Friends till the End

  A Friend Indeed

  “Bernard,” said Maya, “did you hear what Snooky just told me?”

  “What is it?”

  “The hostess of the party he went to last night—well, she died. They say she was poisoned.”

  Bernard looked up from his desk. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “That’s horrible.” Bernard felt strangely offended. Murders, he felt, should not happen in Ridgewood, Connecticut.

  “Well, he’s pretty upset.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Do you think he did it?”

  “Bernard, please. It’s not like he knew any of those people, really. He just met them last night. I mean, Snooky is always getting into some kind of trouble, but he never actually ran afoul of the law before.”

  “Sweetheart, your brother did not murder his hostess. The police must know that. All the same—”

  “What?”

  “All the same, I wonder who did,” said Bernard.

  Bantam Crime Line Books offers the finest in classic and modern American murder mysteries. Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed.

  Rex Stout

  Broken Vase

  Death of a Dude

  Death Times Three

  Fer-de-Lance

  The Final Deduction

  Gambit

  The Rubber Band

  Too Many Cooks

  The Black Mountain

  Plot It Yourself

  Three for the Chair

  Max Allan Collins

  The Dark City

  Bullet Proof

  A.E. Maxwell

  Just Another Day in Paradise

  Gatsby’s Vineyard

  The Frog and the Scorpion

  Just Enough Light to Kill

  Joseph Louis

  Madelaine

  The Trouble with Stephanie

  Mary Jo Adamson

  Not Till a Hot January

  A February Face

  Remember March

  April When They Woo

  May’s Newfangled Mirth

  P.M. Carlson

  Murder Unrenovated

  Rehearsal for Murder

  Dick Lupoff

  The Comic Book Killer

  Margaret Maron

  The Right Jack

  Baby Doll Games

  One Coffee With

  coming soon: Corpus Christmas

  Randy Russell

  Hot Wire

  Marílyn Wallace

  Primary Target

  William Murray

  When the Fat Man Sings

  coming soon: The King of the Nightcap

  Robert Goldsborough

  Murder in E Minor

  Death on Deadline

  The Bloodied Ivy

  coming soon: The Last Coincidence

  Sue Grafton

  “A” Is for Alibi

  “B” Is for Burglar

  “C” Is for Corpse

  “D” Is for Deadbeat

  “E” Is for Evidence

  Joseph Telushkin

  The Unorthodox Murder of Rabbi Wahl

  The Final Analysis of Doctor Stark

  Richard Hilary

  Snake in the Grasses

  Pieces of Cream

  Pillow of the Community

  Behind the Fact

  Carolyn G. Hart

  Design for Murder

  Death on Demand

  Something Wicked

  Honeymoon with Murder

  coming soon: A Little Class on Murder

  Annette Meyers

  The Big Killing

  Rob Kantner

  Dirty Work

  The Back-Door Man

  Hell’s Only Half Full

  Robert Crais

  The Monkey’s Raincoat

  coming soon: Falling Scarecrow

  Keith Peterson

  The Trapdoor

  There Fell a Shadow

  The Rain

  coming soon; Rough Justice

  David Handler

  The Man Who Died Laughing

  The Man Who Lived by Night

  Jeffery Deaver

  Manhattan Is My Beat

  FRIENDS TILL THE END

  A Bantam Book / October 1989

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1989 by Gloria Dank.

  Illustrations by Laura Hartman Maestro.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81868-3

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  THE FAMILY

  Laura Sloane—Walter Sloane’s wife and stepmother to his two children—the party she gave was to be her last, but other than that it was, like all her parties, a great success.…

  Walter Sloane—a thorough curmudgeon, made wealthy by his wife’s death, he was hated by nearly all his friends—and his family.…

  Isabel Sloane—Walter Sloane’s beautiful daughter from his first marriage, who chose to stay at home and cook and clean for everyone.…

  Richard Sloane—Walter Sloane’s son from his first marriage—spoiled and sulky, he fought often and violently with his father.…

  THE FRIENDS

  Sam Abrams—Walter Sloane’s business partner, who enjoyed taking over while Walter was away.…

  Ruth Abrams—Sam’s dithery, slow-witted wife.…

  Harry Crandall—emeritus professor of biology and an expert on slime molds, he could paralyze an entire room of people just by talking.…

  Heather Crandall—Harry’s wife, she was obsessed by health—her own and everyone else’s.…

  Freda Simms—an eccentric widow who was jealous of the people she loved.…

  THE OTHERS

  Snooky Randolph—a wealthy young man with no particular occupation and a fantastic got for crossword puzzles.…

  Maya Woodruff—Snooky’s older sister, who strongly disapproved of his choice of girlfriends.…

  Bernard Woodruff—writer of children’s books and armchair detective, he trusted no one except his wife Maya—and himself.…

  Detective Jim Voelker—his habitually melancholy expression deepened as one murder inevitably followed another.…

  1

  It was a lovely party. Everyone said so; even Harry Crandall, emeritus professor of biology, who ordinarily spent the whole evening talking about his beloved slime molds. This evening he had been cajoled into discussing the Late Beethoven Quartets, quite a departure for him. He was an authority on the subject, as everyone expected he would be. He only held forth on subjects on which he was an authority. The host, Walter Sloane, and his wife Laura circulated among their guests. It was a small party: just the Sloane family and a few friends. There was only one stranger present, a young man with a very odd name, so
mething like Snoopy or Ucky. Walter Sloane’s daughter had brought him along as her date. He was not one of the usual crowd so everyone ignored him; by far the easiest way.

  It was a lovely, lovely party; everyone said so. It would have been just about perfect if the hostess had not died. As it was, everyone enjoyed themselves very much.

  “Naked masses of protoplasm,” Harry Crandall was saying, diverted momentarily by a question concerning his favorite subject. “That’s all they are. Fascinating creatures, I tell you. Slime molds belong to a class of extremely peculiar organisms, Myxomycetes …”

  Freda Simms gave her distinctive loud cackle. “He’s off again. Good old Harry.”

  Ruth Abrams looked worried. She always looked worried. She was a short heavy-set woman with the mild-mannered face of a not very intelligent sheep. “Freda,” she said reproachfully. “He’ll hear you.”

  Freda Simms smiled. Her hair tonight was red; a distinctive shade of brilliant red. It looked as if it had been painted on her head by an industrious child with finger paints. It stuck out wildly in all directions and bobbed as she talked. She spoke constantly, nervously, gesturing with a cigarette.

  “I’ve convinced Eddie to show me how he does his makeup,” she said.

  Ruth Abrams looked doubtfully at Freda’s boyfriend.

  “Clown makeup is an art form,” Freda continued. “Isn’t it, Eddie?”

  Eddie seemed to agree. Eddie was a silent creature; a man of few words, thought Ruth. She glanced around nervously and hoped someone would rescue her soon. Freda was a dear friend, but honestly, a clown …

  Although perhaps a clown was better than Freda’s last boyfriend, who had been introduced at a party much like this one. His name had been Charlie and he had been a professional skydiver. The romance had blossomed until one day Charlie had had a minor technical difficulty with his parachute.

  Harry Crandall was back on the Late Beethoven Quartets again. Ruth could hear his voice droning on. Usually the host, Walter Sloane, found some minor point that he could disagree with and picked a fight—more than one party had been broken up by the women because Harry and Walter were at each other’s throats over the prospects of the local baseball team, or the merit of some obscure work of literature, or that forbidden topic, politics. But tonight Harry was droning on undisturbed. That probably meant that Walter Sloane didn’t know a thing about the Late Beethoven Quartets.

  Ruth looked over at Walter. Tonight he seemed to be having a decent time, although the sight of his closest friends eating his food and drinking his liquor usually made him apoplectic. Rich as he was, he saved every dime. She had been with him once in a restaurant when he called the manager over because he had put a quarter in the jukebox, which then refused to play his selection. “I want ‘Old Man River,’ ” he had roared, to the delight of the other patrons.

  Freda Simms and her boyfriend were now hotly debating something to do with the circus—Indian versus African elephants, it sounded like. Ruth cast an agonized glance around the room. Her eyes rested briefly on Isabel, Walter Sloane’s daughter. She looked beautiful as always, with her straight silk-blonde hair drawn back in a knot and those striking blue eyes. She was sitting in the corner, deep in conversation with the young man she had brought along tonight. Next to them sat her teenage brother, Richard—another product of Walter Sloane’s first marriage. Ruth wondered vaguely what Richard was doing here. He didn’t usually put in an appearance at his parents’ parties. Isabel was always there, of course, an unobtrusive presence at your elbow, offering food and drinks, scuttling back and forth from the kitchen—as though they couldn’t afford to hire help, and as much as they wanted!—another example of Walter’s notorious miserliness. She dragged her attention back to Freda, who had gone on to another topic and was now saying,

  “The last time I was in Monte Carlo—”

  Monte Carlo, indeed! Ruth felt a prickle of resentment. Some people didn’t have the money to travel to Monte Carlo whenever they liked. Of course Freda had always been rich. She didn’t know what it was like not to be. And of course she had never had children. Children made a big difference; yes, a very big difference.

  Over in the corner, Isabel Sloane was saying,

  “What are you doing here, Richard?”

  Her brother shrugged.

  “No date for tonight?” she asked teasingly. Her brother’s blond good looks were very much appreciated by the female members of his high school class.

  Her brother grinned at her. His usually morose face lit up.

  (“When he smiles he looks almost human,” she had told a friend recently. “The trouble is, he never smiles.”)

  “Oh, shut up,” Richard Sloane said, but his tone was friendly.

  The young man who was with Isabel leaned back, regarding them with an amused eye.

  “When I was Richard’s age I couldn’t stop going to parties,” he said. “It was sort of a mania with me. When my brother and sister wanted to find out where I was, all they had to do was call around the neighborhood and see who was having a party. I was never invited, but I went anyway. I would do all kinds of affairs: weddings, cocktail parties, receptions. Funerals. I once got thrown out of an embassy on East Seventy-first Street in New York for crashing an official reception. The Vice-President was going to be there and they were all excited about the security breach, but all I wanted was a snack.”

  “I hate parties,” Richard Sloane said firmly.

  “Oh, well, you never know. Maybe you’ll grow into it.”

  “Mrs. Abrams needs a drink,” said Isabel and bolted toward the bar. Her companion watched her go with a feintly worried look in his eyes. But all he said was:

  “Know anything about Boccherini?”

  “No,” said Richard.

  “ ‘Well, this is your big chance. There’s someone over there who appears to be an expert.”

  Harry Crandall had switched topics once again and was now being dazzling and authoritative on the works of a slightly earlier composer.

  “Let’s hope that Dad doesn’t know anything about it either,” said Richard gloomily. Professor Crandall had trapped his host and hostess in his immediate circle, and Walter Sloane was clearly growing restive.

  Walter’s wife Laura was listening with a frozen smile to the details of Boccherini’s early life when her stepdaughter Isabel handed her a drink.

  “Thanks, sweetheart. Did you look after the others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, thanks. Listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about. Excuse us for a moment, Harry.”

  She steered Isabel over to a corner. “Thanks for the rescue,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay. It’s better than slime molds, anyway.”

  “I don’t know how his wife can stand it.”

  Isabel looked over to where the tall thin figure hovered anxiously over a tray of tempura vegetables. “She’s too busy monitoring her own cholesterol level,” she said.

  “I had those vegetables made especially for Heather,” her stepmother replied. “She won’t eat meat, she won’t eat fish, she won’t eat caviar. She won’t eat anything. Including those vegetable things. You’ll see.”

  “I told you, she won’t touch anything that’s been fried.”

  “But darling,” Laura Sloane said piteously, “if it’s not meat, and it’s not fried, then I ask you, what is it?”

  Laura Sloane was a big good-looking woman with an easy way about her. She dominated her husband and his children so naturally that they never had time to think about or resent it. She was tall and slightly heavy, with deep-set brown eyes and honey-blonde hair. Laura was always doing big things: selling or buying companies with her father’s and first husband’s millions; traveling around the world; even, in one notorious instance, hang gliding. She had been left a widow at a young age and it had been years before she met Walter Sloane and remarried. In those years, she had become known for her flamboyance, she and Freda Simms both; they had been friends since
high school. They had traveled the world, learned to speak twelve languages between them, sailed on foreign seas and laughed their way out of any mishap. Once, when Laura had been dumped by a man she was seeing, she had rented a plane and written the word BASTARD in large plumy letters across the sky above his house. She and Freda had the same loud laugh and the same charming way about them. Even Laura’s marriage to Walter Sloane, three years before, had not dimmed their friendship, although it was a well-known fact that Freda hated Walter’s guts and the sentiment was warmly returned.

  The adventures, however, had not continued after Laura’s second marriage. She seemed at last to be settling down.

  “And the worse for it, too,” Freda often said, packing her bags to fly off to another romantic resort, silently mourning the fact that her companion was Ted, or Eddie, or Fred (they all seemed to have the same name) instead of the marvelous Laura. “No spirit for adventure anymore, that’s Laura’s trouble. Old Wally has sucked the blood out of her, like the accursed vampire he is.”

  Freda called him Old Wally to his face, which only served to increase the strength of the feeling between them.

  “Old bitch,” Walter Sloane called her behind her back. “Old hag.”

  Freda, busy with her packing, would laugh if she heard about it.

  “My mission in life,” she would say, “is to make Walter Sloane uncomfortable”; and she seemed to be succeeding.

  Now Laura Sloane looked around at the progress of her party with a practiced eye. Everything was going delightfully well, as usual. Of course her parties always went well. She planned them for weeks ahead of time and everything ran like clockwork. The only problem was that Freda, naturally, was getting drunk. So was Walter. They both had an unfortunate tendency to drink and then to quarrel. Laura could stop her husband by taking the drink out of his hand, but she could not bring herself to do that to Freda. Freda’s claim was that she never felt the liquor; no, not one bit. She said it simply made her sparkle. Laura remembered the party, in this very house, where Freda had sparkled so violently and so long that she had not been able to get out of bed for a week afterward.

  “Isabel,” she said now, “no more drinks for your father or Freda, okay?”