Irish Coffee (9 page)

THOSE PERSONALLY CONCERNED
with a death said not to be due to natural causes must see it as the single most important event, the cynosure of every prurient eye, the topic of every whispering and doubtless malevolent lip. Of course this is not so, but the Nevilles, as the significance of what the police told them about their son's death sank in, knew a sadness deeper than grief. Had Fred destroyed himself? Detective Jimmy Stewart was noncommittal.

“Have you any reason to think he would have done that?”

“None.” Mrs. Neville was the default speaker for the couple. “He loved his job, he loved being here at Notre Dame.”

“And he was engaged to Naomi McTear.”

Mrs. Neville looked away. “Yes.”

“So you must know her rather well.”

“Oh, not at all. Once she came by our place in Phoenix, when she was passing through, to introduce herself and tell us about her and Fred.”

“Is that how you learned of the engagement?”

“This was shortly afterward, apparently.”

“Those are lovely rings,” Stewart said.

Mrs. Neville held out her hands as if for inspection.

“What is that diamond?”

“My engagement ring.” She cast a loving glance at her husband, who seemed mildly sedated.

“But I thought Fred gave your engagement ring to Naomi.”

“My engagement ring? Certainly not. My rings will go with me to the grave.”

“Hmmm.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

“I must have misunderstood.”

“Is that what she said?” Mr. Neville asked.

“As I say, I must have misunderstood.”

“Surely Fred couldn't have told her that.”

Stewart asked if they would like to go through their son's apartment.

“I thought it was sealed off.”

“I can let you in.”

But Mr. Neville shook his head. “Not yet.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“Until we know what happened to Fred.”

 

It is always cruel when parents lose a child, but when the parents are elderly and the child an adult, it is in its way more difficult rather than less. The Nevilles were clearly in the last act of their lives, knew that and accepted it, and could not have dreamt that Fred would die before them. Suicide seemed more and more unlikely, and Stewart wished he could assure the Nevilles that it was impossible that their son had taken his own life. He hoped to be able to give them that assurance today. Roger Knight had asked the obvious question.

“Did you find the poison in the apartment?”

“Only in the cup from which he had been drinking.”

 

Stewart had arranged to meet the Knights at Fred's apartment after this call on the Nevilles. He was allowed to continue working on Fred Neville's death only because of the department's concern to keep the matter as much under wraps as possible. The fact that Phil was working with him, courtesy of the university, justified assigning only Stewart to the case, and that lessened the drain on departmental resources. Even so, the media people, who had lavishly covered the funeral, largely because of the presence of coaches and players, and then subsided, had now, in the person of Laura Reith, shown renewed interest.

“What's up?” she had asked, sailing into Stewart's office in battle dress. She affected denims, men's shirts, and what might have been combat boots. Emerging from this proletarian apparel that all but concealed her gender was the loveliest face seen around police headquarters. Auburn hair, a complexion of natural tan, and pouty lips that seemed perpetually pursed to be kissed.

“I am,” Stewart said, rising from his chair.

Laura sat in a chair and threw her denimed legs out before him, making an easy exit difficult.

“Why are you still following up on the Neville death?”

“Routine.”

“Sure. You and Philip Knight are just staving off boredom. Was it suicide?”

“No, he gagged while reading the local paper.”

Laura laughed. She was a reporter for the local television station that was a rival of the one owned by the local paper.

“I want an interview with Naomi McTear. Has she left town?”

“Some people work for a living.”

“Well, I'm going to follow up on it. Nice story. Notre Dame sports information person, cable television sideline commentator. Sounds like conflict of interest. She seemed even prettier in person.”

“Did she?”

Had Laura any inkling what a knockout she herself was? Stewart was certain she did. The way she dressed was meant to neutralize that but until and unless she wore a mask no one could fail to be struck by her.

“Oh, come on.”

“The prettiest girls go into journalism nowadays.”

Laura thought about it, as if the remark did not concern herself. She nodded. “If not pretty then pert and perky.”

“Hannah Storm.”

“Who's the one who does tennis?”

Laura looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You're dodging me, aren't you?”

“In what sense?”

“Ho, ho. Did Fred Neville commit suicide?”

“It's possible.”

“So is a smart detective. Is it plausible?”

“Ask a smart detective.”

“I just did.”

“I don't think so. In an hour, I'll know for pretty sure.”

“It's still an open question?”

“What's a closed question?”

“What it sounds like. What will decide the matter?”

If he went on talking to Laura like this he would be late to let the Knights into Fred's apartment. “Look, I'll get back to you.”

“Or vice versa.”

SCOTT FRYE REGARDED HIS
employment at Hoosier Residences as a disguise and took some pleasure in playing the role of obsequious menial behind the lobby desk, deferential to the residents, taking secret pleasure in the thought that they took him at face value. How could they guess that his head was filled with scenarios of the screenplays he intended to write? Nathanael West had been a room clerk. Mike Nichols had gone into almost monastic seclusion after he and Elaine May stopped making their hilarious dialogues, tapes of which Scott had all but memorized. After years of hibernation during which he seemed to have spent most of his time in bed, alone, Nichols emerged as the director of
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf
? And the rest was history. So too Scott thought of himself as germinating at HR, awaiting the spring when he would awake from his apparent slumber and be revealed as his true self. Meanwhile he had to deal with the invariably bitchy Naomi McTear. He had made the mistake of expressing his condolences when she passed his desk on her way out.

“Do I know you?”

“Only in my official capacity.”

“Do you know me?”

“Ditto.”

Q.E.D. apparently. Scott retained his fixed professional smile after having been put so decisively in his place. Could her manner be due to profound grief? He doubted it, he knew not why. For all her daring decolletage, the milk of human kindness was not a phrase that leapt to mind in dealing with Naomi McTear. The staff called her McTerror.

The cable network owned four suites in the building and Naomi was a frequent presence, more so during the past year, and the reason was Fred Neville. He had spent the night with her a couple times but in recent months the couple had seemingly decided on being more discreet and Fred was seldom seen on the premises. When Scott had told Anthony about this early on he invited the impression that assignations at HR were an established thing with the couple. Anthony had been eager to hear more and how could a future world-renowned screenwriter fail to provide a prurient story line? Anthony had eaten it up.

“What he like?” Scott asked. “I mean at work.”

“Fred? He's good.”

“He your boss?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Aha. So he had fed Anthony a few more imaginary bones to gnaw on.

Scott went out back for a smoke and while he was shivering and trying to pretend he was enjoying his cigarette the door opened and one of the cleaning ladies came outside dragging two large plastic bags. This was one of the youngsters who still thought of her employment as glamorous. Scott stepped forward, glanced at her name tag, and said, “I'll take those, Heather.”

“Oh, thank you.” She in turn glanced at his name tag. “Mr. Scott.” A bit of a downer that, but then the cleaning ladies did not frequent the front desk.

“Where is this stuff from?”

“It's on the bags.”

And so it was, the number of the suite stenciled onto the plastic bags. Scott hadn't known of this practice. But then a desk clerk did not frequent the office of resident maintenance. Heather was shivering. “Go on inside, I'll take care of these.”

Scott took the bags toward the Dumpster at the back of the parking lot, hearing the door close behind him, indicating that Heather had gone inside. The sack in his right hand bore the number of the suite that had been used by Naomi McTear. Scott propped it against the back bumper of his car and took the other to the Dumpster and threw it in. On the way back, he popped his trunk, and dumped the other sack inside. By such random and irrational deeds the course of history is altered. In words somewhat to that effect, Scott returned to his desk.

It had been an impulsive deed, one done without forethought or plan, just done. He gave as little thought to it afterward as before, and so it was that for some days the black plastic sack of detritus from the suite of Naomi McTear lay forgotten in the trunk of Scott Frye's car.

MARY SHUSTER CARRIED
with her the poem in which Fred Neville had, in coded form, declared his love for her, carried it as Pascal had carried his Memorial sewn into the lining of his coat, as Descartes had carried with him the account of the dreams on the basis of which he had given philosophy a new and fateful turn. The poem itself made little sense to her and she could believe that Fred had written it only to convey the message of the opening letters of its lines.

The trauma of Fred's death, the wake and funeral, the awful news that he had died of poisoning, were slowly giving way to emptiness. She had never felt so lonely in her life. The telephone on her desk rang but it was never Fred on the line. There would never again be a call from Fred. And when the afternoon lengthened and lights were turned on against the winter dusk the time came when she would have gone off to see Fred at the Joyce Center.

Snow was falling softly when she emerged from the building, drifting dreamily in the soft glow of the lamps along the campus walkways. Mary set off across the campus, walking with her head back to allow the snowflakes to moisten her face. Her tears merged with the melted snow. She went through a little quadrant of residence halls and then around the great bulk of the library, proceeding on a diagonal, past O'Shaughnessy into the main mall and continuing to the law school. She crossed the oval and went along the walk that passed the Morris Inn and Alumni Center. The parking lot in front of the bookstore was, as always, full, the cars losing their shapes under the accumulation of snow. And then she was passing Cedar Grove Cemetery. She stopped, looked ahead and then behind, and then permitted herself to weep convulsively as she had not yet done, lamenting her lost future.

When she turned onto Angela Boulevard toward home, she wondered if it had been wise to agree with Fred that they must wait to announce their engagement until he had straightened out things with Naomi McTear. Mary was not a great sports fan, as this is reckoned at Notre Dame, but she had seen and not especially liked Naomi when she appeared breathless on the screen from the sidelines of a game. Her dislike of the woman had grown and, after the events of recent days, had almost settled into unchristian hatred.

“Naomi McTear!” she had said when Fred first told her of his involvement with the television reporter.

“I find it hard to believe myself.”

“Was your engagement announced?”

“It's hard to explain.”

“Is it?”

“Mary, I feel trapped. It sounds ridiculous, but things just happened and before I knew it she was talking of getting married.”

“
She
was?”

“I said it sounds ridiculous.”

“Well, it certainly does. Did you formally propose to her?”

He fell into an embarrassed silence and Mary found that she did not want to press him on the matter. She did not want to find out what form his relationship with Naomi had taken. Fred was always so respectful of her, almost too much so, but she sensed a nobility in it.

“You gave her your mother's ring.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Fred, I saw it. Everyone did. She made sure of that.”

“That is
her
mother's ring.”

“Hers! How could you give her her own mother's ring?”

“I didn't. Oh my God, this is hard to explain.

Now Mary wanted to know. “Tell me,” she said gently.

It had not been enjoyable to hear but it was obviously more agonizing for Fred to tell. At first, it was simply in the line of duty. It was his job to supply reporters with the information they needed to be as knowledgeable as possible about the players, the coaches, various statistics, past and present. Naomi was a reporter, often the only female reporter, and she demanded and got special attention. Fred told her of the dinner at the Carriage House and its aftermath, more by suggestion than directly, but Mary got the picture.

“She lured you to her room.”

“I was a free agent.”

“You said you feel trapped and I can understand that. You are. You were. Fred, break it off. She has no legitimate hold on you. I assume you do want to break it off.”

“Oh, Mary.”

She let him take her in his arms, unconsciously recognizing the vulnerability of the contrite male. Men are such fools in matters of love, meaning sex. But then so are women. Anthony unmanned himself for Cleopatra, but she ended with an adder on her bosom. Literature is largely the record of the follies of men and women, ruled by their passions, heedless of consequences, and later wracked by remorse. Naomi's edge had been the disarming brazenness with which she had pursued her quarry. Of course Fred had been helpless before such an onslaught. Any man would have been. Well, most men.

“Can you forgive me?”

“First you must forgive yourself. I hope you've been to confession about this.”

She felt him grow uneasy. Confessions were heard daily on campus, in Sacred Heart, elsewhere. It was Mary's practice once a month to slip over to the basilica at 11:15 when confessions were heard before the 11:30 Mass. One of the perks of working at Notre Dame was that absence for devotion was never questioned. An annoying thing about those midday confessions were the troops of tourists being led around by officious guides, speaking in loud tones. Bald or silver-haired or both, their blazers a kind of uniform, these guides were retired laymen who found in the mild authority of leading a tour a sufficient last hurrah. The confessionals were an object of interest. Tourists would lag behind and sometimes open a confessional door and peek in, expecting who knew what Maria Monk disporting. Once, while confessing, Mary had heard the door open and then quickly close. Dear God. It was bad enough to whisper her sins through the grille to the priest but the thought of being an object on display for tourists distracted her.

“I didn't hear that, Father.”

The priest had been in full flight when she said this. He was young, zealous, and had obviously prepared a set piece for penitents that day. Her interruption threw him off. There was a moment of silence.

“I will give you absolution now.”

“And my penance?”

Another silence. “Are you staying for Mass?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Offer it up for the poor souls in purgatory.”

And he went into the long form of the formula of absolution, speaking rapidly. Mary had strained to follow him; she wanted to hear every word of it.

After his revelation about Naomi, Mary advised Fred to avail himself of that midday opportunity to get his slate clean. He stepped back and looked at her. Then drew her to him again and kissed her passionately.

“God bless you, Mary.”

Walking home with snow falling like a benediction on the world she prayed for the repose of Fred's soul. The thought of dedicating her life to her lost love had occurred to her when she decided to attend the wake and funeral all in black. His death had made her a widow of sorts. The future with him she had dreamt of would never be, but in some ways they were closer now, as if she could communicate with him in the privacy of her mind. The thought of sacrificing herself to his memory had a powerful attraction. It would be an acceptable equivalent of Dido throwing herself on the burning pyre so the escaping Aeneas could see how powerfully her love for him had affected her. Not a very close analogy, but Mary understood what she meant.

When she got home, she came in the kitchen door, stamped snow from her feet, hung up her coat and went into the living room to find Anthony Boule sitting cozily with her mother before the fire.