Toured to Death (15 page)

The wind was picking up now, rattling the wall of double-paned windows. The seasons were changing, summer and winter slugging it out in the wild battleground of autumn. Tomorrow would be a major skirmish, Amy predicted as she switched off the desk lamp and headed sleepily for her bedroom. The bangs and clatters from below had finally stopped.

“S
o, you're a friend of Marcus's.”

“Yes,” said Amy and left it at that. Going out to view the scene of the crime had been Fanny's idea, but still a good one. “We spent time together,” Amy explained. “You know, being about the same age. As the tour operator, I feel somewhat responsible. I mean, a client getting arrested?”

“I should hope so,” Doris Carvel said with a shudder.

“Well, it was hardly my fault. There was a murder.”

“Of course. Poor Georgina. And Marcus.” It definitely seemed to be Amy's fault.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Mrs. Carvel rearranged the shawl around her shoulders. “It must have been the spring. I don't get many visitors. We had a nice chat about the old days. About Fabian.” The widow, Amy decided, was probably pushing eighty.

Doris turned her face toward one of the solarium windows and watched as the rain played with the oaks and maples, changing directions with each fresh gust, tearing off the first golden leaves of fall and sending them racing down the lawn to the Long Island Sound. “I miss the summer already,” she murmured and pulled the shawl tight. This, too, might have been Amy's fault, from the tone.

Tall,
Amy thought,
despite the stooped posture, with piercing gray eyes and fine-boned features.
Her hair was also gray—long, surprisingly thick, and flowing loosely. It was well conditioned, too. How did she do it? Amy was not looking forward to dealing with her own “old lady hair,” should she be lucky enough to last that long. Doris had undoubtedly been the model for Dolores, a meek woman who lived for others, asked for nothing, and always managed to get her own way. Passive-aggressive was the label—as opposed to Fanny, who tended more toward the aggressive-aggressive.

Amy had been surprised to get an appointment, a stranger calling out of the blue. In retrospect, she saw how easy it had been. An old friend murdered, an ex-employee arrested. And Amy had been there. The lure was irresistible enough to get Amy ushered into an overheated solarium, where Doris Carvel sat bundled up against a nonexistent draft, watching the rain.

“You knew Georgina, too?”

“We also met on the tour.” Amy hadn't told her about the rally aspect. God knows what she would think of two dozen people playing a game based on her husband's death. Thanks to the discretion of the Italian police, this had not been featured in any of the media accounts. For now, she wanted Doris to assume it had been just an ordinary tour—with a murder.

“It's ridiculous. Marcus couldn't kill anyone. He and Georgina barely knew each other.”

“Ridiculous,” Amy echoed.

“The police must have some sort of motive,” Doris said, her inflection rising.

“The only thing they have is the fact that he poured the wine. Opportunity, not motive. They may think the motive dates back to when Marcus worked for Mr. Carvel. That's when he and Georgina had the most contact with each other.”

“Motive?” Doris said, as if the word were new to her.

“The police are grasping at straws.” Amy had given this a lot of thought. “Perhaps they think Marcus killed your husband and that Georgina knew something about it.”

“Marcus kill Fabian? That's preposterous. Marcus didn't kill Fabian or Georgina, certainly not both.”

“Neither one.”

“That's what I said.”

It wasn't, but she let it pass. “Marcus didn't inherit anything from Mr. Carvel.” Amy waited. “Did he?”

“Barely anything. A few months' wages.”

“And there is no other reason, a business reason perhaps, that Marcus might have to kill your husband?”

“What business reason? You sound as though you think he's guilty.”

“No,” Amy apologized. “I'm just trying to figure out what the police might be thinking.”

“Marcus was a personal secretary. He didn't deal with the business. He worked here. Appointments and charities and personal correspondence. My husband was toying with writing his memoirs. I believe Marcus did some work for him on that front.”

“You mean organizing old company documents, old diaries, old letters? That sort of thing?”

“I suppose. His life would make a good book, you know.”

“I'd read it,” said Amy. The memoirs of Fabian Carvel were exactly what she needed right now.

“He was a fascinating man.” Doris's voice turned softer, and for the first time she spoke without hesitation. “He was self-made. My family objected, as they would have with any man of his background. But there was something so powerful about Fabian, as if he could get anything he wanted. I suppose that included me.” She smiled shyly, a love-struck girl hiding in a frail, wrinkled shell. “Fabian practically invented Mexican food,” she said. “You probably know that.”

Amy could think of at least one entire nation that might be unaware of that. “Your husband made it popular in America.”

“That's what I meant. Mexican food didn't become what it is today without a lot of innovation.” She clucked her tongue, just like Miss Lambert back in kindergarten. “When Fabian was right out of school, struggling to start up a food company, he invented the taco shell.” She paused, as if waiting for applause.

Amy was dubious. “He invented the taco?”

“The prefolded corn taco. You know, the hard shells you see in grocery stores.”

Amy scoured her memory. Perhaps this was right. She had certainly never seen those folded corn shells in a real Mexican restaurant. “That's an American invention?”

“As American as chop suey.” Her shoulders straightened, and the shawl fell away. “The very first inroad of Mexican food in this country was the hard taco shell. As a child, you must have seen Tico Taco shells in the grocery store. Do you remember seeing Mexican food before that? No, you don't. It was too different and too spicy. This was in the sixties, you have to remember, when American tastes rebelled at anything even remotely exotic. But Fabian gave them ground chuck, lettuce, tomato, and American cheese in a ready-to-eat corn bun. It was just novel enough to succeed.”

Amy chuckled, genuinely amused by the revelation. “It's one of those things you never think about.”

Doris chuckled back. If there were enough blood to flow to her cheeks, she might have blushed. “I don't mean to go on. But it's been my bread and butter for fifty years.”

“When did the Tico Taco restaurants start?”

“A few years later. Fabian saw all these hamburger places, and he wanted in—‘in on the action,' as he liked to say. He began with one shop. Not any messier than a hamburger. But he needed more than tacos. That's when he came up with sour cream.”

“He invented sour cream?” Amy was almost ready to believe it.

“No. But stop and think. Where does sour cream come from?”

“You mean, other than cows?”

“Yes, dear. What part of the world?”

“The origins of sour cream.” Amy hemmed and hawed and wound up free-associating. “Um. Borscht. Blintzes. Stroganoff. I'm guessing that cattle milk products are more of a staple in colder climates. So . . . um . . . Slavic?”

“Well done.”

Amy felt like a grade-schooler.

“Now, how do you think sour cream found its way into your enchilada?”

This question was easier. “Fabian Carvel.”

“Yes.” The matron clapped her hands. “No one thinks about it, but sour cream isn't Mexican. Mole, guacamole, yes. And yet, for millions of Americans, sour cream is the ingredient that cools off the spices and complements them.” She was sitting erect, her voice ringing with pride. “My Fabian was the first to add sour cream to the enchilada.”

When Amy would tell the story to Fanny that evening, both of them would laugh and marvel at the small, odd turns that created fortunes and changed national eating habits. “The first man in history . . .” And they would laugh again. But here and now, as she sat in this old-money mansion and faced the aristocratic profile of Doris Carvel, it all made perfect, sober sense.

Doris seemed to appreciate Amy's appreciation. “I know how silly this sounds. Prefolded taco shells and sour cream. Tico Taco makes up less than a third of F.S.C.'s business today. But it's the root from which everything else sprang. Managers can grow a company. There was no big trick to that, especially during the sixties. But it was those early innovations that Fabian was the most proud of.” Doris's entire speech seemed straight from Fabian Carvel himself. How many times, Amy wondered, had she sat at dinner parties, listening to her husband make these same heroic claims?

“Food Services is a publicly held company?” It sounded like such a non sequitur, but not really. “If I wanted to buy stock in Food Services Corporation . . .”

“We went public in nineteen ninety-eight, although Fabian did maintain a fair number of shares.”

“That's right. Marcus told me. Your husband planned to leave his stock to charity. And then he changed his mind.” Amy knew this was wrong. She was trying to prime the pump.

“No,” Doris corrected her, right on cue. “Most of it did go to charity. The Long Island Conservancy. They build parks and wetlands,” she continued. Her eyes rose to meet Amy's. “Don't waste your pity. Fabian left us well cared for. Our son, Daniel, and I received gifts of stock and property all throughout his lifetime. Neither one of us is going hungry.”

“Marcus told me about a will change. . . .”

“Will change?” Doris looked puzzled. “There was no change to his will.”

“Sorry. I must have misunderstood.”

“There was a gift, a proposed gift, but no change in the will.”

Amy stayed quiet, doing her best to look relaxed and receptive.

“Fabian was a generous man,” Doris continued. “No one objected to this. But then Daniel discovered that his father was planning to give millions of dollars' worth of stock to . . . Well, never mind to whom. It was going to be an outright gift, not part of the will. My husband offered no explanation. It was his stock, and he would do what he wanted. Well, Daniel got upset. Stu Romney got upset.”

“He worked for your husband?” Amy ventured. “Stew Rummy.”

“What? Rummy?” A lilting laugh. “No, no. Stuart Romney. The company's CFO. Anyway . . . Rummy. That's funny. I'll have to tell Stu. . . .” Her voice trailed off. When she spoke again, it was hesitantly, perhaps not sure how much more she should confide. Only the fear of being rude seemed to make her go on. “It caused a rift. Fabian remained determined to make this huge, ridiculous gift, and the resentment grew. On both sides. You know how these things are.”

“You eventually talked him out of the gift.”

“Not me.” Doris seemed horrified at the idea. “Our son, Daniel.”
Price Litcomb,
Amy translated mentally. “You know how children are. For weeks Daniel wouldn't speak to him. Fabian was ignoring his family, he said, so . . .” She looked up from her hands and gasped, as if surprised to find Amy still in the room. “You don't want to hear this.”

“You haven't talked about it in a long time,” Amy observed.

Doris took her soft words as encouragement. “You're very kind to listen. All of this has taken on such an exaggerated importance in my mind. I sit here and think.... This took place only a short time before he disappeared. I mean, before he died.” She looked flustered. “We were visiting San Diego, the whole family . . .”

“Marcus told me the real story,” Amy confessed. “The dinner party here. Your husband's disappearance.”

“He told . . .” For a second it seemed as if she might try to keep up the charade. Then she relented. “Yes, of course. What does it matter now? Of course he'd tell you. The gist, I suppose . . . and it's a long way to answer a simple question . . .”

Amy forced herself to stay expectantly silent.

“Fabian and Daniel made up. He didn't give anything to that woman. And he transferred some more stock into Daniel's name. What was your question? Did Fabian's estate go to charity? Yes, most of it did. We never contested the will. It's a worthy cause.”

“Uh, yes. That's too bad. Too bad.” Amy was barely aware of what she was saying. Her mind was still on “that woman.”

T
wo simple words.
That woman.
But what woman? A mistress?

Georgina perhaps? That was all Amy could think of. Some woman had come within a hair's breadth of getting millions in F.S.C. stock.

“No, it's not bad,” Doris said, responding to something Amy must have muttered. “Daniel has his own life. And the conservancy put me on the board. It gives me something to do.” She poked a hand out of her shawl to retrieve the cup of jasmine tea that had been cooling on an end table. They were back in safe territory. For the moment at least she had lanced the festering memory. “It's been good of you to visit. I was so shocked to hear about Georgina. And then to hear about Marcus . . . such a nice boy.”

“I'm sure he had nothing to do with it.”

“If there's anything I can do to help . . .” Her gray eyes focused on Amy's brown eyes. “I'm serious. If you need money for bail or someone to make a phone call. Fabian's name still carries some weight.”

“Thank you. That's very kind.”

“I'm sure my son would love to help, as well. Unfortunately, he's overseas.”

“Overseas?” Amy asked, perhaps too eagerly. Did her eyebrows rise? She had to learn to control that. “Where exactly overseas? Italy maybe?”

“No. Daniel is spending the fall—I guess the spring, really—in Sydney. His wife's family lives there.”

“Ah.” One good suspect down the drain.

As they were saying good-bye, the awkward good-bye of strangers who might never see each other again, a butler appeared. Either this was a man with incredible instincts or he'd been summoned, perhaps by a buzzer hidden in the arm of the wing chair. Kevin, as she called him, led Amy out through the same configuration of rooms that she'd seen on her way into the solarium, an incongruous addition tacked onto the rear of the brick mansion and built to take advantage of the view.

This is the house,
she thought as they passed into the main hall.
That's the dining room off to the right. That's the staircase that Fabian used to make his escape from dinner. Like the game, only real. A mystery puzzle come to life.

“How is Marcus?” the butler asked as they stood at the open front door. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still substantial. It whipped through the hall, rattling the hunting prints that hung by velvet ribbons from the ivory-colored walls. He was only slightly older than Amy, and not fussy or overly proper. An efficient and friendly man, large but not fat, he had the freckle-faced good looks of an Irish charmer and more than a trace of a warm Boston accent. His red hair was short and straight, spiky and gelled.

“I'm sure he'll be home in a week.”

“Good,” said Kevin. The concern in his voice sounded genuine. “Marcus is a good guy, a lot of fun.”

“You worked with Marcus?”

“Yeah. I've been here forever.” Kevin touched Amy lightly on the back, then eased her out the door. “Give him my best.”

Amy's key had barely turned in the lock when a voice accosted her through the door. “How did it go?”

“Fine.”

As usual, the door between Fanny's rooms and the common stairwell was open, her way of refusing to acknowledge that the house was now separated in two. “Hope you haven't eaten.” Amy could tell from her tone and from the brown smell of brisket that all was forgiven, if not forgotten. She wandered into the first-floor kitchen, unchanged from her childhood, right down to the decades-old pot holders on the refrigerator. Instinctively, she gravitated to a sinkful of green beans and began to snap and rinse.

Fanny stood at the stove, basting and listening to her daughter, treating the moment as if it were perfectly ordinary instead of a cease-fire. Her peace offering was the brisket, and Amy's acceptance was her candor, sharing the first tentative steps of her detective work.

They laughed together about the genius of prefolded tacos and sour cream. Then Fanny listened patiently to her analysis, interrupting only once for a point of clarification. She didn't want to get into a repeat of last night and so was careful to give Amy the proper time and appreciation before delivering her own news.

“You got a call at the office today.” She was sliding the brisket into the oven. “An Officer Francis Loyola.”

“I wonder what he wants. Frank was on the tour.”

“Really?” Fanny knew exactly who Frank was, having spent over an hour talking to him. She had a talent for conversation, even on the phone, when people were leaving messages or had dialed the wrong number. “He says you should call him at home.”

“Right after dinner,” Amy said with a yawn. She finished rinsing the beans and, leaning back against a row of cupboards, proceeded to outline her next step. “I told you about Mrs. Carvel's slip of the tongue—about ‘that woman.'”

“Yes, dear. Very perceptive.”

“That may be the key. I mean, losing out on millions of dollars in stock could make anyone homicidal. Tomorrow I think I'll track down Betsy Caulfield. She's the daytime television actress.”

“The model for Bitsy Stormfield.”

“Exactly. If she's not ‘that woman,' maybe she knows who is.”

“She shouldn't be hard to find. Her soap is filmed here in New York?”

“
The Roads We Choose,
” Amy said with a nod. “Do you mind if I take off tomorrow afternoon?”

“You can take off all day.” Fanny knew that Amy already had a tentative morning appointment with Frank Loyola. But Amy would find this out soon enough. “Don't forget to call Frank.”

“I'll call right now,” Amy said as she bounded out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. “This woman theory is the right direction. I can feel it.”

“Plenty of time before dinner.”

Fanny didn't know what she felt. All she knew was that Frank—a nice, polite man, to judge by his voice—had sounded worried. He wouldn't say why, not even to Fanny, his new best friend. Whatever it was, Amy would have to find out for herself. Fanny was through meddling.

Well . . . maybe she'd just pace herself more carefully.