Authors: Jeremiah Healy
“How can I help you, Mr. Cuddy?”
“Did you talk to Mrs. Rivkind directly?”
“I did. Pearl said you were looking into what happened here for her and into Darbra’s disappearance for her brother—Darbra’s, I mean.”
“That’s right.”
“What happened that night, it’s not easy for me. But if it’ll help, I’ll do what I can.”
“Let’s save that for a minute and start with Darbra. How long has she worked here?”
“About three months, but I could get the exact date from the payroll records.”
“Could you?”
Swindell went over to one of the computers, clacked awhile, then said, “March twenty-eighth, a Monday.”
Two weeks after Darbra Proft’s telephone call to her aunt, checking on the life insurance policies.
Swindell came back to the table.
I said, “How did she get the job?”
“I think Darbra’s brother knew Pearl from town—the town the Rivkinds lived in, Sharon. Her brother mentioned that Darbra was looking for a job, and Pearl said to speak to her husband, maybe there was an opening at the store.”
“Was there?”
Swindell closed in a bit. “Was there what?”
“An opening.”
She seemed to choose her words carefully. “We had to use secretaries from time to time, usually got them from temp agencies. I guess Joel and Abe decided it would be a good idea to have somebody full-time.”
The way Swindell said it, I had the feeling she didn’t think it was such a good idea. “How have things worked out?”
“With Darbra, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have that much to do with her. Most of my time is on the computers, and they produce about all the paperwork I deal with. I started here fifteen years ago, nobody thought about computers for anything but space shots down at Cape Canaveral, you know? Now I don’t see how we could live without them.”
I had a different feeling, like I was being steered away from something. “With what you’ve had to do with Darbra, how does she strike you?”
Swindell didn’t say anything.
I took a breath. “Look, Mrs. Rivkind told me you all would do your best to help me here. There’s not much I can do for either of my clients without everybody telling me what they can.”
A bob. “Darbra is … manipulating. Or manipulative, I guess.”
“How do you mean?”
“She’s bright, but not in a … productive way? She gets into a situation you’ve handed her, and she tries to do you one better, but not necessarily in a way that does her job better.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Couple of times, I’ve asked her to kind of sort things, put invoices or whatever into reverse chronological order, make it easier to see where we stand on shipments.”
“And?”
“And she does almost what I tell her.”
“Almost.”
“Yeah, but she’ll put this twist in it, like sort the things into two piles instead of one.”
“Which didn’t help you.”
“And which maybe didn’t hurt me, either. I mean, hurt what it was I was going to do with the things. It’s just that she has to … manipulate the job somehow, like she’s trying to do your idea one better.”
Swindell seemed to be opening up a little, speaking in a more relaxed tone. I took a chance. “I understand there was a fight in a restaurant around here?”
“A fight?”
“An argument between Darbra and a man?”
“Oh, that.”
“You saw it, then?”
“Yes, it was pretty embarrassing.”
“How so?”
“Well, I was sitting in Grgo’s, a table in a corner like this one is, away from the center of the room. All of us eat there a lot—it was Abe’s favorite place—but I’d never seen this man before, and it was, well, kind of like Darbra was … showing him off?”
“Showing him off?”
“Yes. She introduced him to Grgo—the owner? Then she made a real production about getting seated, not right at the center, but toward the center and across the room from me.”
“You said that people from the store ate there a lot. Was anybody else there that night?”
“From the store?”
“Right.”
“No, not that I saw. No, definitely.”
“Do you think Darbra saw you?”
“Yes. But she made a real effort not to look over at me, like she was an actress and I was the audience.”
I thought back to the phrase Roger Houle had used. Playacting. “Go on.”
“Well, I was already halfway through my meal, so I thought I’d just finish and leave. Before I could, though, Darbra raised her voice.”
“Raised it.”
“Yes, like she was angry about something. I looked over there—you can’t help yourself, somebody acts up in a restaurant—and I saw her throw some wine at this man and stand up and throw down her napkin and kind of stomp out of there.”
“Stomp.”
“Yes, but like she was putting it on, acting rather than just acting up, like I told you before.”
“And the man?”
“He seemed kind of shocked, fumbling around for a couple of seconds. Then Grgo was right there, kind of toweling him off with another napkin. Then the man left, too.”
“Could you hear anything that was said?”
“No. Just like her voice, not the words to it.”
“Did you see her at work the next day?”
“Yes.”
“How did she seem?”
“She, I don’t know, kind of pouted, like I’d put some insult on her.”
“She didn’t mention the fight?”
“No, and I didn’t bring it up.”
Understandable. “Mrs. Swindell, I need to ask you about what happened here the night Mr. Rivkind was killed.”
She lifted her chin an inch higher. “Ask.”
“I’ve read the police reports, but you’re the first person I’m seeing who was here that night. Can you tell me what you remember?”
“I remember too much, but I’ll tell you what I can. It was a Thursday—we’re open till eight, Thursdays, kind of a tradition but hard to justify on the business we do once the commuters head home. Anyway, I was here in my office, working on the dailies.”
“The dailies?”
“The tabulations, department by department, of what we had in. Abe insisted on that, always wanted to know how we’d done before he headed home.”
“So you were working here.”
“Yes. With my door closed.”
“Why?”
“Abe and Joel always liked to talk at the end of the day, and they always kept their door open. I don’t close mine, I can’t concentrate.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“I was sitting here, working, and I guess they were down in their office.”
“You guess?”
“Well, that’s where they’d be.”
“All right.”
“I was just finishing with the dailies when I heard the back door alarm go off.”
“The alarm for the back door of the building.”
“Yes. It’s got one of those school-door things on it, sets off an alarm when you hit it.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to phone Abe and Joel.”
“Why?”
“Well, I guess it could have been a fire, but we’d been having problems with kids coming into the store and hiding out. One of them had a knife once, and that’s why Joel said we needed a security guard, especially for Thursdays.”
“That would be Finian Quill?”
“Yes, Finian. Anyway, Abe said, if I ever hear the alarm, I should just sit tight and lock my door.”
“Did you?”
“No. Like I said, I wasn’t sure, was it a fire or was it kids? When Abe and Joel didn’t answer, I thought it might be bad, so I ran out into the hall here, and the noise from the alarm was real loud, we’ve got those siren things on every floor, and I went down to Abe and Joel’s office.”
“Even though they hadn’t answered the phone?”
“Yes. They should have—answered, I mean, and I wanted to see if anything was wrong.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t see anything, at first.” Swindell bit her lip. “Then I stepped into the room, and saw Abe. He was on the floor by their desk, and he had this big … gash upside his head … and … I don’t know, I guess I started screaming. I remember I ran down the hall, busted open the door there—”
“Wait a minute. Which end of the hall?”
“The end by the back stairs. I busted open that door with the school handle and yelled for Finian.”
“For the guard.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought he might be down there by then, checking on things.”
“By ‘down there,’ you mean the first-floor back door?”
“Yes.”
“Did he answer you?”
“If he did, I couldn’t hear him over the sirens. My dear God, it was deafening, once you stuck your head out there, worse than even in the hall.”
“Then what?”
“I started to turn around, and Joel was there, shaking me by the shoulders, asking me what was wrong.”
“He didn’t know about Mr. Rivkind.”
“No. Not then, because when I yelled at him—you had to yell, to make yourself heard—he put up his hands, like ‘What, what?’ and so I ran back to their office and … and showed him.”
“What was Mr. Bernstein’s reaction?”
Swindell looked at me hard. “His reaction? He was—” She stopped. “Actually, I was so shocked myself, I guess I’d use that word for him, too. He covered his face with his hands, then grabbed the poker.”
“The poker.”
“The one from their fireplace. It was on the ground by Abe … by Abe’s body. And Joel just grabbed it and threw it to the side.”
“Where did he grab it?”
“What?”
“The poker. Where did Mr. Bernstein grab it?”
“I don’t know. I may have … no, no I didn’t—I couldn’t see, because he—Joel—got down on his knees between me and Abe … Abe’s …” Swindell waved her hand, warding off the memory.
I waited, then said, “Where was Finian Quill all this time?”
“I didn’t know. I mean, we’ve all talked about it since, so I know Finian was in the alley in back, looking for whoever it was, and Joel was in the men’s, but that’s just because we talked about it. I didn’t see any of it.”
“Mr. Rivkind, he was dead when you found him?”
“I don’t know. Joel said we should move him, try to … resuscitate him? But … I helped him move the body a little, got some blood on … on me, and I wasn’t too good after that.”
I waited longer before saying, “Mrs. Swindell, how do you think the killer got out?”
She shook her head. “At first, when the police were talking to us, I figured whoever it was must have gone out the front way.”
“The front way?”
“The swinging doors we have back out to the store.”
“Past the rest rooms.”
“Yes, and then when the main entrance on the first floor was locked and he couldn’t get out, he went back through the store to the back door and set off the alarm. But that was because I didn’t hear anything before the alarm went off.”
“You did have your door closed, though.”
“That’s right. That’s what I mean. With the door closed and all, I guess the man could have gone by my office, then down the back stairs and out.”
“Setting off the alarm.”
“Right, but the alarm goes off up here, too.”
“You already told me that.”
“No. No, I mean—what’s the best way to say this? We hear the alarm all over the store, that’s the idea of it, to warn everybody. But it gets set off by opening any one of the doors to the stairs.”
I tried to picture it. “Any one of the doors to the back stairs sets off the alarm?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
I made a mental note to ask Bernstein and Quill about that, but there were still a few questions I had for her, ones I’d saved till the end because I didn’t think she’d like them. “Mrs. Swindell, have there been any problems with the business here?”
She stiffened. “Problems?”
“Money problems, debt problems, you tell me.”
“I don’t think I will, Mr. Cuddy. I’m the bookkeeper, and I don’t think it’s my place to comment on that.”
She’d gone back to the reserved, precise tone of her profession. “Different question, then. There’s no easy way to phrase this. Do you think there was anything beyond business between Darbra Proft and Abe Rivkind?”
Stiff became rigid. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Cuddy. When I was young, and my husband got sent to prison, the judge was going to send me along with him. He might have had grounds, too, some kind of accomplice charge. Well, I’d been taking some courses at one of the business schools over in Back Bay, improve myself, but I needed a job. The probation officer back then, he knew Abe from the temple they belonged to, and he asked Abe if he’d stand up for me, give me a job.” Her anger seemed to burnish itself. “Abe met with me, talked with me, and hired me. Nowadays, all you hear about is the friction, the hate. Farrakhan and the JDL. Even back then, though, it still meant having a black woman in a Jewish business, but Abe gave me a chance, and that means something to me, Mr. Cuddy. So you have that kind of questions, you can ask them to somebody else.”
A male voice boomed off the walls of the corridor. “Beverly? Beverly, you all right down there?”
Swindell took the edge out of her voice. “I’m fine, Joel, but there’s somebody here I think you ought to meet.”
Footsteps barely sounded on the carpet outside, even with the office door open. I said, “One last thing. What’s your husband’s name?”
She spoke softly, contempt lacing the words. “Swindell, Samuel E. He did a short ten at Walpole, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since he got out. What’s more, I hope I never will.”
T
HE MAN FILLING THE
doorway to Beverly Swindell’s office literally had to turn himself sideways to walk through it. About five-eight, he was obese, his stomach swinging in front of him like the bass drummer for a marching band. In his mid-fifties, the hair was still black and lay in clotted curls on his head. The eyes were sweeping the room, as though he expected to hear a joke about his weight and wanted to spot the joker. He wore pants with suspenders, and a shirt that strained at the waistline but billowed on the arms.
He addressed Swindell. “What’s happening?” She said, “Joel, this is John Cuddy, the investigator Pearl hired. Mr. Cuddy, Joel Bernstein.”
I stood to shake with him and nearly flinched at the strength of his grip. I had the feeling he was putting more behind it than just a businesslike firmness.