The Last Coincidence

Nineteen

After bolting the door behind the battling Jameses, I went to the kitchen, where I found Wolfe and Fritz staring glumly into a pot on the counter.

“Don’t tell me it’s another one of your arguments over what should go into the perfect New Orleans bouillabaisse,” I said in mock disgust. “The Israelis and the Arabs will be going to block parties together before the two of you agree on this one. Making any progress?”

That got no reaction whatever. Wolfe muttered to Fritz and Fritz muttered back. And more things, I didn’t pay attention to what they were, got tossed into the bouillabaisse, but neither of them acknowledged my presence. I was feeling neglected.

“Will you be needing my services any more today?” I finally asked Wolfe.

He looked up as if I had shrieked during a séance. “I will not,” he said absently, turning his attention back to the pot.

“Okay, good luck with your soup,” I said, walking out and feeling two glares aimed at my back. The remark was directed to both of them, and to be honest, it was made with malice aforethought. Referring to bouillabaisse as soup is like calling someone’s Lhasa apso a pooch.

I went to my desk in the office and dialed Lily’s number, getting her after two rings. “My day so far has been fraught with difficulties,” I told her, “but suddenly there appears to be a break in the storm, if you’ll allow a literary allusion, and I thought perhaps we might take this opportunity to dine together and share our dreams and aspirations.”

“Ever the sweet-talker,” she said. “And although I could take umbrage at being asked so late, I will overlook that egregious breach of etiquette and accept, conditionally, of course.”

“Egregious, eh? You’re getting to sound more like Wolfe all the time. Okay, state the condition.”

“That we dine at Rusterman’s, of course. I’m saving La Ronde for my birthday.”

“Sold. I’ll be by to get you in a taxi, honey — in twenty minutes.”

“For a second there, I thought you were onto a really catchy lyric,” she said. “But somehow, the ‘in-twenty-minutes’ part needs work.”

“If you like it, I’ll tinker with it,” I replied. “Better not be late.”

“I think you’re onto something, fella,” she said, hanging up.

A half-hour later, Lily and I were in our favorite corner booth in the small upstairs room at Rusterman’s, courtesy of Franz, the current owner.

“Well, Escamillo,” she said after we’d ordered a drink and I’d given her a quick summary of the visit to the brownstone by Megan and Doyle, “now how do you like dealing with various members of my family?”

“Mixed, if I have to reduce it to a single word.”

“Care to get more specific, or has Nero Wolfe sworn you to secrecy?”

I lifted one eyebrow, grinning. “With you, I’m always happy to get specific. I’ll blab all you want, but there’s a price.”

“Naturally there is — and knowing you, it’s answers to some questions.”

“M’God, you are perceptive,” I replied, proceeding to tell her, in varying degrees of detail, what had transpired over the last couple of days.

“Interesting,” she said as we attacked our salads. “Sounds like our Megan is running true to form.”

“So is Wolfe. I’m worried that after today’s session with her, he may suffer a complete relapse and withdraw to his plant rooms and his food and his books and his beer forever, poor chap.”

“Nonsense. Megan isn’t worth the grief, although the way you’ve just painted the situation, it doesn’t sound like grief — it sounds exactly like the way your boss lives now.”

“Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a bit. Now for a question: Is your sister — make that half-sister — capable of murder? And if the answer is yes, would she let her own son take the fall for it?”

“That’s really two questions, but you know that I’m a good sport. Answer to the first part — yes, assuredly. I think Megan would kill if, one, it suited her purposes and, two, if she thought she could get away with it. As to the second part — that’s a lot tougher. She and Michael haven’t gotten along, to say the least. I told you that there is some uncertainty as to his father’s identity. Several years ago, during either his freshman or sophomore year in college, Michael found out — I’ve never known how — that there was a question about his parentage.

“The upshot is that rather than being mad at the man purported to be his father, a guy — I met him once and was unimpressed — who now lives in Europe, he took it out on Megan, suggesting in somewhat graphic terms that she was, shall we say, a woman of less-than-exemplary morals. His conservative nature — and God, is he conservative, especially for someone his age — drove him to outrage over what his mother had done. They were very close before that, but they haven’t been since, although they do maintain a civility toward each other. Anyway, despite the rancor, I’d have to say that I don’t believe Megan would let him take the fall, to use your term.”

“So you’re giving her a pass?” I asked as we each started in on our roast leg of lamb.

“You asked me a question, Escamillo — make that two questions — and I tried to answer them honestly, based on my knowledge of my half-sister’s behavior and temperament. If that’s giving her a pass, then I’m guilty as charged, your honor.”

“Time off for good behavior, case closed,” I said between bites. “What about Doyle James? How do you rate him as a suspect? Based on your knowledge of his behavior and temperament, of course?”

“Archie, I’m sorry, but I have just as hard a time there. Like with Megan, I can see Doyle killing Linville, given the circumstances — in fact, it’s a lot easier to picture him doing it than Megan. But where it falls apart for me again is that I can’t conceive of him standing by and watching Michael go to prison, or whatever, for what he did.”

“Even though he, Doyle, might not be Michael’s father?”

“I don’t think that matters — not to Doyle. I know he’s had a pretty wild life, a lot of women, some hard drinking, some heavy spending. But almost all of that came after he and Megan got divorced, and he’s essentially a very decent, honorable man. Rough around the edges, yes, and impulsive, but good-hearted and honest. If that’s my heart talking rather than my head, dammit, so be it.”

“I don’t know him like you do — in fact I hadn’t seen him for years until last week, and then again today. But I’d have to agree that he comes across as a stand-up kind of guy. And he knows how to zing Megan, which has to count for something somewhere.”

“I sense my sister hasn’t captivated you.”

“Bingo. Speaking of your sister, whom we apparently can’t avoid, what’s your analysis of her well-tailored friend Pamsett, beyond what you told me the other day?”

“What you’re really asking me is: Could Edward have done Linville in? I’d have to plead ignorance on that one. As I told you, I really don’t know Edward very well, but I have a hard time picturing him picking up a tire iron in some dark, greasy garage. He’d get his hands dirty, to say nothing of the possibility of soiling his four-hundred-dollar sport coat.”

“He does seem pretty far removed from grease and violence,” I admitted.

“And besides,” Lily said, “what would his motive be?”

“He doesn’t seem the type, but might he have been playing hero for Megan by avenging her for what was done to her daughter?”

“How could he play hero if she didn’t know about it? I mean, killers don’t usually go around bragging, even to their lady-friends. And even in the unlikely event that (a) Edward Pamsett did kill Linville, and (b) Megan knew about it, she would hardly sacrifice her son to protect Pamsett. That much I can say for my sister.”

“Point taken. While we’re on the subject, how would you describe Megan’s relationship with Pamsett?”

Lily took a sip of Zinfandel and dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Good question. It’s possible that passion exists there that I’m not picking up on, but I really doubt it, knowing her and observing him. I think it’s a case of each of them having someone to go to society functions with. They both eat up that type of thing — benefits, black-tie stuff, you know.”

“Sure. Just the kinds of things you’re always trying to get me to.”

“Right, and Megan has a damn sight more success with Edward than I have with you.”

“What do you mean? Just last month we went to that costume nonsense at the Churchill.”

“Right. And remember how you whined about it?”

“That’s just because I didn’t like the idea of dressing as Henry the Eighth. Anyway, you think Megan and Pamsett are platonic pals who mainly provide each other with half of a couple so that dinner parties they go to come out with even numbers?”

“Seems reasonable. Plus the fact that they genuinely get along. Edward is laid-back and easygoing, as you probably could tell, being, by your own admission, a shrewd judge of character. He’s one of those rare people who can put up with Megan and her irascibility, and do so cheerfully. Also, he’s a decent-looking escort, what with that wavy salt-and-pepper Hollywood hair and all. Kind of a cross between Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. and Ronald Colman, and every bit as debonair as both of them.”

“I wish somebody would describe me that way sometime.”

“Oh, stop with that. I’ve already told you that you’ve got savoir vivre. Isn’t that enough to salve your insecurities?”

“I’ll try to let it comfort me,” I sniffed. “Megan told Wolfe that on the night Linville was killed, she spent a couple of hours at Pamsett’s place, just talking.”

“Actually, I don’t doubt that,” Lily said. “She’s told me a couple of times that one of the things she likes most about Edward is that he’s a wonderful listener. She was probably over there talking the poor sap’s leg off.”

“That gives her an alibi at least for the earlier portion of the evening.”

“Which, from the tone of your voice, doesn’t exactly please you.”

“Oh, maybe so, but the time after midnight is still at least partly unaccounted for. Let me pose an academic question: If — and I’m only saying if — Megan wasn’t at Pamsett’s abode at all on Wednesday night, would he lie for her and say that she was?”

Lily looked down at her nearly clean plate and wrinkled the loveliest forehead on the eastern seaboard. She thought for several heartbeats before looking up. “Interesting academic question. You like to express opinions in odds,” she said, “so I’ll speak your language. I’d say it’s two-to-one that, yes, he’d lie for her if she asked him to. But if I may be allowed to anticipate your next question, I’d also give you five-to-two that she didn’t ask him to tell a story for her because she was at his place when she says she was.”

“You’re quite an anticipator,” I told her. “Or is there such a word?”

“Probably, but on that, I’ll yield to your boss — words are his department. Now I’ll anticipate your next move: Be it tonight or tomorrow, you are going to pay a visit to Mr. Pamsett.”

“I’ve become totally transparent!” I said. “The woman can read my mind.”

“It took you long enough to figure that out. Why do you think I’m always one step ahead of you — except of course when I don’t want to be?”

“I’ve always wondered,” I admitted. “Do you want to be one step ahead of me now?”

My answer was a wink and a smile. I returned the smile and we ordered dessert.