Friends till the End (6 page)

“Mr. Arthur Randolph?” said Voelker.

“God forbid.”

Voelker consulted his notes. “Mr. Woodruff? Mr. Bernard Woodruff?”

“Yes.” Bernard leaned back and shouted, “
Snooky!
”

After Snooky ushered the detective into the living room, Bernard went back into the kitchen and said to his wife, “This is nice. Your brother has been here a little over a week and he’s already managed to involve us with the Law.”

“It’s not his fault, Bernard. He can’t help it if he was invited to that party.”

“I told him not to go.”

“You always tell everybody not to go anywhere. Other
people enjoy parties. Not everyone is like you.” Maya leaned into the dining room and whistled for the dog. “Misty? Misty? Where
is
that dog?”

Misty, a small red mop of mixed origins, crept into the kitchen, sensing the tense atmosphere.

“I have an idea,” said Bernard. “Why don’t we write to your brother William and tell him that Snooky is a murder suspect?”

“Is that supposed to be helpful?” she snapped.

In the living room, Detective Voelker was saying, “Your full name is Arthur B. Randolph?”

“That’s right.”

“What does the B stand for?”

“Nothing. It’s a rudimentary appendage. Like an appendix. It’s there, you know, but what does it do?”

Voelker regarded him thoughtfully. “What time did you arrive at the Sloane home last night?”

“Around eight o’clock.”

The list of questions went on—a long list. Snooky answered each question promptly. Voelker left three quarters of an hour later. Snooky closed the door and went down the hallway to the kitchen, where he found Bernard hovering over the stove, stirring what looked like a cauldron of brown sludge. Snooky was intrigued.

“What’s that, Bernard?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“Indian pudding.”

“Looks like glue.”

“You’re having it for dessert.”

“Oh.”

The kitchen was country-style, with a heavy oak table in the center, copper pots hanging from the walls and ceiling, and wooden counters on three sides of the room. Maya was poking around in the pantry, a separate alcove off to one side. “Where’s the beans?” she yelled now.

“The what?” Bernard shouted.

“The
beans
!”

Snooky picked up a can from the table. “Here, Maya.”

“Oh.” Maya came in and gave him a curious glance. “You okay, Snooks?”

“It’s a humbling experience, being interviewed by the police. It’s never happened to me before.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Bernard.

Snooky leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Isabel’s in a bad fix. I’m worried about her, My. Whoever did this could care less about the kind of trouble it gets her into.”

Maya regarded him soberly. “I’m more worried about the trouble
you’re
getting into, Snooks.”

“Oh, I’m okay. I’m always okay. You know that.” Snooky helped carry the food into the dining room, then sat down and played moodily with the three-bean salad on his plate.

“What did that detective ask you?” Bernard wanted to know.

“Oh, you know. The usual stuff. What I saw, who I talked to. Nothing that would interest
you,
Bernard. Nothing to do with sheep or rats.”

These were the species that, blessed with the gift of speech and rational thought, figured prominently in Bernard’s books.

“It so happens that many things interest me,” said Bernard stiffly.

Snooky did not reply. He was going over things in his head.

Who at that party had a good reason to murder Laura Sloane?

Driving away from the house, Voelker was turning over the interview in his mind.

The young man didn’t know the first thing about it. He felt sure of that. He had answered all of Voelker’s questions clearly and intelligently. And he had told Voelker something that no one else had seen, something that the detective found very interesting.

Yes, he said, Laura Sloane had crossed the room once, on purpose, to take a drink out of her husband’s hand. He had seen it. No, probably no one else had. The guests were all laughing and talking in little groups. Why would they pay attention? He had seen it because Laura had just finished talking to his friend Isabel. Laura had broken off
her conversation and set out purposefully across the room to get that drink.

Why? Voelker had asked.

The young man had shrugged. Her husband was getting a little drunk, maybe a little obnoxious. Or was about to. His eyes had followed her because—because she seemed so
determined.
Everyone else at the party was wandering back and forth, but she had headed straight toward her husband. She had looked at him warningly, then had taken his glass and drunk its contents herself.

Was the drink full? Voelker had asked. Or had Sloane already had some of it?

Snooky strained his eyes upward in an effort to remember.

He couldn’t say for sure. He thought the glass was pretty full. Sloane might have had a few sips. Laura seemed determined to catch him before he had any more.

Well, that was one for Sloane’s story, thought Voelker. Although it was still very weak, in his opinion. Sloane was a rich man now and didn’t have a domineering wife to deal with. Murders had been committed for a great deal less.

But there was still the minor question of proof. It had happened at a party, in a room full of people, any of whom had more than enough opportunity to slip something into a drink. No one had seen anything, really. Not that he had expected anyone would. People at a party were not usually in their most observant state.

He checked his list. Two more people to go. Freda Simms. Best friend of the deceased. And her boyfriend, Eddie Bloom. He looked at his watch and thought, I can interview both of them and still be home in time for dinner.

The interview with Eddie Bloom was short and to the point. Eddie was a short, slight man with shiny dark hair and the face of an intelligent rodent. He said he had met those people only once or twice before. He was sorry about the lady, but he didn’t know anything. Freda would know. Yes, he had met her about a month ago, and frankly, he didn’t know her all that well either. She had
gotten drunk last night and he had driven her home. That was it. He didn’t think he’d be seeing too much of her. She was upset over her friend’s death, and upset women gave him a queasy stomach. He had a nervous stomach, Eddie did. He was a sensitive person and had to protect himself.

Driving away, Voelker thought two things. One was that he believed Eddie when he said he knew nothing concerning Laura Sloane’s death. The other was that Eddie was a miserable little weasel.

Freda was still in shock. During the course of the afternoon, she had been to the hospital, then to the Sloanes’ house, then back to her place, then to the Sloanes’ again. She had been comforting Isabel when what’s-his-name, her young friend, had arrived. Freda had tactfully gotten out of their way. Although they acted more like brother and sister than anything else, she had had time to notice. She had also seen Walter while she was at the house. He looked so awful … just awful. Like his world was collapsing. Of course the one thing she had to say about Walter was that he had always loved Laura. You couldn’t help but love Laura. Laura was …

But that wasn’t the point. What was the point, Officer?

That nice man Detective Voelker said gently that he would like to talk about the party.

“Oh, the party,” said Freda. She lit a cigarette. “I don’t know. Am I wandering? You must forgive me. I really don’t know what I’m saying. What do you want to know about the party?”

Had she seen anything unusual, he wanted to know. Anything out of the ordinary.

“Well,” said Freda, “there was something a little strange.”

What was that?

“It was something that didn’t happen, rather than something that happened.”

Detective Voelker looked politely inquiring.

“It was Walter and Harry.” Freda gave a weary cackle, a faint echo of her usual robust laugh. “They’re always at
each other’s throats. Over the stupidest things, really. Like water resources in the Amazon, or something. I can’t keep track of it myself. But last night—nothing! No argument—nothing! I keep thinking of that, and wondering why. That old ass Harry was driveling on as usual about something, Beethoven, I think it was, and Walter didn’t say a word. Well, I ask you, why not?”

The last two words were said almost belligerently.

Voelker did not reply, and after a moment Freda said, “Maybe it was because he didn’t know anything about Beethoven. That’s possible. But it seemed significant, somehow.”

Voelker nodded solemnly and wrote down,
Wandering. Drunk? Unreliable witness.

Freda had not seen much else. She admitted candidly that she had been more than a little drunk. She smiled briefly when Voelker mentioned the name of her companion of the night before.

“He’s a clown,” she said. “A professional clown. I like unusual men.”

Yes, thought Voelker. You would. He looked at her hair, its unnatural color, and at the lines on her face. Inwardly he grimaced.

“Laura was my best friend,” Freda was saying tiredly. “My best friend. We went everywhere, did everything. Traveled. Laura was fun, she was
alive,
she—” She shrugged. “What can I say? It’s a loss, Officer … a great loss …”

Voelker asked whether she had seen Laura take the drink from her husband’s hand.

Freda didn’t think so. No, she hadn’t. She hadn’t paid much attention to old Wally. Not that she ever did. Last night she had been trying to see that Eddie had a decent time.

“Yes,” said Voelker politely. “Yes, I see.”

Freda looked up with a sudden flash of interest. “You mean it’s possible the—the poison was meant for Wally?”

Voelker debated what he should say. “Mr. Sloane himself advocates that point of view,” he said carefully.

Freda stared at him, her mouth open. Then she began to laugh. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

Then, just as suddenly, succumbing to the liquor she had been drinking all day, she began to cry. She cried and cried, her shoulders heaving.

Voelker watched this performance with interest. Was it a performance? He didn’t know the woman well enough to decide.

“Poor Laura,” Freda gasped at last, fingers rumbling on the table for her drink. “Poor Laura. Somebody tried to kill that bastard, and
she
dies instead!”

“Pretty weak story,” said Philip West, he had been listening carefully to Voelker’s report. “Pretty weak story. Don’t you think?”

“Sloane’s?”

“Yes.”

“I agree.”

Philip West was chief of detectives in the Ridgewood Police Department, and most of the people who worked for him tended to agree when he delivered himself of a judgment. He was a big barrel-chested man with a rumbling laugh and intelligent gray eyes. He narrowed his gaze on Voelker and said, “Somebody slipped poison into his glass and his wife just happened to take it away from him? Doesn’t sound too likely.”

“No. On the other hand—” Voelker paused.

“What?”

“Well, it’s not the kind of story you’d think up beforehand. Not polished enough. If you were going to kill your wife, wouldn’t you come up with a better alibi?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Philip West said dryly. “What about this Sloane? Is he smart or stupid?”

“Smart.”

“Hmmph. You think it might just be true, what he’s saying?”

“Maybe.”

“You have somebody who says he saw Mrs. Sloane take a drink out of her husband’s hand?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmpph.”

There was a long silence. Then: “What else are you following up on?”

“The insecticide didn’t come from the Sloanes’ house. They have a garden shed all right, but they only have rose spray and it’s the wrong kind. Of course, if Sloane did it, he could have disposed of the bottle already. So could anyone else. But we’re looking. It’s an unusual kind of insecticide. Might not be too hard to trace.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve talked to everyone who was at the party.”

“And?”

“Nothing much yet,” said Voelker guardedly. West might be his boss, but he liked to keep some of his thoughts and intuitions to himself.

West grinned. “No one broke down and confessed, eh?”

“Not exactly.”

“Keep on it,” West advised. “You might get lucky.”

The funeral was held three days later. Everyone came. Freda Simms had dyed her hair black, in mourning, and was dressed in black from head to foot, with not a piece of jewelry to relieve the somberness; “very unlike her,” whispered Heather to Ruth. Freda loved jewelry and usually wore an inappropriate amount of it. Today she was a still, subdued little figure, the black outfit diminishing her in size. She cried all throughout the service.

Everyone drove out to the cemetery and stood huddled close together under umbrellas as Laura Sloane’s casket was lowered into its grave. It was early May, wet and dreary, a day with all the colors washed out of it. The cemetery seemed to go on forever, and Snooky found the sight of endless rows of tombstones marching over the hills on either side of them unbearably depressing. Everyone wept; everyone except for Isabel, Richard and Snooky, who stood a little apart from the others. The minister said a few touching words and it was all over. They filed silently back to their cars, the men mutely slapping Walter
Sloane on the back, the women giving Isabel a hug. No one seemed to know what to do. There was supposed to be a little reception afterward at the Sloane house, but it was obvious that no one wanted to come. The memory of the party last Saturday night still lingered. Sam and Ruth Abrams murmured excuses and drifted off. So did Heather and Harry Crandall. Freda Simms did not even bother to give an excuse; she simply got in her scarlet Jaguar and drove away, gunning the engine as she went.

When Snooky got home from the funeral, he sat in the living room with his sister and described how everyone had behaved.

“Freda Simms looked like she was headed for a nervous breakdown,” he told Maya, who listened intently. “That gray-haired woman, what’s her name—Ruth Abrams—looked confused, as if she had just come from another planet. Nobody knew what to say to the family afterward.”