Chapter 3
There, Phyllis called Hilma again, again got a busy signal. She wondered if her paragon of a servant had knocked the handset from its cradle. She joined Beth in the pantry to help her prepare the canapes, managing not to step on any of the four cats of varied textures and hues and personalities who were determined to get at the array of goodies above them.
Beth shoved a number of lemons and oranges and an unpared pineapple her way and said, "Start slicing, honey. We're having old fashioneds." Then, looking up from her own work on the canapes, as Phyllis got busy on the fruit, "Why was Gerry in such an all-fired twitter just now-if you'll excuse my obnoxious curiosity?"
Phyllis sighed and said, "I only wish I knew.
He wasn't making any sense at all." A pause, then, "He actually tried to date me."
"He what? Oh, damn it to hell!" The latter as she dropped a tin of pate into the pantry sink and had to pause to reclaim it. Then, with a sidelong leer, "Talk about books and their covers-I never thought you were the type of girl who goes for pansies-though I must admit I've wondered why you took up with Freddy the Freeloader."
Phyllis put down the knife and the orange she was slicing. She said, "I'm not-at least I never used to be. But what about Freddy?"
"He and Gerry were a town scandal for years-till you came along and cut Gerry out."
"Oh...? " said Phyllis. So there it was. In a way, she was not entirely surprised. Beth's blunt statement merely confirmed the suspicion that had been riding her thoughts since last night's moment of truth, suspicion that had, perhaps, lain dormant far longer in her subconscious. For a brief moment, Beth's bald bluntness enraged her. Then elation took over as she realized that this very bluntness had freed her of her increasingly unsatisfactory lover, that she was well out of the every Thursday night cul-de-sac.
Beth said, "I wonder what he wanted.
" Who?"
"Gerry, of course. He's not a fool, you know, even if he acts like one much of the time."
"If you can hang on till tomorrow, I'll tell you," said Phyllis.
"You're not really going to see him?" Beth was incredulous.
"What have I got to lose? He sounded as if the fate of the world depends on it."
"Call me the moment he leaves," Beth begged. "I shan't sleep all night if you don't."
"I will, I will," said Phyllis. "And thanks."
"For what?"
"For what you just told me. I've been looking for an escape hatch from Freddy for years."
"You're welcome, I'm sure."
Both women turned their heads to look at one another. Then both of them burst into the laughter of malicious merriment.
Freddy was one of the first of Beth's guests to arrive-he had not earned his nickname of Freddy the Freeloader for nothing-and so were the others of Beth Davis's social circle. There was horse-faced Charlotte Emery (a "best friend" almost from birth), Colonel LaFarge and his Marilou (retired Army folk, non-Kitteridge but "nice"), Alma and Bob Coggswell (Alma first because she had the money, old-shoe and amusing), Sylvia Rockport (successful at still lifes and family portraits and representing the arts-the usual amiable group with all small feuds neatly buried for at least the half-dozen rounds of drinks beyond which a Beth Davis cocktail bash was never permitted to run.
But this evening they brought something else with them, something unusual, an invisible group aura of high excitement, of a group secret burning to burst out. Something they all wished to reveal but were forbidden to discuss without a cue from ... whom?
Phyllis gradually acquired an uncomfortable feeling that whatever it was that had them so stirred up, was involved with and revolved around herself. She sensed sudden silences as she approached more than one human cluster, a certain hesitancy in addressing her directly, felt the covert regard of each of them upon herself-as if they had not been seeing her regularly for years.
Freddy was pounding Beth's spinet piano as usual, with a coaster carefully under his drink. When he finished his rendition of Canadian Sunset, complete with clams and clinkers that made her shudder the length of her spine, Phyllis approached him, leaned over him and whispered, "What in hell's going on?"
He looked around and up at her, his face a round Huntley & Palmer biscuit-bland, blank, meaningless-said, "What do you mean? I just drove out from town."
He finished his piano-drink and she took it to the pantry for refilling. Beth was there, pouring bourbon and bitters. She said, without turning around lest she spill some of S.S. Pierce's best, "Darling Phyl, if you don't tell me what's happening, HI burst my bra."
"I just asked Freddy. He doesn't know."
A snort, then, "He wouldn't!"
"Beth..." Phyllis paused, seeking words. Then, "Does it seem to you I'm wrapped up in whatever it is or am I simply going paranoid?"
"I thought at first it was me, but it isn't. I'm afraid you're it, sweetie. What have you done, robbed a bank or a cradle?"
"Don't ask me," said Phyllis. At that moment the pantry telephone extension rang almost in her ear. She jumped, recalling the effort to reach her at home that morning as she was leaving her house. She said, "There was one thing, but I don't see..."
The pantry phone rang again and Beth leaned past Phyllis to answer it. She said hello, then listened a long moment, then said, "Yes, I've got it. I'll tell her." Then she hung up and looked long and hard at Phyllis.
"You son of a bitch," she said admiringly.
"Will you please tell me-"
"That was Hilma. She's been trying to reach you all day. Your phone's been ringing till she's out of her mind. She told me to tell you she's going home till it blows over. She can't take any more of it."
"Any more of what!" Phyllis felt bewildered. "If you don't tell me, I'm going out of my mind, too."
"How well did you know Sal Carini?"
"Sal who?" As she asked, Phyllis remembered the name from the Iron Kettle the night before, added, "I never heard of him until Freddy and Gerry told me he died last night."
"You're sure?" Beth's voice dripped doubt.
"Of course, I'm sure." Phyllis felt anger rise within her. "Why should I know a man like that, a mobster, a Mafia whatever-it-is-Godfather?"
"Because," said Beth, "apparently he left you a few million bucks after taxes. It's all over the place." A pause, then with narrowed lids, "Now why do you suppose a man like Sal Carini would do a thing like that?"
Phyllis stared at her friend, thinking it had to be some monstrous put-on. She said, "If this is a rib, I don't dig it."
"It's no rib," said Beth.
There it lay. It was for real. Memories of the last eighteen hours flashed through Phyllis's mind, a montage of quick impressions in living color. Freddy and Gerry discussing the death of a stranger named Sal Carini over vodka Collinses-Gerry's near frightening intensity in the Iron Kettle as he begged her to see him that evening-the busy signals when she tried to call Hilma....
It was for real-it had to be. The only trouble was that it didn't make sense. Why should a Boston racket czar of whom she had never heard until his death leave her a fortune?
She must have swayed because suddenly Beth had an arm around her waist and was pushing an old fashioned into her fist, saying, "Thy need is greater than mine."
Ordinarily Phyllis liked to let an old fashioned dilute itself before sipping it. Straight liquor made her choke. But this time, the near straight bourbon went down like lemonade. It hit the bottom of her stomach like liquid fire and spread welcome warmth through her suddenly corpse-cold veins.
She gave Beth a hug before pulling clear of her, said, "Thanks, dear-I needed that."
"Go on and clown," said Beth. "I'd clown too if Marco's millions fell into my lap-if I wasn't too busy crying for sheer joy." She reached for the half-empty fifth, tipped it up and drank directly from it, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand and said, "Never could stand the sight of anyone else's good luck."
"Now who's clowning?" said Phyllis. She leaned against the drain board behind her, rubber knead, and said, "Seriously, Beth, what do you think I ought to do?"
"The first thing we're going to do is get rid of those clowns in the living room. Then I'm going to call Lem Weldon. You're going to need a lawyer, honey, and he's the best Kitteridge has."
She turned to leave, then turned back, took Phyllis firmly by the elbow, said, "Come on, we might as well get it over with right now. You're going to have to face them sooner or later."
As they reached the door that led from the small dining room to the living room, they bumped into Freddy, coming after a refill. Beth pushed him back, saying, "Not now, Freddy." Then, to the others, who were looking at them with avid anticipation, "Phyl and I just got the news. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to drink up and go."
"But I have nothing to drink up," Freddy complained.
Beth nodded toward the pantry. "Help yourself," she told him. "Then go-but leave a bottle for us."
Phyllis had an odd feeling of being wrapped in cellophane. Somebody had turned on the television to pick up the six o'clock news, just in time to hear the commentator say, " ... most curious thing thus far about the Carini bequest is that no one has yet been able to establish the slightest connection between Mrs. Barrett and the late Godfather. She is a true woman of mystery in this very odd affair."
Beth shut it off and then they were going-even Freddy, albeit reluctantly. Beth brought Phyllis another drink and sat her down in the grandmother chair, then went to the hall to telephone. When she came back, she said, "Lem's on his way over."
Lem Weldon looked like the sort of man who smokes a pipe, Phyllis thought, instead of the filter tip 100's he consumed in steady succession while she tried to explain what had happened. She had expected her recital would be brief, but while his gentle probing was never insistent, by the time Lem Weldon called a halt to the interrogation, she felt skillfully flayed by a velvet glove.
He leaned back in his armchair, the sun-reddened picture of a rusticated gentleman of unmistakably mature years. He looked at the ceiling, tried without success to blow four smoke rings, sighed, said, "Never could get the hang of it."
"What do you think Phyl should do?" Beth asked.
Lem Weldon regarded the older woman with unexpectedly brilliant blue eyes. He picked up his highball, sipped it, put it down, said, "With your permission, Beth, I'd like to use your phone to make a toll call."
"Be my guest," she offered graciously.
"Only to Boston." The attorney rose and moved tweedily to the hall. He dialed, then talked to a man he called Jim and his voice made Phyllis think of a beautiful, meticulously groomed show horse being put through its paces in a ring under tight rein-melodious, distinct, pitched low, under perfect control.
Only snatches of his conversation were audible..."Yes, I'm with her now"..."No, not tonight-tomorrow will be perfectly all right"..."Very well, Jim, your office, eleven o'clock."
He returned, stood over her, and she caught a distant twinkle behind the bright blue of his eyes. He said, "Tomorrow morning, we go into town to see Jim O'Brien."
"Who'se he?" Once again Phyllis asked the question-once again she felt an idiot. The twinkle glowed brighter and the corners of Lem Weldon's mouth twitched. Out of Phyllis's range of vision, she heard Beth Davis snort with mirth.
Aggrieved, she said, "Well, dammit, I don't know!"
"No reason why you should." The attorney's voice was maple syrup. "Mr. O'Brien is one of Boston's eminent legal counselors. Proof lies in the fact that Sal Carini was never actually a ward of the state or Federal governments and that he died in bed-his own bed."
Beth said, "One of Boston's eminent shysters-isn't that what you mean, Lem?"
"That is not what I said." The blue eyes twinkled. "Now..." in an abrupt change of tone. "Beth, I want you to keep this young lady with you tonight."
"Of course. You barely beat me to it."
"Good." Then, to Phyllis, "I very much doubt you'd be left long undisturbed in your own house. I'll pick you up here at ten o'clock, and we'll drive into town and look into this will business."
Phyllis blurted, "This whole thing can't be real. If it is, it's insane."
The lawyer regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he said, "It may be even crazier than you think."
Shortly afterward, Lem Weldon left.
Beth said, "You two acted as if you didn't know each other."
"We don't."
"How odd! I thought everybody in Kitteridge knew Lem Weldon. He's one of the town's living monuments."
"I've seen him often enough," said Phyllis. "It just happens that we never met. I know he's a monument-but I never have found out exactly why."
Beth said, "I keep forgetting you weren't brought up here. You're so much one of us." She rose walked to a book case, came back with a thick volume bound in red. She added, "This should give you some idea."
The book was a four-year-old edition of Who's Who in America. Phyllis leafed through it, found Weldon, Lemoyne Pierre, jurist, general
General ... ?
The listing was impressive, from his schools (Middlesex, Princeton, Harvard Law) through his career credits (the Weldon in Weldon, Keyes and Barker, Boston law firm, U. S. Circuit Court Judge ret., Massachusetts Commissioner of Public Safety, ret.) and unexpected military rank (Major General USAFR) with degrees honors and clubs to match. Automatically, she noted that he was sixty-one years old and a widower, remarked on the fact as she returned the big book to its place on the shelves. "I don't see how he's managed to stay at large," she said.
Beth's eyes gleamed. "Don't think it's for lack of the girls trying. If I thought I had a chance, I'd go after him myself. But Lem's about as easy to pin down as a sea lion with shingles."
"Thanks for calling him," said Phyllis. "I feel I'm in good hands-and do I ever need to be!"
"The best," said Beth. "I don't know about you, but I'm beat. Let's get you fixed up for the night."