Friends till the End (10 page)

“Poor William. He hasn’t given up on you yet.”

“You have, though, haven’t you, Maya?”

“Oh, I never had any hopes for you to start with, Snooky.”

“There’s the telephone. Do you want to get it, or should I?”

“You get it. It’ll be the only thing you’ve done for us the whole time you’ve been here.”

“Hi, Isabel,” Snooky said into the phone. “How are you? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Really? Yeah? Yeah? Okay. Yes. See you then. Really? Okay. I’ll ask them. Talk to you later. Yeah. Bye.”

“One of the more stimulating conversations it’s ever been my pleasure to overhear,” said his sister, unfolding the newspaper and squinting at the crossword puzzle. “Snook, what’s a four-letter word that means ‘antelope, African variety’?”

“ ‘Kudu.’ That was Isabel. She wants to invite us to a party some friend of her father’s is giving. All of us. That means you and Bernard, too.”

“Oh, no.” Maya glanced up. “Not
Bernard
. Bernard can’t go to that party. Didn’t you tell her?”

“I thought I’d ask him first.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. You know Bernard never goes to any parties if he can avoid it. There’s absolutely zero chance of your talking him into a party given
by some friend of Isabel’s father. Bernard never goes outside the house unless someone’s paying him.”

“Agoraphobia is a terrible disease.”

“He’s not agoraphobic. Not at all. He’s a writer, Snooky. He hates people. Especially children. My God, how he hates children.”

“But he writes for children.”

“Yes. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“No way in hell,” Bernard said later, when the idea was presented to him.

Snooky quirked an eyebrow at him. “You and my sister have been married too long. That’s exactly what she said you’d say.”

“Some party given by a friend of Isabel’s father? You must be out of your mind,” Bernard said irritably. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

“Honestly, Bernard. You’re so weird. You’re—what’s the word?—anthropophobic?”

Bernard regarded him doubtfully. “I thought that meant cannibals.”

“ ‘Anthropophagi,’ ” supplied Snooky automatically. “Man-eater. Are you sure you won’t come?”

“Go away and leave me alone.”

“But I thought you were so interested in all these people.”

Bernard put down his pencil and regarded Snooky thoughtfully. “I am.”

“Then why don’t you come meet them all? This is the perfect opportunity.”

“I don’t want to meet them,” snarled Bernard. “You’ve met them. That’s enough.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Go away, Snooky.”

Maya came upon Snooky in the living room a short while later. He was collapsed in a chair, his long legs stretching out toward the empty fireplace.

“What is it, Snooks?”

“Oh, I was just thinking. I was trying to decide what it is I like best about Bernard. Is it his congeniality, or his tactfulness?”

“Bernard is a special kind of person. He’s the kind of
person who hates everyone else on the planet. You have to understand that.”

“Well, I’m going to the party anyway.”

“That’s fine. You can tell us all about it. Bernard and I will sit near the door with bated breath waiting for you to get home.”

“I don’t understand, Maya. Don’t you like to go out once in a while?”

She ruffled his hair fondly. “We do go out, just the two of us, quite a lot. And Bernard may not be the most sociable person I’ve ever met, but being married to him has other advantages.”

“Such as?”

“Such as I love him. Now shut up and stop brooding. I’d like some help with dinner, if you’re not too busy.”

Heather Crandall looked around her living room with a satisfied air. The party was going beautifully. It was almost as good as one of Laura’s—not quite, but almost. People weren’t sparkling the way they did at Laura’s, but then, this was a difficult occasion. The guests were, naturally, a little subdued. Ruth and Sam were listening to Harry quite peacefully, not bothering to object or interrupt. Freda and Walter were standing
together
in the corner, conversing amiably, which must be a first, thought Heather. Isabel and Richard and Isabel’s new friend, what’s-his-name, were standing by the buffet table picking at the food. Heather glanced at the food and felt she had surpassed herself. It was all natural, all good, and very delicious. Little Harry had passed his judgment on it earlier, before the guests arrived.

“Great,” he had declared, wolfing down the portion of food she had set aside for the kids’ lunch. “Great, Mom, just fabulous. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Of course she never served alcohol. She didn’t approve of it, especially in the afternoon. Freda looked a little lost without a glass in her hand. Heather crossed to the buffet table and poured a hefty glass of the punch, which consisted of various natural unfiltered juices and pure sparkling seltzer. She put it in Freda’s hand.

“Thanks, Heather,” Freda said. She looked absolutely terrible, as if she hadn’t slept for weeks. She was still dressed in solid black from head to toe.

“Punch. It’s good for you. Try it.”

Heather moved away, glancing back at Freda’s drawn and worried face and wondering whether she should talk to her about the restorative powers of vitamins B and C, particularly the whole B-complex …

Walter was drinking the punch like there was no tomorrow. Heather felt pleased. Of course he considered it safe, since it was in a large glass bowl and everybody was drinking from it. Still, he seemed to like it. His glass was empty, so she took it and refilled it from the punch bowl. She could hear him talking avidly to Freda. To Heather’s surprise, they were discussing Laura.

“She always loved to travel,” Walter was saying sadly. “You know that picture we have over the fireplace? She brought it back from France the last time we went. She always swore it was a Watteau. It wasn’t, of course, but she got a great price on it. My God, that woman could bargain.”

“I remember when we were in Hong Kong, years ago,” Freda replied. “Laura hit the stores there and they were never the same again. She could bargain them down to practically nothing. I remember once when she saw a ring she liked, an emerald, diamond and sapphire ring …”

Heather went back to the buffet table and stood there anxiously checking the food. Was everything all right? People seemed to like the cheese and crackers, but her specialty, marinated tofu, was still untouched. She took a plate and scooped some up. Well, she would show them. Was there enough punch? If not, she could send Harry out to the store …

Harry was having a good time. He was talking about somebody named Miltiades, an ancient Athenian statesman. Heather listened in amazed tolerance. Really, Harry was something else. Even after twenty years she was still learning things about him. Who would ever have thought that he would know anything about Athenian government?

Harry left Sam and Ruth and went over to prey upon Walter and Freda, who were deep in their reminiscences
and did not even notice him. He stood there uncertainly for a moment, then joined Heather at the table.

“Good food,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Good party.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. Stop worrying. Everything’s going great.”

Sam and Ruth came over to talk to Walter and Freda. The men shook hands self-consciously. Ruth looked worried; but then, thought Heather, Ruth always looked worried. She was wearing a lacy pink dress whose hem was starting to unravel. Her eyes darted nervously over Walter’s face as he talked.

Sam, on the other hand, seemed fairly relaxed. Whatever the problem was, he wasn’t letting on. He treated Walter with an easy familiarity. Walter, on his side, seemed boisterous and in a good mood. He always was, thought Heather cynically, when he was eating and drinking at somebody else’s expense.

Although he wasn’t eating anything. He hadn’t touched any of the food, just kept drinking from the punch bowl.

That friend of Isabel’s was looking very thoughtful, Heather noticed. His eyes were on Walter. Isabel and Richard did not seem to be having a very good time. The three of them, the younger generation, stood close together and spoke very little.

Where was Linus? thought Heather suddenly, in a panic. Where was—oh. Of course. Little Harry and Charlie were out for the afternoon, but Linus had insisted on coming to the party to see his Uncle Wally. Now he was playing with blocks underneath the buffet table. She had to lift up the tablecloth to see him.

“Hi, Mommy.”

“You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good.”

That resolved, she went to join the group around Walter. Walter had objected to something Harry said and it looked like a fight was brewing. Adroitly, Heather turned the conversation elsewhere and pressed more food on everybody.

The party lasted for another hour or so. People left in ones and twos, thanking her profusely at the door.

“Great party,” Sam said, kissing her cheek. “See you soon?”

“Of course.”

“It’s our turn to have everybody over next,” said Ruth.

“That’s great,” said Heather doubtfully. Ruth was a dear, but she wasn’t much of a hostess or cook …

“Thanks so much,” Ruth was saying. “I think it really helped—
really
—to get the two of them together like this,” she continued in a low voice.

“Oh, good. I’m glad.”

Freda left, followed by the kids—Isabel and Richard and Snooky—and Heather, with a sigh of relief, went back into the living room.

“Harry?”

She looked out onto the patio. Harry was showing Walter their garden. It wasn’t much of a garden, really just a row of geraniums and a row of tulips, but Harry was inordinately proud of it. He was a fanatical gardener and spent a lot of his spare time in a pair of old overalls, rooting vengefully for weeds.

As she watched, Walter suddenly put his hand on his stomach and staggered forward.

“Heather!” Harry called. “
Heather!
”

She ran outside. Somehow they managed to get Walter inside and help him onto the sofa. He was groaning and his breath was irregular.

He muttered faintly, “
Poison
 …!”

“Call the hospital,” Harry said sharply. “Get an ambulance. I’ll find that book—I have a book on poisons—”

Heather ran out of the room, her heart racing.

She dialed the hospital emergency service. Her fingers were trembling so badly she could barely push the buttons on the phone.

“Please,” she said. “Please—I need an ambulance—right away—232 Glenview Road—somebody’s been poisoned—”

On her way back to the living room she nearly collided with Harry running down the stairs. He was holding an old threadbare book marked
Household Poisons and Their Cures
.

“Milk,” he barked at her. “Or water. Maybe milk
and
water. I haven’t had time to look it up—”

“He needs to throw up,” Heather said vaguely. “Or is that bad for him? My God, Harry, what are we going to
do
?”

Harry was thumbing frantically through the book.

“If only we knew what it was,” he muttered. “There are so many different kinds—”

“Insecticide,” Heather said firmly.

He looked up at her. “You think?”

“Insecticide. It’s what—what Laura died from. Oh my God, Harry, here’s the ambulance!”

In the living room, Walter was in a bad state. He was groaning, his face was white and he was in convulsions. To her astonishment, Heather found herself eyeing the lamp he had knocked over and wondering if it were broken.

She felt as if time had slowed down. She watched as if from far away as the ambulance crew rushed in and bundled Walter onto a stretcher. The next thing she knew, he was gone.

Suddenly she found herself running out of her house and screaming down the street after the departing ambulance.

“He
couldn’t
have been poisoned here!” she cried idiotically. “He couldn’t! It was all
health food!
”

Jim Voelker was back at the hospital, talking to the same young resident. His name was Dr. Winston and, if anything, he looked more tired than before. There were blue shadows under his eyes and he looked as if he would very much like to yawn but did not feel it was appropriate.

“Same poison as the wife,” he was saying. “Definitely. A rare kind of insecticide. I grabbed him as soon as he came in and started the antidote procedures. Even so, it was a very close shave.”

“There’s no chance—” Voelker hesitated—“that he was faking it?”

The shadowed blue eyes looked at him in faint amusement.

“None at all.”

“Was it a large dose? Can you tell?”

“Large enough. It’s hard to gauge the exact amount, of course. Depends on body metabolism and other factors. But it was a toxic dose, all right.”

“How long before he came in would you estimate the poison was administered?”

“Hard to say. The first symptoms appeared approximately twenty-five minutes before he got here, according to the report. With this stuff, he could have ingested it anywhere between an hour, maybe an hour and a half before that. It takes a while to show up.”

Voelker nodded. That fit. The insecticide was slipped into Walter Sloane’s glass sometime during the party.

“One more question. How long do you intend to keep him here?”

The doctor shrugged. He made a notation on the chart. “He’ll be here maybe four, five days, recovering. After that, who knows? Frankly, this is one patient who doesn’t want to go home. He keeps telling me that someone in his close circle of friends is trying to kill him. He doesn’t feel safe outside the hospital.”

The tired blue eyes looked straight at Detective Voelker.

“An attitude like that doesn’t exactly help in a quick recovery. And frankly, I can’t blame him. Whoever gave him that dose of insecticide wasn’t trying to be friendly.”

“Yes. Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You’re welcome.” Dr. Winston wandered off toward the nurses’ station and, Voelker noted, the coffee machine that sat perking invitingly.

Incongruously, Voelker found himself thinking about Walter Sloane’s hands—those long, fretful hands that moved and plucked nervously as he talked. What had the man done that somebody wanted to kill him—had struck twice at his family, and probably would again? For Voelker was sure that the two poisonings were done by the same person. Same method, same setting; the hallmark of a murderer. Someone in Sloane’s immediate circle; perhaps in his own house. Voelker thought of the two children, Isabel and Richard. They had a better motive than anyone else to kill off their father and stepmother. Money! How many crimes had been done for money? But there was another motive that Voelker had seen many times in his professional career, and that was a secret grudge. Sometimes a grudge of long standing, one that had grown and festered silently over the years. Everyone in Sloane’s circle of friends had known him at least twenty years. Except Freda Simms, of course, and she had her own reasons to hate him. He had stolen her best friend.