“Ottilini.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so everyone else claims not to have known,” he said, giving me pause and making me realize there was only one real detective in the crowd. “We’ll leave it at that for now. What about the rhyme that was left on Moshe Cohen’s body?”
I reread it:
If all the world’s a stage,
My script is at the final page;
This play is done because …
Shylock’s dead. Applause.
I shook my head in frustration.
“It doesn’t tell me anything,” I said, “except maybe whoever wrote it was anti-Semitic.” He put the notes away.
“Geof, there is one thing, though,” I said hesitantly. He paid me the compliment of looking interested. “All three of them were killed at their favorite charities. Arnie’s passion was the museum—that bed in particular—and that’s where you found him; Moshe Cohen’s passion was the theater, and Mrs. Hatch loved the Welcome Home.”
“Who else knows that?”
“Oh lord, anybody who’ knew them and a lot of people who didn’t. They were all prominent, public sorts of people.”
“Jenny, do you see any other connection between them that I might not see? Anything besides the facts that they were rich and given to doing good works?”
“Well, there are some connections, but you’ve probably already considered, them.” I felt shy about asserting my thoughts in police territory.
“Tell me anyway,” he said encouragingly, “and we’ll see if I missed one.”
Given as I am to making lists, it was easy to oblige.
“They lived in the same neighborhood,” I said. “Same lawyers, same accountants, same country club. They were likable, all of them, but demanding and accustomed to privilege. They went to the same parties, but then how can you help it in a town our size? They probably shopped at the same grocery stores and department stores. They knew the same people, at least socially. And they were all committed to or at least interested in The Foundation …”
I stopped. I stared at the empty spot on the table where the offensive notes had been.
“Culverson, Cohen and Hatch,” I muttered to myself. I was trying to snag a loose end that floated tantalizingly at the edge of my consciousness. “Hatch, Cohen and Culverson. Cohen, Culverson and …”
“What?” Geof pounced on my hesitation.
“No.” I shook my head, dismayed. “No, it isn’t, I don’t believe it.”
“What? Cohen, Culverson and … what, Jenny?”
I raised my hands to my lips as if they could keep the hideous idea safely buried in my head. But it spilled out of my mouth anyway.
“It’s the order, the alphabetical order,” I said. My voice seemed to have disappeared; Geof leaned forward to hear me. “Cohen, Culverson and Hatch.”
I stopped again. My God, I didn’t want to go on.
“We, uh, keep lists at The Foundation, Geof, lists of potential donors. It’s a common practice among fund raisers, no big deal. Well, we have long lists of the names of people and corporations from whom we plan to solicit grants and bequests. For instance, there’s a list of Port Frederick people, and another of potential donors in the county, and there’s a national list and even an international one, mostly of people who’ve expressed interest in the Martha Paul. And …”
His eyes said keep going.
“And there is one very short list of potential major donors. They’re not necessarily the richest people in town, but they’re the people who are most likely to contribute the largest amounts of money to The Foundation. They’ve either indicated a firm commitment or shown a strong interest. It’s a very private list, you understand, and they might not like to know they were on it, though we don’t mean any harm by it…”
“How many people are on this list, Jenny?”
“F-five. We call it the Big Five. Or at least we used to—several months ago, I told my staff to quit using that term because I was afraid one of the people on it might hear about it and be offended. I haven’t used it myself in a long time—I suppose that’s why I didn’t think of it until now.” It was not only getting harder for me to talk, it was getting harder to breathe.
Geof helped me out.
“And Cohen, Culverson and Hatch were on the list?”
“Yes, in alphabetical order, like that. It’s almost a joke, a chant…”
“What is?”
“The names of the Big Five, the names in alphabetical order. We used to say them so often and so hopefully they became like a ritualistic chant…”
“How does the complete chant go, Jenny?”
I swallowed and saw that he was shocked at the look in my eyes when I finally raised them to meet his own.
“Cohen, Culverson, Hatch and Mimbs,” I singsonged. “Cohen, Culverson, Hatch and Mimbs.”
“But that’s only four names, Jenny. What’s the fifth?”
I licked my very dry lips. I said, “The whole chant goes like this: Cain, Cohen, Culverson, Hatch and Mimbs. Cain …”
Geof had become very still. The only part of him that moved was his mouth.
“Which Cain?” he said stiffly.
I pointed miserably at my own chest.
“This one.”
“Oh Jesus,” the detective said.
Chapter 17
Mrs. Mimbs, please.”
“Speaking.” Minnie held her free hand to the light and critically examined the pale grape polish on her nails. Yes, it was just the right shade for the lilac jersey dress. She patted her newly-lavendered hair. “Who’s this?”
“James Turner, ma’am, sorry to disturb you at home.”
“James?” The church custodian didn’t sound at all like himself and she said so. “For heaven’s sake, James, you must have the most awful cold. I hope you’re not washing floors or doing anything cold and damp.”
“No ma’am.” He coughed, and excused himself.
“What can I do for you, James?” she said briskly, helpfully. He never bothered her with anything less than important concerns; the Grand Old Man of Spic and Span he called himself, and she agreed.
“It’s the roof, Mrs. Mimbs,” His reedy voice had coarsened with the bad cold. “The snow load is too heavy; I think it’s going to crack the roof.”
“Oh my word!” She’d warned them about that roof; she’d even offered to pay for a new one. But oh no, we need the money for a new vestibule, they’d said, and then it was an addition to the Sunday School and then repaving the parking lot, thank you very much. There’s nothing wrong with the roof, they’d said, as if prayers alone could mend the leaks and support the icy weight of Port Frederick winters.
“I don’t suppose you can get anybody else to listen to you,” she said knowingly. Really, that young priest was a nice boy, but he didn’t know a thing about capital improvements. She’d told the bishop they ought to teach architecture and economics at the seminary, but he’d only smiled that pious, patronizing smile and patted her hand …
“That’s right, ma’am.” His voice was so weak and hoarse it sounded very near to laryngitis.
“Well, you stay there, James,” she said. “I’ll be right over.”
“Uh, I’m sorry, ma’am, but my daughter wants to take me to the doctor this afternoon. Could you come over this evening, do you think?”
“You don’t think the roof will cave in between now and then, do you?” She wasn’t joking.
“No, ma’am.” Neither was he.
“Well then. I’ll meet you at the chapel at seven o’clock. Now you take care of yourself, James, you do what the doctor says.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you,” he said. “You won’t tell anyone, about my calling, will you Mrs. Mimbs? Not just yet, I mean. I don’t want to get into trouble, going over the reverend’s head and all.”
She assured him she would be discreet.
Funny what being sick will do to people, she thought as she hung up the phone. Makes them weak
and subservient, even old James. Imagine him calling her Mrs. Mimbs and ma’am, when they’d been on a first-name basis for all the twenty-five years she’d been chairwoman of the House and Grounds Committee. The poor man must feel frightfully ill.
Well, she’d inspect that roof and be quick about it so she could send him home to that nice daughter who took such good care of him.
She looked at her watch, a fortieth anniversary present from her husband. Good. With five hours to go until seven, she had plenty of time to climb the stairs to her bedroom and lock the door and have a good cry.
She needed it. She felt awful and bewildered about Arnie and sweet Moshe. And she missed Florence Hatch very much—they’d been friends for so many years, they’d had so very much in common.
We walked north on Fifth Avenue—Goef and I—until the cold nagged us into hailing a horse and buggy. Then for an expensive half hour—his treat that time—we huddled under the gypsy red blanket in the carriage and murmured about murder.
He recalled enough of my family history to save me from having to explain in boring detail how I happened to be the fifth of the Big Five. Most everybody in town knows how my great-grandfather got rich canning clams, how his son expanded the business and our wealth, and how my dad—in the grand, sad tradition of third-generation failures—mismanaged the business so it finally had to be closed. That happened when I was seventeen years old, too young to try to take it over myself and run it. At any rate, thanks to the foresight of my grandfather—or maybe to his disappointed understanding of his son’s deficiencies—my sister and I had long ago been provided with hefty trust funds. So even after the closure, she and I could still afford to move among the country club set into which we’d been born. (Perhaps I should say here that I’d like to be able to claim that I won my job on the basis of my sterling qualifications alone, but the truth is that my upper crust connections didn’t hurt me none, as they say in Texas.) Even my father had trust funds on which to support my mother and to enable him to live out the rest of his lazy days in California.
Of course, the people he put out of work were not so lucky. It was they who suffered the most from the collapse of Cain Clams. I don’t know if my father ever allowed himself to admit that fact—it isn’t like him to take any blame for anything—but it shamed my sister and almost killed my already sick mother then and there. As for me, it was probably that incident as much as anything that propelled me toward this strange combination of high finance and social work. I guess I thought that through good deeds I might make partial payment toward the debt my family owes this town.
Having said all that to Geof, I then said that I thought the idea of someone killing the Big Five was ridiculous.
He said he’d heard stranger things.
I told him it was only coincidence.
He asked me how I’d like to be the fourth coincidence.
I said it made a nice-theory, but there wasn’t a motive behind it. Rhyme, yes, but no reason.
He asked me if I only believed in things I could see.
“Okay,” I gave in temporarily, “suppose, just for the sake of not arguing, that it’s true—what now?”
He pulled up another dirty, gaudy blanket from the floor of the carriage and tucked it around us. We were, by that time, heavy with blanket.
“I will continue to look for the connection that gives us the motive,” he said. His earlobes were red with cold; mine were numb. “You will take pains to be extraordinarily careful with your life.”
The horse’s hooves clip-clopped in a steady, soothing rhythm; I heard the driver hail another driver in a passing carriage. I huddled and was still.
“Jenny?” His voice was sharp and brisk as the wind. “What’s your passion?”
I looked at him, startled.
“My what?”
“If Culverson’s passion was the museum and Cohen’s was the theater, and Mrs. Hatch’s was the home, what’s yours?”
I knew what he was getting at and I didn’t want to go there.
“The Foundation,” I said reluctantly, “though I don’t know that I’d call it a passion. Certainly, it’s my overwhelming interest in life these days. But don’t tell me to stay away from it, because I’m needed and I can’t.”
“Stay away from it.”
“No.”
“Just for a few days.”
“And what if you don’t catch the killer in just a few days? There are other ways of giving up your life, without dying. I’m not going to give mine up to fear.”
His legs shifted impatiently under the blankets. His calm seemed to have vanished; he looked cold, worried and aggravated. He said to my stubborn profile, “Then don’t be alone in the office. Not even with just one person. I want two people with you all the time while you’re there. And I am not speaking as a friend you can shrug off; I am speaking as a cop who knows better than you do how to protect you.”
“Hmmph,” I said, or something to that effect.
“Listen, Jennifer, if I ever want to bequeath money to The Foundation, I’ll come to you and ask your advice. You’re the expert; I’ll do as you say. Well, when it comes to murder and mayhem, I’m the resident expert. Please return the compliment and do as I say.”
A grin slipped out from beneath my fear and fury.
“Think you might give us some money, humm?” I said. “Well, I just happen to have with me a little brochure that explains all the benefits and tax advantages that will accrue to you and your family if you…”
He laughed and literally broke the ice by flicking an icicle off the edge of the carriage window. The driver turned his ruddy face around and smiled benevolently at the nice young couple who were crazy enough to pay him to ride around and freeze.
“I have to go back tonight,” Geof said. “For one thing, I want to talk to Mrs. Mimbs as soon as possible…”
Minnie. I thought of that dear, funny lady and the Episcopal church to which she was emotionally and financially devoted. I hoped God was as caring of her as she was of Him.
Geof was still talking …
“… and I suppose I’d be wasting my breath if I asked you to stay over in New York for a few days.”
“Actually, we’re probably going home on the same plane,” I said helpfully. He didn’t look helped. Then for some mischievous reason that must have reached way back into my subconscious, I turned to face him and smiled.
“What’s your passion, Geof?”
He looked at me for a very long moment.
“I wish,” he said, “that the weather would turn bad. I wish it would turn so bad they’d have to close the airports. And then we’d have no choice but to spend the night.”
I let him get nervous for a moment, if indeed he ever got nervous about anything. Then I said, “Well, who knows—maybe the cab that takes us to my house will not be able to get back through the snow to yours.”
He did what any red-blooded boy is supposed to do when he’s riding in a buggy in Central Park.
He kissed the girl.
“Where are you off to, Minnie Mae?” Her husband had never liked the nickname HaHa; he said it degraded her dignity; she said she didn’t have any dignity and didn’t want any, thank you, how boring; he said she had more than she knew, so he called her by her real name which she said wasn’t any too dignified itself.
He smiled up at her from his invalid’s bed. Or rather, half his face smiled; the other half hung, useless and expressionless, from the strong bones of his face, paralyzed by stroke.
“I’m off to church, my darling,” she said and smiled fondly back at him. Really, people shouldn’t tell her secrets they didn’t want her sweetie to know. “James Turner called and he said the chapel roof is about to fall.”
“You told them, didn’t you dear?” he said proudly. “They should have listened to my Minnie Mae.”
She sighed in put-upon agreement.
“Well, just you be careful, dear,” he said. “I don’t want that old roof caving in on my girl.”
She blew him a kiss and promised to be home within the hour. His voice stopped her once more at the door of his bedroom.
“You look mighty pretty, Minnie.” He flopped his good arm at her. “I surely do like you in purple.”
Simon was cheerful again by the time we met him at La Guardia. He would have been talkative, too, if either of us had responded to him, but Geof buried himself in a police journal and I pretended to read a tourist guide to This Week in New York City.
“Well, did she behave herself?” Simon boomed, so that every passenger within fifty yards looked up. “Did she manage to control her libidinal urges?”
Geof withered him with a watch-it-buddy cop look and Simon slouched into a plastic seat across from us. He didn’t see the twitch of a smile that Geof hid behind his magazine.
“Well, hell,” Simon complained to no one in particular and everyone in general. He lifted an abandoned newspaper from the floor and propped it ostentatiously between him and us.
I read, or tried to. Every now and then a word identified itself to me as something I recognized. Bobby Short was playing at the Carlyle, I read, and saw myself there with a certain detective. Leonardo Print Exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, the magazine announced, and I imagined us strolling the vast halls. I read that the Museum of Holography was open from ten to five weekdays, and that the Frick was open on Sundays and I thought of Sunday mornings in bed. I was as sensitive to the feel of Geof’s tweed arm against my wool one as though I wore a short sleeved summer dress and my arm was bare.
Read the magazine, I commanded myself, but the voice sounded like Michael’s and was aggrieved. An advertisement advised me to dine at the World Trade Center, I saw myself gazing over the rim of a glass of champagne at a man who was not Michael. Other ads invited me to stay at the St. Moritz, the Algonquin, the Hyatt… comfortable suites, soft beds, soft lights, smooth skin, soft lips …
By the time they called our flight my fancy was taking heated flights of its own. Funny what the twilight hour will do to the human imagination.