts.

  Somehow this simple thoughtful gesture released the pent-up feelings she had struggled so hard to contain. All through the preparations, the funeral, and the burial she had kept them in check. And last night she had been the perfect hostess, seeing to her guests’ every need, dispensing refreshments, accepting commiserations gracefully, comforting others even as she found no comfort in their expressions of sympathy and sorrow. Afterward, those who had been there agreed that her performance was amazing and marveled at her poise and self-control.

  Now, alone in the kitchen, staring at a plate of donuts, she felt the floodgates open. She slumped down in a chair, buried her face in her hands, and howled with fury as the tears poured forth. Bile rose into her mouth, carrying with it the grief, anger, pain, regret, and frustration she had been aching to express. She ran to the sink and vomited, heaving up the bitterness she knew would be a lifelong curse.

  Let it out, she told herself as her stomach contracted again and again, get it over with. Exhausted, she m
ade her way back to the chair and tried to bring her breathing back to normal. Of course it was not over with, there would be many more trials ahead, but at least she wouldn’t have an audience. But who was she kidding? From now on she would be under constant scrutiny. The whole art world would be watching to see how she handled the estate. She knew the score—hadn’t she been managing Jackson’s career ever since the beginning?

  Yes, but it was different when he was alive. Even after he began to slide downhill, there was always the chance he’d pull himself together. God knows he tried. The homeopathic remedies, the special diet, the injections, the kosher salt baths, the private clinic, the psychiatrists—something was bound to work.

  If only Dr. Heller had lived, she thought ruefully, he would have gotten Jackson back on track. He was the only one who had any success. Just a local G.P., not a specialist, but Edwin Heller kept Jackson off the booze for two years. Jackson trusted him, followed doctor’s orders, then Heller had to get himself killed in a goddamned car crash. Even more ironic, he was only forty-four, the same age as Jackson when he died.

  This is getting morbid. Pull yourself together and be practical. Jackson may be dead, but by God I’m going to see that his work lives on, that he’s right at the top of the heap, up there with Picasso, that old has-been, and Matisse. In fact, he’s going to become even more famous, more respected—and his work more valuable.

  What was it Sidney said last night? Just leave everything to me. Fat chance! Sure, he knows the market, but he’ll have his commission in mind when he’s making a deal for top dollar. The price isn’t the only consideration—it isn’t even the first one. It has to be the right collector, someone with a reputation, not just a fat checkbook. Or the right museum, one that will hang the painting prominently, not just dump it into storage. The cheapskate curators are always crying poor; they just want deep discounts. But if they offer an inducement, like a one-man show, Sidney has to be persuaded to take a smaller cut, maybe even forgo his commission. If something comes up at auction, he has to bid it up even if he winds up buying it himself.

  “Meanwhile,” she said out loud, “what the hell am I going to live on? I’d better get onto Izzy right away.” Apart from the pathetic balance in her bank account, $100 in uncashed traveler’s checks, and some loose change in a coffee can in the pantry, she was broke. Her brother Irving would have to ride to the rescue.

  She rose and went to the parlor, where the telephone sat on a small mahogany drop-leaf table that friends had given them when they moved in. It was a souvenir of their struggles in the early years, when there was hardly any demand for Pollock’s work and they often depended on gifts and loans to get by. Now she needed another loan, a big one, to tide her over until the estate was settled.

  The phone was off the hook—another kindness, courtesy of Ted, that had allowed her to sleep undisturbed. Silently thanking him, she depressed the cradle, released it, and got a dial tone. Before dialing her brother’s office, she checked her watch and saw that she could make the 2:13 train to the city.

  The secretary at the insurance company put her through. Greater New York Mutual was on Madison Avenue at 35th Street.

  “I have to see you, Izzy. Now, today. I’m going to take the train to Penn Station and get a cab to your office. I should be there by five thirty, but if I’m late wait for me.” She hung up before he could argue.

  Her next call was to Schaefer’s Taxi. She had over an hour until train time, but she needed to throw a few things in an overnight bag and cash one of the traveler’s checks, so she ordered the taxi for one thirty. Len Schaefer would wait for her outside the bank and get her to the station in plenty of time.

  She decided she’d better eat something, even though her stomach was far from settled. There was leftover ham and potato salad in the icebox, so she forced some of that down with milk. She wrapped the donuts in tinfoil. I can share them with Izzy, she said to herself.

  Forty-one.

  “Hola, Nita, how are you enjoying the beach?”

  Inspector Morales was pleased to hear her voice. He missed her, not only because she was a popular member of his team, but also because he could have used her on duty. Domestic disputes in stifling apartments and the occasional gang rumble kept Spanish Harlem’s Twenty-third Precinct busy during the hot summer, when school was out and idle youngsters found plenty of ways to get into trouble.

  “It’s boring, Hector,” she replied. “Waves roll in, waves roll out, and then they roll in and out again. All day, all night—talk about monotonous.”

  Morales laughed. “I guess you’ll be glad to get back to your exciting life in the city, where every day is a new adventure.”

  “Actually,” she said, “we’re having an adventure right here in East Hampton. There’s been a homicide, and Fitz and I are helping the local cops with the investigation.”

  “Madre de dios, girl, don’t you two ever take a vacation?”

  “Maybe next summer. But seriously, Hector, I wonder if you can do us a real favor.” She explained the situation, her story interrupted a couple of times by the operator asking her to deposit more money.

  “Hang on a minute, I have the phone book right here,” he told her as she slipped another dime into the slot. “Here it is, Beautique Salon, 142 West 57th Street, an easy subway ride downtown. I can be there in half an hour. Give me a number where I can call you later.”

  “Better call the town police station, ask for Chief Harry Steele. He’s in charge of the case.” She gave him the number. “Can you believe it? East Hampton Town doesn’t have a single detective on the force. I guess they rely on the county cops if there’s a case that needs investigating, but I gather this is the first unexplained death they’ve had in years.”

  “Kinda refreshing, ain’t it?” observed Morales. “Hope it doesn’t make you think about moving to the country.”

  “What would I do with myself? Like I said, no detectives out here. I’d have to open a restaurante and try to sell the locals on Cuban food.” That prompted a chuckle at the other end of the line.

  The operator asked for another dime, so Nita thanked Morales, wished him good hunting, and rang off.

  When she got back to the cottage, Steele had left for the station, and Fitz and TJ had changed out of their bathing suits.

  “I think we’ve done everything we can for now. Harry will work on getting the lab report, and Hector will question this Nick character. I told him to look for scratch marks. So what do you say we take the afternoon off? Hector was teasing me about working on vacation, and of course he’s right. We’re supposed to be off duty.”

  “Listen here, Detective Diaz,” scolded her husband, “you’re always the one who gets to solve interesting crimes, while I’m stuck behind a desk half the time and spend the other half breaking up bar fights and booking drug dealers. You wouldn’t begrudge me a little detecting experience, would you?”

  “Me too!” added TJ, and Nita shook her head in sympathy.

  “All right, Junior G-Man, and you, too, Dick Tracy, we’ll all detect together. Harry says we make a great team and you know, I think he’s right.” She gave them both a hug.

  “But right now we can take a break while we wait for more evidence. Sometimes a detective’s most important asset is patience. Remember Ted said TJ should come back to The Creeks so he can taste the bread he helped make? I wonder if the coast is clear over there now. Let’s find out.”

  Her suggestion was received with enthusiasm, and they headed to the inn to use the phone.

  Emerging from the BMT station at 57th Street and Seventh Avenue, Hector Morales had only a half-block walk to reach the Beautique Salon. Before entering, he checked the interior through the window and saw that it was quiet. Not much business early on a Thursday afternoon—one woman having her hair permed by the single beautician on duty, and another in curlers under the dryer. A bored receptionist was reading Photo
play.

  The sight of a large unfamiliar man in front of her desk got her attention. “Hiya, mister. Lookin’ for somebody?” She was sure he wasn’t there for a haircut or a manicure.

  “Yes, miss, I’d like to see the manager, if he’s available.” Even kept discreetly low, his rich baritone voice resonated with authority. She figured him for a salesman.

  “Name, please,” she said as she lifted the intercom speaker. He told her, without mentioning that he was a police inspector, and he heard a received buzz in a room at the back of the salon.

  “There’s a man out here to see ya, Mr. Petrillo,” she said, and Morales heard him reply, “What does he want?” She looked up and raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s about Miss Metzger,” he told her.

  “Oh, gee, it’s terrible what happened,” said the receptionist. “Poor Edie. A car crash, of all things. Her what only rode the subway.” She relayed the information to her boss, who said to send the man in.

  “The door at the rear, Mr. Morales. Says ‘office’ right on it.” He thanked her and walked to the back.

  Petrillo, eh? he thought as he approached the door. Italian, Catholic, therefore no divorce. Metzger was holding out false hope.

  He knocked and was told to come in. The room was small and cluttered, made even more cramped by a large couch, which Morales assumed had been the scene of numerous Petrillo-Metzger assignations.

  The manager, a man of medium height in his midthirties, his black hair lightly salted with gray at the temples, stood up from his desk chair and offered Morales his hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive. Plenty of power there if he chose to use it, mused the inspector. He directed Morales to a chair opposite the desk. From that position he could see the back of a framed photograph, presumably of Mrs. Petrillo, maybe with a child or two. He could imagine Petrillo slipping it into a drawer before inviting Metzger into the office.