Friends till the End Read online

  He shuffled the papers in front of him and said to Connors,

  “Let’s go have another talk with Mrs. Crandall.”

  Heather was polite but definite.

  “No, of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sure I didn’t switch anyone’s glasses during the party. I went to the punch bowl, filled it up and came back. How could I switch glasses? No, I’m quite sure, Officer.”

  “Did you at any time see Mrs. Abrams handle Mr. Sloane’s glass?”

  Heather’s gaze became frozen. “No. No, I didn’t,” she said. “No one was helping me—no one at all.”

  That could be a lie or it could not, thought Voelker wearily. It was impossible to tell …

  “My fingerprints?”

  Ruth Abrams stared, frightened, into the eyes of Detective Voelker.

  “Yes, Mrs. Abrams. Your fingerprints were found on the glass which poisoned Mr. Sloane.”

  “But—but …”

  Words seemed to fail her. She looked around blindly and her husband took her hand.

  “That’s impossible,” said Ruth Abrams.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” said Voelker. “Please, Mrs. Abrams. I just want to ask you some questions. Did you at any time handle Mr. Sloane’s glass?”

  “No … no, I don’t think so …”

  “Are you sure?”

  Ruth fumbled nervously with the hem of her skirt. Her husband handed her a tissue and she wiped her eyes hastily.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is so … so sudden … let me think. No. No. I never once handled Walter’s glass. Why should I? Heather was handing punch all around. No, I never touched it.”

  Voelker looked at her steadily. Next to him, Detective Connors was scribbling in a notebook.

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “If my wife says she’s sure, gentlemen,” Sam put in coldly, “then she’s sure.”

  “I never touched it,” Ruth said firmly, with a kind of dignity. “Never!”

  She stood up and, swaying as if drunk, marched out of the room without asking for anyone’s permission. The three men sat in embarrassed silence. After a minute the door opened and Marcia peeked in.

  “Dad?” she said. “Mom’s crying in the kitchen, and Melvin just bit the cat.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon Ruth recovered sufficiently to pick up the phone.

  “Oh, Heather … Heather,” she sobbed, losing all self-control once she heard her friend’s voice.

  “Ruthie? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Ruth told her—about Voelker’s visit, about the fingerprints on the glass. Walter’s glass! How could it be?

  “Heather—they think I did it!”

  “Ruth. Don’t panic. They’ve been here, too. My fingerprints were all over every single one of the glasses. They told me so.”

  “But—but you were serving.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Heather sounded suddenly very tired. “It doesn’t matter. They still think things. Of course they do.”

  “It’s just ridiculous,” fumed Ruth. “Absurd!”

  “Well, of course it is. The important thing is not to panic. Remember that, Ruthie. Just don’t panic.”

  “Yes … yes …”

  “They asked me whether you had handed Walter some punch during the party,” Heather said. “I told them no. I don’t remember anyone else helping me serve. You didn’t, did you, Ruthie darling?”

  “Certainly not,” said Ruth Abrams.

  Bernard and Snooky were closeted together in Bernard’s study. Snooky was saying, “Isabel ran into Mrs. Crandall at the grocery store. She said Mrs. Crandall told her all about it. Honestly, if you hang around that store you eventually hear everything. The other day I was there and I heard this guy near the vegetable section talking about—”

  “Snooky.”

  “Yes?”

  “Get to the point.”

  Bernard sat silently as Snooky told him about the fingerprint discovery. When he was finished, Bernard said:

  “Interesting.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  Bernard mused for a moment. “Is she that stupid?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Abrams.”

  “You mean, to leave her fingerprints on the glass?”

  “Yes.”

  Snooky considered this. “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s as stupid as everyone makes her out to be, if you want my personal opinion.”

  “Hmmhmm. Interesting.”

  “Yes.”

  “However,” said Bernard with real regret, “I have work to do. So if you don’t mind—?”

  “I’m leaving. And Bernard—”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re very welcome,” said Snooky.

  “I won’t have chicken gumbo soup AGAIN!”

  There was the sound of dishes shattering against the wall, and an angry cry from Richard.

  “But, Dad, they said that you should—”

  “I don’t care what the damned doctor said! I want food, I tell you—real food! I want a nice juicy steak! Now bring it to me, and bring it quick, damn you!”

  Isabel ran up the stairs.

  “Daddy—” she said, entering the sickroom.

  Her father glowered at her from the bed. “I won’t have it!” he said. “No more chicken gumbo soup! I’d rather die than eat that stuff again!”

  Richard muttered something and brushed past Isabel out of the room.

  “Now, Daddy,” Isabel said in her most consoling manner. “Really, there’s no need to shout and break everything in sight, is there? All you have to do is ask. If you want a steak, then you’ll get one.”

  Walter Sloane regarded his daughter suspiciously. “Really?”

  “Of course. If you want one so badly, then your stomach must be ready to handle one. Who cares what the doctor says?”

  “That’s right,” he muttered, leaning back against the pillows. “Damned right. Who cares what the damned doctor says? You’re a smart girl, Isabel,” he added approvingly. “You understand me, don’t you?”

  “That’s right, Dad. Now just sit tight and don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll bring your dinner up as soon as it’s ready.” She twinkled at him and left the room.

  “Go anywhere,” said Walter Sloane to himself. “As if that’s likely, in my condition!”

  Nothing at all wrong with him, Isabel was thinking as she went downstairs. Nothing wrong with him at all. He’s just enjoying playing the invalid. He loves his sickroom and having Richard and me wait on him hand and foot.

  She felt the familiar surge of resentment.

  She went into the kitchen and took a steak out of the freezer. She stood looking at it doubtfully. Could you cook a frozen steak without defrosting it first?

  Richard came in. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “He threw the dishes at the wall,” Richard said. “Soup and everything. It must be a mess. I guess I should go upstairs and clean it up.”

  “Oh, I’ll get it later.”

  “No, I can’t have you doing everything. Even though you’re the only one he can stand. How do you handle him so well, Isabel?”

  She was still looking at the steak with its layer of frost on the plastic wrapping. “What?” she said vaguely.

  “How in the world do you handle him so well? I can’t be with him for three minutes before I want to strangle him myself.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Practice, I guess. I’m a lot older than you, you know.”

  Richard shrugged, going out with the mop and bucket.

  “I wish—” he said, his voice floating back into the kitchen, “I wish he had never come home!”

  Isabel turned the package over in a vain search for directions. Perhaps if she put the heat up really high …?

  * * *

  “He won’t see anyone but Richard and me,” she told Snooky later on the phone. “I don’
t know how he’s going to go back to work. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “That’s a shame, you know, because he had such a kindly personality before all this happened. Has that detective been around to see you again?”

  “No. He was here right after Daddy went into the hospital, but I haven’t seen him since. I don’t know what the police are doing.”

  “It’s a strange business, Isabel.”

  “Yes.”

  They were silent for a moment. Then Isabel said, “How about a drive in the country this weekend? I’m not doing anything on Saturday.”

  “A drive? You mean, just the two of us?”

  “Yes, of course just the two of us. What did you think?”

  “I thought,” said Snooky, “that I was never going to get to see you except in the company of your father’s friends.”

  Freda Simms was seated on the couch in what she liked to call her “living area,” a huge room with a marble fireplace, a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor and elegant Persian rugs everywhere. There was a bay window with a magnificent view of the lawn and trees beyond. The garden was in full bloom and she stared at it absently, nursing the drink at her side.

  Some of the shrubs had been clipped into the most ridiculous shapes, really … unicorns and gargoyles and over there was one that looked just like a donkey … she’d have to talk to the gardener, Mr. Hal, about it. His name was Harold Shrimpton, Hal for short, but for some reason he insisted on being called Mr. Hal, like a hairdresser. She humored him. He was a very good gardener, except when his fancies got away with him.…

  She tore her gaze away from the ill-fated shrubbery and tried to concentrate. Yes, now, where was she? Something had been bothering her for a while now, and she had finally decided to sit down and think it through. Although it wasn’t really something that could be thought about or chewed over … it was a memory … a fleeting memory, obscured by alcohol and heightened hormones. She had seen something at the first party, the one at the Sloanes’ house.

  She sighed impatiently and shook her head. Now what in the world was it? It was about an hour or so before the end of the party. She had been sitting down (as she consumed more and more liquid refreshment, it became harder to stay vertical) and smiling at what’s-his-name, Eddie, as he leaned over her. He had said something amusing, or at least at the time she had thought it was amusing. She was laughing and her eyes strayed over his shoulder.

  And she had seen something …

  She screwed up her face into a comical frown and sipped her drink. Something had been bothering her, moving restlessly and fretfully at the edge of her consciousness, since then. What was it?

  Outside the big bay window Mr. Hal moved slowly into view, carrying a huge pair of hedge clippers. He began to snip at a previously unmolested bush. He snipped and snipped and snipped, stepping back now and then to see how his handicraft was proceeding.

  When he was done, he regarded his work with quiet satisfaction. The hedge, formerly a dull boxlike shape, now resembled one of the Great Pyramids of Egypt. Its four triangular sides were as smooth as stone.

  Mr. Hal smiled to himself. Behind him, in the house, Freda watched without the internal comment so often provoked by Mr. Hal’s artistic efforts. She did not see the new pyramid in her garden. Her eyes blindly looked inward, backward in time …

  Now what was it she had seen?

  7

  Bernard stared suspiciously at the little boy a few feet away.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Linus.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said truthfully.

  Maya entered the study, followed by Heather Crandall. “Bernard, this is Mrs. Crandall and her son Linus. I invited them over to meet you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Woodruff, this is such a great pleasure,” enthused Heather. “I brought over some cookies for you and your wife—I hope you don’t mind—and here are Linus’s Mrs. Woolly books. You see how much he likes them.”

  Bernard glanced down at the dog-eared, much-abused copies of his books.

  “I suppose you’d like me to sign them,” he said dully.

  “Well, yes, if it’s not too much trouble. See, Linus, this is what a famous author looks like!”

  Linus was not impressed. He was kneeling on the floor, trying to get Misty to wake up.

  Bernard scratched his name hastily, with To Linus, in each of the books and gave them back.

  “Thanks so much,” said Heather.

  “You’re welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m working …”

  “Heather and I are going into the kitchen,” Maya interposed. “Linus can stay here with you for a while. It’ll be good for him to see what a famous author looks like while he’s working.”

  Before Bernard could protest, the two women were gone. He was alone in the room with Linus.

  A stark terror filled him. It was not so much that he hated children, as he often claimed; it was that they frightened him. He did not know what to say or do. He was silent enough around adults; with children he was positively tongue-tied.

  In the kitchen, Heather said, “Are you sure it’s all right if Linus stays in there with him? Perhaps your husband would like to work.”

  “Oh, no, it’s good for Bernard. He writes for children, but so rarely gets to actually meet any.”

  “Linus really enjoys his books.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. You mustn’t mind his manner, Mrs. Crandall. Bernard can be a little brusque sometimes. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  Snooky came in and, after saying hello to Heather, turned to his sister and sank onto his knees.

  “Are you asking me to marry you?” said Maya.

  “Please, Maya.” He took her hand. “I have something important—very important—to ask you. I am hoping that the presence of Mrs. Crandall will make you think twice before saying no.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Can I have the car on Saturday?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Thanks anyway.” Snooky rose to his feet and opened the refrigerator door. “What’s there to eat?”

  “Don’t eat now. It’s almost dinnertime. You’ll ruin your appetite.”

  “I could never ruin my appetite, Maya. Put a crimp in it, maybe, but never any lasting damage.”

  “You’re taking this awfully well, Snooks. What’s the hidden agenda?”

  “I simply don’t consider your refusal as definite. I intend to try again later, repeatedly, until you change your mind, as you inevitably will, worn down in the face of my determination and charm.”

  “Good plan,” said Maya.

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I ask what’s going on Saturday?”

  “I’m taking Isabel out for a drive in the country.”

  “I see.”

  “Hard to do without a car, Maya.”

  “Yes.”

  Snooky closed the fridge door and wandered out of the kitchen. Heather said, “Your brother doesn’t have a car?”

  “My brother rents everything: houses, cars, everything. He has one ironclad rule: he never buys anything he can rent, and he never rents anything he can borrow. This has seen him through life so far.”

  “I was worried when Little Harry got his learner’s permit,” said Heather. “I was afraid there would be arguments over the car. But he so rarely drives it. He prefers to jog.”

  Back in the study, there had been a long, long silence. Linus played with Misty’s ears while the dog slept, and Bernard stared mournfully at a picture on the far wall.

  Finally Linus said:

  “We have a dog.”

  “How nice for you.”

  Linus could not hear the sarcasm. “His name is Mahler.”

  “Mahler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  That seem
ed to be the end of the conversation. Linus got up and came over to lean in a familiar way on Bernard’s knee.

  “Are you working yet?” he asked, looking up into his face.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Will you be working soon?”

  “I don’t know. It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  ON HOW SOON I CAN BE ALONE! screamed Bernard’s mind. But all he said was:

  “It’s hard to work. I don’t do very much of it.”

  Linus nodded. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. He said:

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Misty.”

  “Misty,” said Linus thoughtfully. He said:

  “My dog is bigger than your dog.”

  Bernard’s hackles rose at this. How right he was never to trust a child.

  “Misty is a fine-looking dog,” he said defensively. “Just the right size, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t know,” said Linus, surveying her critically. “She has funny-looking ears.”

  “What’s wrong with her ears?”

  “They’re all sort of floppy and everything.”

  “That’s because she’s sleeping. When she’s awake they stand up.”

  Linus looked doubtful. “When she’s awake they stand up?”

  “Yes. Just like your ears. See? When you’re awake they’re like this, and when you’re asleep they fold down and go all floppy. Like Misty’s ears.”

  “They do not.”

  “Oh, yes they do.”

  Linus clapped his hands over his ears. “They do not!”

  “They go all floppy, and collapse on your pillow,” said Bernard.

  Linus stared at him, his eyes wide in horror.

  “They do not!”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Like Misty’s?”

  “Worse than Misty’s.”

  There was a long, lingering, trembling pause. Then:

  “MOMMY!” shrieked Linus and ran from the room. Bernard could hear him screaming all the way down the hall.

  Bernard sat back slowly in his chair. Misty woke up, scratched herself, yawned and came to rub her head against his leg.