Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,27

meals. A few more phone calls about the ad rolled in, but they weren’t worth mentioning.

Our Thursday-night poker game did get canceled, however. Saul was working on a case over in New Jersey, and figured he’d be tied up well into the night. I went out anyway; my cheek looked almost normal, and Lily let me drag her to the Mets game at Shea, where they got pounded by the Cubs. The best part was that the game was over early enough for us to do some dancing at the Churchill. Friday, I spent most of the morning typing Wolfe’s correspondence, including the monthly check he sends to a cousin in Montenegro, and balancing the books, and the most exciting thing about the afternoon was getting a haircut while listening to Charley the barber filibuster on why private cars should be barred from Manhattan.

Friday night, Lily and I went to dinner at Rusterman’s, which was my payback for getting her to go to the game the night before. I didn’t mind a bit, though—we had veal marsala, and it was superb as usual, almost up to Fritz’s standards. I thought I was doing a good job of covering up my jitters, but I should have known better.

“You’ve got something on your mind, lover,” Lily said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand as those dark blue eyes went right through me. “Want to tell kindly old Dr. Rowan about it?”

“I would, but there’s really nothing to tell,” I said with a grin. “I’ve just got this feeling, this . . . premonition about the Gazette.” With that, I filled her in on the events of the last few days, including the Times ad, which she had seen.

After I finished, she made a contribution, giving me a rundown on Carolyn Haverhill, whom she knew from several charities the two had worked on. “Really a take-charge type,” Lily said approvingly. “Whenever we’ve served on boards together, she’s ended up being chairman. Seems to thrive on the responsibility. I’ve wondered a few times whether Carolyn might end up running the Gazette someday—especially after meeting her husband.”

“I think her mother-in-law wonders the same thing,” I said, “or at least wishes for it.”

After dessert, Lily suggested more dancing at the Churchill, but I begged off. “I can’t believe it, Escamillo,” she said, using the nickname she’d tagged me with years ago after I’d outsmarted her from a slightly irate bull in a pasture. “Don’t you know it’s the woman who’s supposed to use the headache excuse? I can’t remember the last time you turned down a chance to go dancing—at least with me. Shocking.”

I apologized and set things right by agreeing to a firm, no-excuses-allowed date for dancing the next

Friday. I saw Lily as far as the lobby of her building while the cab waited, and I was back at the brownstone before eleven-thirty.

Wolfe was parked in the office with a half-full glass of beer and the London Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

“Any calls?” I asked, easing into my desk chair.

“No.” He looked up and then turned back to his puzzle.

“Sorry to interrupt you. I know how important your little diversions are.”

He glared and started to say something, when he looked toward the doorway. I turned and saw Fritz standing there.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but something has happened. You would want to know about it.”

“Yes?” Wolfe said.

“I was down in my room, listening to the news on the radio. One of those newspaper people who was here the other day is dead.”

“My God, somebody got MacLaren,” I said.

“No, Archie.” Fritz looked pale. “It was the lady, Mrs. Haverhill. She killed herself. With a gun.”

“What?” Wolfe bellowed.

“A suicide,” Fritz answered. “So they said on the news. In her office at the paper.”

“Impossible.” Wolfe set his jaw and shook his head, totally dismissing the idea.

“What do you mean?” I snapped. “I know you don’t always believe the media, but are you saying the station made this up?”

“I mean it’s inconceivable that that woman killed herself. She was murdered—you know it and I know it.”

“Please explain to me how I know it.”

“Archie, I suggest you do a little reflecting, challenging as that may be.” He tossed the puzzle aside, levering himself to his feet, and headed for the door.

“You mean that’s it? You’re going to bed? No further comment, nothing?”

He stopped his one-seventh of a ton in the doorway. “What would you suggest? The woman is dead. Tomorrow is soon enough to discuss it. Good night.”

“I’m sure glad