Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,19

white-haired guy with a cute little mustache. Should I bring them both in?”

He closed his book slowly, marking the place with a thin strip of gold that had been given to him years ago by a pleased client. “Very well,” he said, scowling. He’s rarely happy when women are in the house, and now he was getting an uninvited second guest as well.

I opened the door. “Hello, I’m Archie Goodwin,” I said to the woman.

“I’m Harriet Haverhill,” she answered, offering a hand, which I took. “This is Elliot Dean, my attorney and friend.”

I sized her up first, as they crossed the sill. Harriet Beaufort Haverhill was a well-preserved seventy-plus, slender, about five-five, with neatly coiffed white hair, light blue eyes, and a nicely arranged face that was almost wrinkle-free. She wore a gray tailored suit that probably set her back at least half a grand, along with a white blouse and a string of pearls that cost at least twice what the suit did.

Dean, who was in the neighborhood of seventy himself, was maybe three inches taller, had his own head of white hair, and a little white mustache about the size of a kiddie toothbrush. He also had one of those pinched “I’d-rather-be-almost-anywhere-else” expressions, the kind that made you wish he was. He wore a double-breasted blue pinstripe that probably also had a price tag in the half-grand range and his alma mater’s tie. Yale, of course. I offered a hand and he took it without enthusiasm.

As we walked into the office, I made the introductions while ushering Mrs. Haverhill to the red leather chair, while Dean steered himself to one of the yellow ones. She seemed to know instinctively that Wolfe wasn’t a hand-shaker, so no offer was made. He did, however, stand, which was something of a tribute, although she probably didn’t realize it. He also never rises for anyone, particularly a woman.

“Mr. Wolfe,” she began in a clear, pleasant tone that had a slight Southern flavor, “thank you for seeing us. Elliot—Mr. Dean—asked to come, and I agreed, as long as he understands this is a confidential conversation.”

Dean leaned forward in his chair, looking pained. “Harriet,” he said, wheezing, “I want to remind you that I advised against this, and I—”

“Elliot, please.” Harriet Haverhill’s voice was quiet, but it crackled. Dean clammed up, but frowned at the hunk of carved ebony on Wolfe’s desk which a man named Mortimer had used as a murder weapon.

“Mr. Wolfe,” she continued with a slight smile, “there are several things I’d like to say before we get to why I’m here. First, and I should have written you about this years ago, I appreciate the consideration you always have shown the Gazette. Mr. Cohen and Mr. Bishop have often told me how you have given us exclusive stories. You’ve been a good friend to the paper.”

“Madam,” Wolfe said, adjusting his bulk, “we’ve gotten as good as we’ve given. Mr. Cohen has been of immeasurable help to us as well. On balance, I like to think the accounts are square.”

Harriet Haverhill nodded. “Nevertheless, your friendship is appreciated. And that includes the nice things you said about us in the Times advertisement.”

“I say what I mean,” Wolfe replied. “You don’t need me to point out the Gazette’s strong points.”

“It’s still nice to hear,” she said. This was quickly turning into a mutual-admiration society, and I began worrying about Wolfe. I get concerned on those rare occasions when he goes mellow in the presence of a woman.

“You know,” Harriet went on, “when Wilkins died, there were people all over the company waiting for me to fall on my face—hoping I would fall on my face. I’ll admit I was terrified for the first few months, but I was also determined that the Gazette stay in the family and continue to be the kind of paper my husband had wanted it to be.”

“Did the others wish to take it in different directions?”

“Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that I was the paper’s only salvation,” she replied. “Lord, that sounded pretty pompous, didn’t it? And I suppose what I’m going to say next will sound slightly paranoid. But the fact is that I’ve always been resented by the other members of the family. I married Wilkins less than a year after his first wife died, and both of his children, David and Donna— they were in their teens at the time—made no attempt to hide their feelings. They treated me like an outsider.”

“Did that attitude