Murder in E Minor

23

It all tied up nicely. As you undoubtedly know unless you were in Fiji at the time, Meyerhoff and Lucinda got life terms in a short, unspectacular trial. What you may not know if you don’t live in New York or read the Times is that Maria Radovich and Gerald Milner were married about a month later in a chapel at St. Patrick’s. Both Wolfe and I got invitations, and I went. Maria looked stunning, and Milner had tears in his eyes. David Hirsch served a few months as interim music director of the Symphony until a replacement was found, and his composition finally had its premiere, getting what the gossip columnists would call “generally favorable reviews.” Last I heard, he was living someplace in New England and I guess doing well with his composing, although I don’t keep up with that kind of thing. Both Milner and Sommers are still with the Symphony. The day after Wolfe broke the case, Remmers met with each of them and told them the Symphony valued their talents and wanted them to stay.

We heard this from Remmers when he stopped by to thank Wolfe again. He also tried one more time to write a check as a further expression of his gratitude. I was all for it, but Wolfe said no. “Mr. Remmers, I appreciate the gesture, but as I told you before, I was in effect paying a debt incurred many years ago. I am only now free of that debt.” Remmers persisted, however, and Wolfe finally came up with a solution that allowed him to leave the brownstone smiling.

Wolfe did a bit of smiling himself a few days later. A small peach-colored envelope came addressed in a sweeping script to “Nero Wolfe, Esq.” and plastered with stamps that had the Queen’s profile on them. I open Wolfe’s mail as a matter of practice, but I knew this was one piece he’d want to slit himself, so I left it intact on his blotter with the rest of the day’s delivery. I was at my desk typing when he opened the envelope, read the letter, and read it again. He finally set it down gingerly and formed his lips in a circle. I kept typing, but I could hear the air passing in and out of his mouth. It’s his version of whistling, something I had heard him do maybe five times through the years.

Fortunately, I was spared most of this performance because the front doorbell rang, and Fritz was out shopping. The guy at the door was a burly character who introduced himself as Lou. He needed a shave and had a tooth missing where it showed, but I welcomed him warmly. I told him to take his delivery down the outside front stairs to the basement, and that I’d let him in that door. After all, it was the first of fifty-two weekly calls he’d be making, and I wanted to make him feel welcome. It’s not easy pushing a hand truck with four cases of Remmers on it.