CHAPTER 13

Everything takes longer and costs more with a baby, something I forget since I don't have daily contact with babies. The ideal parents would be King and Queen Midas, who have the golden touch and copious free time. Gone are the days when children began generating wealth at an early age because they were put to work. Nowadays that is child abuse. If babies weren't so cute and lovable people might stop having them altogether. In some countries they already have.

In the morning, after Sandra had diapered and clothed Winston and we all had eaten, we headed north a few miles to La Jolla and the campus of the University of California at San Diego. Having been there before, I rehearsed Sandra on the correct pronunciation of La Jolla-La Hoya-so that we wouldn't look too green.

Before we left North Carolina I had arranged for us to have lunch with Dr. Benny Tokamatsu, a colleague of Gerald's during his professorial days. I had extracted Dr. Tokamatsu's name from Gerald's folder during my foray into Carol Grant's office. Gerald had listed him as a reference.

The spacious UCSD campus is located above the Pacific Ocean, a paradise for surfers and other water lovers, including marine biologists. We arrived early for our appointment, got a parking permit and strolled along the walks shaded by cypress and eucalyptus trees and the rare Torrey pines, some with their branches jutting out at almost unsustainable angles.

Sandra carried Winston in a backpack; he alternately played with her hair and tried to move her head aside so he could see more. The day was warm, with the temperature moderated by a breeze blowing off the ocean. Even though it was summer there were many young people about, riding bikes, walking briskly or slowly, talking or sitting on the grass.

We found the economics building, and with the help of a friendly student we walked right to Dr. Tokamatsu's office. The door was open and he was inside, sitting in front of a computer and typing on the keyboard with machine-gun speed. He paused, noticed our presence in the doorway and gestured grandly for us to enter.

“Come in, come in,” he said, jumping up from his chair with great energy. “I'm Benny Tokamatsu.”

I introduced myself, Sandra and Winston. He shook hands with each of us, including Winston, who waved to him after shaking hands. He was no taller than I was and slightly built, maybe 50 years old, with still-dark hair and typical Japanese features, casually dressed in a colorful sport shirt. The fact that he spoke English without a trace of an accent led me to believe that he had been born in the U.S.

He escorted us to his car in a nearby parking lot. He didn't have a car seat for Winston, but our car was some distance away. With trepidation, Sandra agreed to sit in the back seat and hold Winston during the short drive to the restaurant, but she obviously felt guilty about it.

Once inside the nice Italian restaurant we were quickly seated, with a highchair for Winston. Sandra had also brought a bottle of formula, a jar of baby food and a change of diapers, so we were good for a couple of hours.

“When I got your phone call, Dr. Morgan, I was very excited, because I have not seen Gerald for five years,” Dr. Tokamatsu said as soon as we had ordered. “Of course we heard about his tragic death-it was in all the papers here-but I was unable to go to his funeral because of previous commitments. I was a student of his and I have tried to follow in his footsteps. I work in the same areas he did. I would like to know more of the details of how he died-and how he lived after he left here.”

“Please call me Lillian,” I said. I had never been a formal person, and since I'd retired I had felt that Dr. Morgan was somebody else. I told Dr. Tokamatsu the basic facts concerning Gerald's death, without mentioning the possibility of murder.

When I talked about the shellfish, Dr. Tokamatsu interrupted and said, “Yes, I knew about Gerald's allergy to shellfish. Sometimes he and his wife would eat at our house and he would remind us of it. He had a very precise mind. It is surprising to me that he did not determine exactly what was in the dish that killed him.”

“He tried. He asked one of the ladies who prepared it. Unfortunately, there was a mixup and she didn't know there was shellfish in it. It was a tragic accident.” I hoped Dr. Tokamatsu wouldn't press the point because I didn't want to upset him by going into any more detail than necessary, especially since he had been such a good friend of Gerald's.

I told him what I knew of Gerald's activities at Silver Acres, including bridge, and even mentioned his girlfriends.

At this, Dr. Tokamatsu laughed and said, “Yes, Gerald always had an eye for the ladies.” He quickly added, “I don't want to give the wrong impression. He was always faithful to his wife, but he liked a pretty face. They say older men still look at women, but they forget why they’re doing it. I guess Gerald didn't forget why.”

“That's the rumor,” I said. “But whether he went beyond looking and talking I don't know. Life for most of us at Silver Acres is pretty routine, unlike that of a college campus.”

“That's all right. Gerald went there to rest and relax. After his wife died, he lost his zest for the academic life. In fact, he turned all his papers over to me so that I could use them in my research. One thing I'm proud of is that I helped to get his most important book reissued-the one that was instrumental in his being awarded the Nobel Prize.”

“ Fiat Money Madness?”

“Oh, you are familiar with it?”

“Well, I can't say I've read it all, but I did skim it and it seems to make sense to me.”

“Good. Since you are a mathematician, Dr. Morgan-Lillian-I am glad to hear that. It is just as appropriate today as it was when he wrote it, perhaps more so with the launch of the Euro, yet another fiat currency.

“I remember well when Gerald won the Nobel. He was very excited-we all were. We were excited for him and proud that we knew him. He flew to Stockholm for the presentation and told us about it when he returned. He said they ate dinner in a large building with gold mosaic tiles on the walls. Can you imagine? I'm afraid I'll never have that pleasure.”

“If it's any solace, I never did, either. Uh, Benny, you said you had Gerald's papers. Would it be an imposition to ask if I could take a look at them? We have some people with fascinating backgrounds at Silver Acres, but we rarely get to delve into them. I'm interested not only for myself but for other people who knew him.”

“No problem, except that there are several boxes of them. But there is an empty office near mine and you can spend as much time as you like on them. I have to teach a class this afternoon, but I'll fix you up before I go.”

“Sandra, you and Winston don't want to hang around and be bored,” I said. “Why don't you go to the beach? I'm sure Winston would love to play in the sand.”

“There's no doubt about that,” Sandra said, “but he'll also get dirty.”

“That's what children do. But, fortunately, there's a shower in our room at the motel and a laundromat down the corridor.”

Benny drove to our rental car. When Sandra and Winston got into the car he said to her, “I said that Gerald liked a pretty face. He must have liked you very much.”

“I never met the man,” Sandra said, stiffly.

She thinks that if a woman is beautiful and smart, inside, it shouldn't matter what she looks like outside.


***

Two hours later I was still plowing through papers. Since I didn't know what I was looking for I might not know when I found it. However, I did begin to get a picture of Gerald, the professor. That he was well known I could tell by looking at his correspondence from all over the world; it had come by letter, and more recently, by e-mail.

He had written a number of books. Benny gave me copies but I did no more than look at the dust jackets, dedications and forewords. Gerald had also written a lot of articles and op-ed pieces that had been published in journals and newspapers, including the Wall Street Journal. He had kept copies of most of the letters that he, himself, had written, apparently. And there were a lot of them.

Then there were the newspaper clippings about him that filled up several scrapbooks. I got tired of reading them after a while. At the bottom of one of the boxes sat a three-ring binder. I opened it up and saw a title page with the words Fiat Money Madness and the subtitle Government Printing Presses and World Financial Chaos.

This must be an early version of his book. It would be an exciting find for anybody who wrote a biography of Gerald, but not necessarily for me. Still, I was curious to see if any changes had been marked in the text. I turned the page. The title was repeated; then I got a shock. It said, “by Gerald Weiss and Maxwell Harrington.”

I picked out a hardcover version of Fiat Money Madness from the books that Benny had given me. It listed Gerald Weiss as the sole author. I compared the opening paragraph of this book to that of the draft version. They were identical.

The name Harrington didn't ring a bell, but with my memory problems that didn't mean anything. I had brought with me a list of the full names of all the major players so that I wouldn't be caught with a memory lapse, as I had been in Carol Grant's office. I pulled it out of my purse and consulted it. There was no Harrington on the list and I had never heard of one at Silver Acres.

I compared the table of contents of the draft version of the book with that of the hardcover version. They were the same. I spot-checked portions of the text. I found a few minor differences: grammatical corrections, spelling, some wording changes, but nothing radical.


***

When Benny returned from his class I showed him the title page of the draft version of the book. His face showed surprise, but he didn't say anything right away. He noisily sucked in air, wiped his fingers across his mouth and finally said, “Dr. Harrington was a professor in the Economics Department when I was a graduate student here.”

“He must have worked on the book with Gerald,” I said, hoping to elicit more information from him.

“I-I don't know. He had a stroke and became incapacitated; he died soon afterward.”

“But that doesn't justify Gerald dropping his name from the book if he helped to write it. At the very least it's a copyright violation.”

“Gerald would not have done anything like that,” Benny said, passionately. “He was a good man-good and fair. He always gave credit to me for the papers I co-authored with him-even when I was a lowly graduate student.”

“I'm sure you're right. But everybody reacts differently to temptation. And I know from personal experience that academia is very competitive. Look at this situation. Gerald has co-authored a book that he realizes may be seminal-may even be in Nobel territory. Then his partner is put out of commission, unable to assert his contribution to this history-making event. If you were in Gerald's shoes, wouldn't you be tempted to take full credit?”

“Of course. But Gerald was not like that. He was a cut above the rest of us.”

“Now that he is gone you are proposing him for sainthood.”

Benny managed a grim chuckle. “Perhaps.” He sucked in air. “But if word leaked out that Gerald had ever done anything unethical, it would tarnish his reputation. Just when his theories are enjoying a revival.” He looked hard at me.

“I have no intention of publicizing this,” I said, hoping to set his mind at rest. “In fact, the only reason I'm interested in Gerald's past is because I think he may have been murdered.”

“Murdered?” Benny sat down suddenly. “Tell me about it.”


***

“Harrington. That's right. Please check the residents' roster for me tomorrow and call me back. Leave a message if there's no one here.”

“I don't remember anybody named Harrington at Silver Acres,” Tess said, at the other end of the line.

“I don't either,” I said, but you know how our memories are. Please, just check the roster.”

“You're working on Gerald again, aren't you,” Tess said, accusingly.

I was back in our motel room, keeping one eye on Winston, who had learned how to change channels on the television set using the remote control, while Sandra took a shower. She had picked up Mark at the airport and he had taken a room close to ours.

I believe that my hearing is almost as good as ever, but between trying to answer Tess' charges, the television blaring (Winston had also found the volume control) and Winston babbling along with it, I guess I didn't hear Mark's knock on the door.

He opened it with perfect timing just as Sandra stepped out of the bathroom, naked as a newborn babe. To say that both of them were surprised is understating the case by several orders of magnitude. I quickly told Tess I'd talk to her later and hung up the phone. Mark and Sandra stared at each other as if turned to stone. Mark got a full-frontal view of Sandra, as they say in movie ratings, and what he saw was exquisite.

Finally, the tableau ended. Mark mumbled an apology and stumbled out the door. Sandra turned and hightailed it back into the bathroom. When he was gone she crept out again, wrapped in a wayward towel. The redness in her face was not just from the hot water of the shower.

“I'll never be able to face him again!” she cried, dramatically, accenting her words with appropriate arm gestures.

“Why not?” I asked. “You did a good job of facing him just now.”

“Gogi, this isn't funny! We've only had one date.”

“But that one date influenced him to come all the way across country to see you. And he certainly did-see you, that is. This will help to speed up your romance like nothing else. Men are very visual beings, you know, and you are certainly worth looking at.”

Wrong thing to say.

“Men are animals.”

I did get her calmed down after a while. She got dressed and went out with Mark, which was the original plan, while I babysat with Winston. She said she would be back at 11. I glanced at my bedside clock when she tiptoed in. It showed ten minutes after one.

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