Poor Ivy. She was trapped all over again in a relationship she didn’t really want, with a man who not only ignored her feelings, but one whose jealousy frightened her. She would never rest easily until she knew where that bag of pretzels had gone. She needed a good friend right about now, but Louie was part of her problem. Max saw him as a threat. Sophie had tried to call Louie earlier in the evening, but all she’d gotten was his answering machine. In her mind’s eye, she pictured him sitting on his couch surrounded by no smoking signs, a drink in one hand, a bag of — Her eyes popped open. A bag of pretzels on the coffee table! “Oh, my God!” she said out loud, siting bolt upright in bed. He’d been at the party that night. He’d obviously had access to the kitchen. She felt a sinking feeling inside her stomach as she realized he was sick. He’d called it the flu, but what had that book on poisons said? The symptoms of arsenic poisoning were gastric in nature, often misdiagnosed as gastroenteritis. And wasn’t there something about vomiting?

  She poked Bram in the ribs. “Get up.”

  He groaned. “Call my secretary. Make an appointment.”

  She poked him again. “I’ve got to make a phone call. I think I know where that bag of pretzels went.”

  “What?” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  “It’s Louie! Somehow or other, he managed to get hold of it. He’s already sick. I hope we’re not too late.”

  Bram sat up as Sophie turned on the light.

  After punching in die number, she held her breath as the call went through. “It’s ringing,” she whispered. After almost a minute, she let her breath out slowly. “He’s not answering.”

  “Maybe you should call 911. The paramedics can get there a lot faster than we can.”

  “What if I’m wrong? What if he really does have the flu?”

  “Then I apologize in advance for employing a cliche: Better safe than sorry.”

  “Good point.” She jumped out of bed and pulled on her jeans. “You phone them. I’m going downstairs to use the other line in your office. I want to call Ivy.”

  “Okay, but —”

  “And then get dressed. We’re driving over.” As she pulled on a sweater, the murder scene flashed once again inside her mind. Her hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she’d missed.

  “What is it?’ asked Bram.

  “No time. I’ll explain it to you in the car. Call 911 and meet me downstairs right away.”

  Sophie saw the flashing red lights as soon as they turned onto Louie’s street. As they came closer, she saw that one of the first-floor windows had been smashed to allow the paramedics to enter.

  Bram swung the car into the drive. “I’m blocking the ambulance here,” he said. “I’ll have to find another place to park. I’ll meet you inside in a few minutes.”

  “Great,” she said as she leapt out She couldn’t lose another minute. She raced in through the open front door and dashed to the rear of the building. She remembered enough of the layout to know that’s where the bedrooms were.

  A tall man in a brown uniform stopped her before she got very far. “Wait just a minute, lady. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “My husband called about the owner of the house.

  Louie Sigerson. Is he all right? Did you make it in time?” She made a move toward the bedroom where she could see several others had gathered.

  The man grabbed her arm. “Sorry. You can’t go in there.”

  “But —”

  “No buts. The man is dead.”

  Sophie could feel a lump rise into her throat. “Oh, God,” she gasped. She turned her face away. The poor man. If she’d just put it together sooner! He was the only one who knew for sure what had happened that night, and now that he was gone, they might never know the truth. “How — how did he die?”

  “We don’t know that yet. I’m waiting for my supervisor.”

  She nodded, covering her mouth with her hand. The smell in the house was rank.

  “Was he a friend?” asked the paramedic, a bit more sympathetically.

  “Yes. He was.”

  “Looks like he was pretty sick before he died.”

  She didn’t have to ask for details. “He’d been sick for several days.”

  “Does he have any family you could notify?”

  “I only know about his wife. And she died very recently.”

  He withdrew his hand from her arm. “I’m sorry. But you still can’t go in there.”

  She glanced into the study. “Would you mind if I waited in there?” She pointed. “I promise, I won’t touch anything.”

  The man hesitated. “Well, I shouldn’t… but seeing as how he was your friend … I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Thanks.” She waited for him to return to the bedroom and then, very quietly, she entered the study. The room was a mess. On the floor next to the couch was the bag of pretzels. Stepping closer, she saw that there were three left. She shivered. Well, at least the police would have proof how he died. As she turned to the desk, she noticed that the painting above the bookcase was missing. That was odd. She wondered what he’d done with it. She examined the books he’d been reading before his death. Law books mostly. And a People magazine. A piece of paper was lying next to his typewriter. Switching on the desk lamp, she bent closer and read:

  To Whom It May Concern: March 5

  I, Louie Sigerson, being of sound mind if not sound body, wish to make a statement concerning the death of Hale Micklenberg. I am afraid my health will not permit me to make this statement in person. On the night of Mr. Micklenberg’s death, I delivered a message to him from his wife, Ivy. His response was, to me, so hateful, that the longer I thought about it, the more angry I became. I had been drinking rather heavily that evening. I am not blaming the champagne for any of my actions, but I am unused to alcohol. As I came through the kitchen, I grabbed a sack of pretzels from the cupboard, a bottle of Scotch from the counter, and made my way out to the gate house. The front door was ajar. I noticed Charles Squire’s car speeding out of the drive and assumed he must have just come from talking to Hale.

  As I climbed the stairs, Hale appeared at the top. He was holding a gun and swearing. When he saw the bottle of Scotch, he seemed to reconsider. He ordered me up, saying, “You might as well wait with me.” I had no idea what he was waiting for, but as I meant to talk to him about the way he treated me, as well as his wife, I accepted his invitation.

  As I sat down, I noticed that Hale seemed terribly nervous. I poured the Scotch. To be honest, I gave myself more than I gave him, because like now, I was a little drunk. Just as an aside, I find that alcohol doesn’t do as much for emotional pain as I’d originally thought. A pity. Nevertheless, Hale and I drank for a few minutes in silence. I asked him, finally, why he had the gun. He answered that he needed it for protection. I suggested that if he were a bit nicer to those around him, he might not need it at all.

  He exploded! He told me I was a pathetic excuse for a man. A totally useless human being. I’m afraid to say it struck a nerve inside me. I’ve called myself those same names — and worse — for more years than I dare count. But what he didn’t know was that in the past two days, I’d changed. He was talking to a new man — one who wasn’t going to take that kind of crap anymore. A man with real grit. At least, that’s how I saw myself that night.

  After he was done with me, he started in on Ivy. He said he was going to divorce her. To ruin her name and leave her without a penny. He was sure there were still people around who cared about things like adultery. And Ivy was an adulteress! As I drank and listened, I became more and more agitated. I couldn’t let this happen. Ivy was too dear to me! I had to do something to protect her, to save her from Hale. The room started to spin. I stared at the gun. Just the sight of it made me feel powerful. I can’t explain it. I don’t know if I was more intoxicated by my newfound sense of self, or the Scotch, but as I looked down, I saw the gun was in my hand. I touched it. Felt its coldness. Its weight.

  Hale ignored me. He’d begun talking about someone named Ezmer Hawks. And about a boy named Eric. At one point, I think I even saw tears in his eyes, but by then I wasn’t listening very carefully. My attention was on his face. On the famous sneer. The large pores in his bulbous nose. The sweat on his forehead.

  The repulsive way he chewed the end of his cigar. I don’t even remember pointing the gun at him, but I do remember firing. He fell to the floor. I believe he died instantly. I sat for a moment simply to enjoy the silence.

  Then I got up. I knew I didn’t have time to wipe my prints off everything I’d touched. I’d been in his office many times before, so I wasn’t worried about the general fingerprints. Just the ones on the Scotch bottle, the cup, the gun, and the pretzel bag. I wiped off the bottle and took everything else with me. When I got back to the main house, I hid the gun in the flower box outside the window and then I lay down on my borrowed bed and fell asleep. Next thing I knew, the police were knocking at the door. After searching the room briefly, they left. No one ever suspected what I’d done.

  I have had some remorse since the incident, but not as much as one would suspect. Perhaps, in the end, I have become evil. Whatever the case, I do not want an innocent person to suffer for what I did. I waited, hoping I would never need to make this confession, but, it looks as though I may not make it through another night. Doctors know nothing. I place my soul in the hands of fate, cruel or kind, I no longer care which. The gun you will find downstairs in the furnace room. It is still loaded.

  I have only two regrets. First, that I botched every thing so badly for Ivy. My action was impulsive. I didn’t consider the consequences, and for that, I am truly sorry. Second, I deeply regret that I did so little to help my wife during her long illness. If I’d only had the courage, I would have ended her life as well. God have pity on me. Sarah and Ivy, forgive me. I’ve failed you both.

  As I sit here, I can still hear that boy’s voice on the phone. Since the night I heard the rhyme, it has never left my mind. “For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none. If there be one, seek till you find it. If there be none, never mind it.”

  My life and my death may indeed be a remedy for evil, Hale’s and my own. That, I am afraid, is for others to ponder.

  The letter was unsigned.

  Sophie stood up straight and glanced over her shoulder as she heard Bram talking to the same paramedic who’d stopped her earlier. She gave herself a moment and then walked out into the hall. “I think you’ll want to call the police,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “We already have,” said the paramedic. “It seems your friend in there was poisoned.”

  43

  Rudy scratched Ethel as he watched Bram build a fire in the fireplace.

  From the kitchen, Sophie shouted, “Do you fellows want coffee with your sandwiches, or milk?”

  “Coffee,” hollered Bram, lighting a match to the newspaper and waiting for it to catch.

  “A Coke,” shouted Rudy.

  “Don’t be difficult.” She appeared a moment later carrying a tray. Setting it down carefully on the coffee table, she fell into a chair, warming her hands as the kindling ignited. “Another month and it’ll be too warm for a fire.”

  Bram picked up his mug and sat down on the floor in front of her, resting his back against her knees. “Right. Then it’s time to test out the new mosquito netting. And the electric bug fryer. These seasons in Minnesota really keep you hopping.”

  Rudy sipped his Coke. “So, come on, Mom, give. You never told me how you finally figured out who the murderer was.”

  Sophie shrugged. “I didn’t really know for sure, but I had a pretty strong clue.” She rested her hands on Bram’s shoulders and gazed into the fire. “It was that ashtray on Hale’s desk. There was a cigar in it — one of Hale’s. It wasn’t merely crushed, it was cracked apart. I should have noticed that sooner. I don’t know if you remember the way Hale treated his stogies, but he always said they were too good to throw away. He smoked them to the last inch. He never would have treated one like that.”

  “But why Louie?” asked Rudy.

  “Because he hated smoking. His wife had just died of emphysema, so you can see why his emotions were so close to the surface. If you’d ever been to his house, you would have understood. He had NO SMOKING signs everywhere.”

  “And in a fit of anger, he crushed out Hale’s cigar, breaking it into two pieces.”

  “Exactly. Not proof positive, but something I shouldn’t have missed. Where a normal person might not even think to put it out, or if they did, they’d just crush the tip and leave it at that, Louie wanted to obliterate the vile thing.”

  Bram took a sip of coffee. “My wife, the genius.”

  “Not really.” She lowered her eyes. “I was too late to save his life.”

  “You did everything you could, Mom,” insisted Rudy. “More than anyone could expect.”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I think you’re pretty amazing.”

  “You do?” She looked at her son, turning from the fire.

  “You bet. So does Kate. By the way, I talked to her this afternoon when I was over at the gallery. She wanted me to give you a message. She said she hopes you’ll give her another chance to explain things. Maybe over breakfast sometime next week.”

  Sophie’s eyes rose to the small etching Kate had given her — the one of the house. She’d set it lovingly on the mantel in a special place of honor. Kate was probably right. They did need to sort things out. “I’ll give her a call.”

  Rudy nodded his approval.

  “That woman owes you an apology, too,” said Bram, offering Rudy the plate of chicken sandwiches.

  He took one. “She already did. Even gave me a raise.”

  “Well, that’s a start in the right direction.”

  “Not to change the subject,” said Sophie, taking a sip of coffee, “but there is one small mystery I still don’t fathom.”

  “What’s that?” asked Bram.

  “Louie had a painting above his bookcase. It was a de Kooning. Worth a ton of money. When I was in his study last night, it was gone. I hardly think he spent much time in the last few days rearranging his house.”

  “Point well-taken.” Bram picked up the poker and gave the fire a good stoke. “I wonder where he got it in the first place? Rare artwork wasn’t exactly his style.”

  “I think I remember Ivy giving it to him for his birthday many years ago.”

  “Quite a gift.”

  “He was a very special friend.”

  “I >feel sorry for Ivy,” said Rudy, finishing the first half of his sandwich and starting on the second. ‘Talk about a victim of circumstance. Kate said the police took both her and Max into custody today. They’re being charged with manslaughter.”

  Sophie shivered.

  “Who were the victims?” mused Bram. “And who the victimizers? In some ways, they all participated in their own demise.”

  “Hoist on their own petard,” agreed Sophie, her eyes mesmerized by the glowing fire. “I don’t know how Ivy’s ever going to forgive herself. She may have loathed Hale, but she loved Louie. You know, I’ve been thinking about Hale all day. After talking to Betty Malmquist, I think I understand him better.”

  “It’s important to understand the role of The Asshole in modern society,” said Bram, his voice turning professorial.

  “I’m serious,” said Sophie. “You know how people like to say that critics are frustrated artists. People with no talent of their own.”

  Bram nodded.

  “That certainly wasn’t true of Hale. He had a great deal of talent. Witness the artwork filling Betty’s walls. As a matter of fact, she called me this morning. It seems a gallery was out to look at his paintings a few days ago. They offered to include them in a forthcoming show.”

  Bram shook his head. “God, how ironic.”

  “The thing is,” continued Sophie, “Hale told Betty once that he’d never lacked confidence, what he lacked was courage.”

  “Odd comment,” said Bram.

  “I agree. But now I think I know what he meant. It’s terribly difficult to create — to be a painter, or a writer, or a composer. You put your work out there and hope some will find value in it. It’s a lot like standing naked in front of a crowd and not knowing whether people are going to laugh, or throw you a towel. That effort is an act of courage. If someone’s never done it, they don’t understand. Hale was terribly competitive. Whatever he did, he wanted to be on top — king of the hill. He wasn’t sure his work was brilliant, even though he knew it was good. And that’s where he failed to show courage. What Hale lacked was the fundamental courage just to be good, not great. Not the best. Not number one. But just good. And without that, he would never know where he really stood. In a very true sense, it undermined his entire creative life.”

  “Fascinating,” said Rudy. He sipped his soda thoughtfully. “I hope that never happens to me.”

  “It won’t,” said Sophie, turning and squeezing his knee. “With a voice like Richard Burton and a face like —”

  “If you say Elizabeth Taylor, you’re dead.”

  She grinned. “No, I was thinking more along the lines of Christian Slater.”

  “Okay. That’ll do.”

  “You certainly have a good shot.”

  “And if nothing else, I can always go to New York with my talent and become a waiter. Not necessarily a great waiter, but definitely a good one.”

  She just let her eyes wash over him. He was so beautiful. Her son was finally home. Where he belonged.

  “Well,” said Bram, picking up a sandwich, “if you believe that nursery rhyme, maybe everything that’s happened in the past couple of weeks was fate’s remedy.”