Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (13 page)

Security guards from the library upstairs appeared,
and I maneuvered Gun over to the black cop. As I walked back to my
seat, Jurick was saying, ". . . and I want to thank our speakers
and all of you once more and remind you of the book signing that will
. . ."

Alec Bacall said, "And how did you enjoy the
debate, John?"

"It was all right. Kind of a cold crowd,
though."

Del Wonsley said, "Oh, I don't know. I thought
that many were appalled, but few were frozen."

Bacall grinned. "That's why I love him so."
 

=10=

PLATO'S BOOKSHOP OCCUPIED A DOUBLE-WIDE RETAIL SPACE
ON Newbury Street, three blocks from the lecture hall. I was delayed
at the Rabb, giving the cops and the units that responded to their
call the details as I saw them. By the time I got to the store, the
signing was in full progress.

The window next to the door held a poster with
information about the debate and the signing to follow. Under the
poster and inside the shop was a display table. Around an
eight-by-ten black and white glossy portrait of Maisy Andrus were
maybe a hundred copies of her book. Some lay on their sides in
irregular piles while others stood up in little wire holders. A dozen
copies of Paul Eisenberg's book were shunted to one corner. There was
no photo of Eisenberg and nothing at all about the Reverend Givens.

Two lines of people trailed back from signing tables
in the rear of the shop. Eisenberg's line was a lot shorter than the
one in front of Andrus, and many of the Eisenberg hopefuls also
carried a copy of her book under their arms. I saw Olivia Jurick
smiling and shaking hands in a regular-customer way as she moved down
the aisle created by the two lines. On side counters were wine and
punch, cheese and crackers, grapes and pretzels. I could see Inés
Roja standing beside the sitting Andrus, opening the next copy of the
book to a given page for the professor to sign. Manolo stood a step
behind Andrus, glowering at each fan.

Alec Bacall and Del Wonsley were holding wineglasses
and watching Tucker Hebert entertain several fashionable women with
what appeared to be hilarious stories. I spotted the blonde I took to
be Kimberly and then, when she turned, Walter Strock, which surprised
me. He wasn't carrying a copy of Andrus's book, which didn't surprise
me. I didn't see the Reverend Givens nor, if skin color was a gauge,
many of her flock.

Bacall saw me and beckoned to cut through the Andrus
line.

Eisenberg was shaking the hand of his last fan and
looking around, rather awkwardly, presumably for Olivia Jurick to
tell him what to do next. In front of Andrus, a matronly woman had
just handed her copy of Our Right to Die to Inés for prepping. Roja
opened it, turned a page, and then dropped the book like a picnic
plate with a bee on it. I pushed through the line as politely as
possible. Andrus had picked up the book and was apologizing to the
matron when Andrus saw Roja's facial expression. Manolo saw it, too,
and edged forward, eyes mainly on the matron.

I said, "What's the matter?"

Andrus replied, "I don't know."

Inés had one hand to her mouth and the other
pointing to the book Andrus was setting on the table. The matron
started to say something about the jacket being damaged and wanting
another when I said, "Please?"

Taking out a pen, I prodded the book to a centered
position in front of me. Using the pen as a friction finger, I opened
the book and turned the leaves until I got to the title page.

There, under "by
Maisy Andrus," was a stickum mailing label with the cut-out
words: "THIS CLOSE WHORE."

* * *

"I just couldn't tell you, Mr. Cuddy."

Olivia Jurick was behind her cash register, wagging
her head as Maisy Andrus gamely signed the last few books for the
faithful who had stayed on line. The offending copy was between
Jurick and me in a plastic Plato's Bookshop bag.

I said, "Any way to determine who had access to
the books?"

"Not really," said Jurick. "We put the
poster up last Monday.

Seven days of promotion is about the most our
customers can tolerate. But copies of her book have been in the store
for at least a month before that. I could check our invoices if you'd
like?"

"I don't think that'll make a difference. The
woman who brought the book to Inés Roja — "

"Mrs. Thomason."

"Mrs. Thomason said she got the book from the
display table."

"Yes, well, I'm fairly certain that all of the
books on the table came from the special shipment I ordered for the
signing."

"And how long have they been here?"

"On the table, you mean?"

"In the store at all."

"Well, the boxes would have arrived about a week
before the poster went up, meaning about two weeks ago."

"And on the display table?"

"We wouldn't have opened the boxes and set up
publicly, you know, until the poster notice, so I would say early
last week."

"Anyone on your staff mention anything odd about
people hanging around the table?"

"No. But then, you must understand, Mr. Cuddy,
this is a bookstore. Our customers leaf through books in the process
of deciding which to buy. Since that horrible message was already on
a mailing label, someone could have stuck it there in five seconds or
so. None of my staff would have noticed that."

"Even if the person was wearing gloves at the
time?"

Jurick shrugged. "It is December."

I looked over at the display table. nearly emptied of
books now.

All our boy had to do, any time in the last week, was
pick up a copy of Our Right to Die, stick the label in it, then bury
the copy maybe halfway down one pile. To be sure it wasn't sold
pre-signing but would be brought to Andrus during the signing.

Jurick said, "Will the book help at all?"

"Excuse me?"

She stopped just short of touching the plastic bag.
"This copy. Will you be able to use it for clues?"

"The guy's been pretty careful so far. I'll take
it to the police, but there's not much chance they'll get anything
from it."

Jurick shook her head. "Who would do such a
thing?"

"You find out, let me know."
 

=11=

I SAID TO ALEC BACALL, "HOW IS Inés DOING?”

He gestured at the massive central staircase. "She
went up to her room to lie down."

"Inés lives here too?"

"Oh, yes. Maisy often likes to work at night,
and this way Inés can be available for whatever."

Bacall said the last in a matter-of-fact way, no
inflection or other indication of double meaning. We were standing
alone in a ground floor parlor done in blue pastels. Bacall, Wonsley,
and I had taken a taxi together, following another cab with Andrus,
Tucker Hebert, Roja, and Manolo to the town house. Once there, Manolo
exchanged hand signals with Andrus, then seemed to disappear while
Andrus and Hebert climbed the steps to the second floor. Bacall and I
had gone with Wonsley into the kitchen before he began opening
cabinets and shooed us out the swinging door.

On a mews at the flat of Beacon Hill near Charles,
the town house was more truly a mansion. Fifty feet wide at the
street, at least seventy feet deep. We were within blocks of the
buildings where Daniel Webster, Louisa May Alcott, and Henry James
spent their time.

I said, "Just how big is this place?"

"We1l," said Bacall, "I haven't seen
every nook and cranny, but the design is pretty typical for its
vintage. The second floor front has a living room or library, the
rear a large study. The master bedroom and bath are on the third
floor, with a studio for painting or needlepoint or whatever the hell
Mater and Pater did back then. Children's and staff quarters are on
the fourth floor, under the eaves, where it's coldest in winter and
hottest in summer. The Victorians really knew how to handle that."

Much of Beacon Hill is Federalist red brick, but
there wasn't I much doubt Bacall was right about the period in which
the Andrus home was built. Still, you'd have to be current in the
real estate market to know how many millions it would fetch.

When I didn't say anything, Bacall leaned a little
closer. "I really don't think you need worry about Inés. She's
seen a lot worse than this."

"Coming over from Cuba?"

Just a nod. "She's a strong woman, and a good
one too. She used to volunteer at an AIDS clinic Del and I support."

"Used to?"

"Inés found she couldn't stand to see people
suffering?

"Not many can."

Another nod.

"Coffee or tea?"

Wonsley was carrying a tray with lots of things on it
that I couldn't identify.

"I'll pass, thanks. Can you two give me a while
upstairs?"

Bacall said, "Certainly. John."

I climbed to an elliptical landing with double doors
on either end. I walked to the front set. Through the narrow slit
between the doors came the muted noise of a stadium crowd and the
strobing of a video monitor in an otherwise darkened room. I knocked
and a southern accent said, "Hold just a second."

Tucker Hebert threw open doors which slid into the
walls on either side of the threshold. He'd taken off the jacket,
tie, and shoes. His dress shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist.

I said, "I hope I'm not breaking in on you?"

Hebert grinned. "Just trying to get comfortable.
Maisy's in her study. You'd be the detective, right?"

"Private investigator. John Cuddy."

"Tuck Hebert." His grip was almost a vise.
"Come on in and set yourself down. Fix you something?"

I could see a crystal tumbler, nearly full of amber
liquid and ice cubes, on a cocktail table.

"Beer?"

"Easy enough." Hebert went behind a bar of
padded leather and brass implates. I heard the noises a miniature
refrigerator makes. The table with his drink squatted close to an
Eames chair and ottoman. The chair was positioned in front of a
wide-screen television and a console of video equipment. On the
screen, two tennis players were moving around, the taller one slowing
to serve, the other hopping and snorting to receive. The rest of the
room was basically floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In the flickering
light, the only things I could see on the shelves were videocassettes
and trophies.

Hebert popped the cap from a bottle of Miller's
Genuine Draft with a church key. "I know these fellers are
twistoffs, but I cut my racquet hand on one once, and I've been shy
ever since."

I took the beer from him, no mention of a glass being
made. Hebert picked up a remote-control device, but waited while the
point was being played on the screen.

"Watch me crush this one."

I did, realizing the bigger guy was a younger Hebert.
He took a ball that bounced near his eyes and swept it away
crosscourt, beyond the reach of the opponent with dark hair.

"That was match point against me there. Survived
that and went on to take the set seven-six in the tiebreaker. Lordy,
old Harold did give me trouble with that moonball of his."

Without looking at the remote device, Hebert hit stop
and then off. Pushing a third button caused the recessed lights at
the tops of the bookshelves to grow brighter.

He palmed the device lovingly before setting it down.
"Littlefel1er does about everything for you except wash the
windows. Now, what can I do for you?"

"Maybe answer a few questions?"

"Sure, sure." He curled into the Eames
chair and reached for his drink. "Have a seat."

I angled a velvet wingback that probably once felt at
home in the room and sat down.

Up close and well lit, Hebert's features were strong
but lined, the year-round tan like the patina on the surface of an
antique. The ready smile reminded me of locally produced car
commercials, the only detraction other than age being a swipe line
through his left eyebrow. He took a healthy swig of what looked more
and more like Scotch.

"You know I've been asked to look into the
threats to your wife."

This time he grinned without showing his teeth and
put down the drink. "Tell you what, John."

"What?"

"Let's not dance around too much, okay? I know
Alec and Inés went to see you, and I also know that Maisy near
pitched a fit over it till she met you. By this afternoon, though,
she seemed to think you were an idea whose time had come. I figure
that if I was playing in your shoes, I'd wonder how come the younger
husband of the older rich lady isn't too concerned about all this.
How am I doing so far?"

"Forty-love."

The ready smile again. "You play?"

"Hacked at it when I was in the army."

"Too bad. It was a great game, twenty years ago.
Solid American players coming up. Bob Lutz, Roscoe Tanner, Jeff
Borowiak. That Borowiak, he had a huge serve, a real stud who could
blow you off the court. Smart too. Took the NCAA the year before
Connors beat Tanner."