Richard Stevenson: Death Vows

“And when did you see Moore before that?”

This seemed to stump them. “I’m not sure,” Sturdivant said. “Why do you ask?”

What was the deal with these two and Bill Moore? They were seeming less and less like “dear friends” of Moore and more like casual or even distant acquaintances. It was they who seemed to be “up to something,” if anybody was. Maybe, I began to think, the way to go here was to do some honest but perfunctory checking up on Fields and Radziwill, write a report, collect my fee, and move on.

I mumbled something about wanting to get a picture of Moore ’s habits, and then asked, “How did Moore meet Barry? At the Supper Club?”

The eye-rolling this time bordered on the violent. “Oh, my dear!” Gaudios said, and both men guffawed.

“No,” Sturdivant said. “Barry was not and is not a member of the Supper Club.”

“Why is that? He doesn’t eat?”

“It’s not a question of eating, but of being eaten,” Sturdivant said, and leered with amusement. “No, really,” he went on, “Barry did come to dinner as someone’s guest a few times, but he chose not to become a member. He was younger than most of us, and I think he just felt a tad out of place. In any event, this was prior to Bill’s arrival in the area. I’m not sure where they might have met. Have you any idea, Steven?”

“My God, I think I know!”

“Where? What?”

Gaudios said, “They met at Tom’s funeral!”

“Oh, my God!”

“They did. Bill came with Jean, and naturally Barry was there – having just all but murdered poor Tom – and putting on quite a show of grief. What Barry didn’t know was, Tom had left everything to his sister in Worthington – this was before marriage was a viable option for gays – and Barry was about to be left homeless. Tom’s sister is a vicious bitch, and Barry was ass-over-teakettle out on the street within a week.”

I said, “And he moved in with Bill Moore?”

“Not immediately,” Sturdivant said. “I think Barry moved in with Bud for a month or two. But Barry and Bill began dating. With Tom barely settled in his grave, everyone commented that it was all in exceptionally poor taste.”

The waiter returned and made off with the plate of mussel shells and my empty soup bowl. There were only a few other diners in the room, and the service was brisk, as if to compensate for any delays during the two summer months when Berkshire restaurants were jam-packed with New Yorkers anxious about dealing with the check in order to arrive at Tanglewood or a play or dance performance on time.

I said, “I’m still puzzled.”

“About what?” Sturdivant asked.

“About the vague circumstantiality of your suspicions. The state cops were satisfied with the accidental-death story of Tom Weed’s passing. I know a few Massachusetts state homicide investigators, and these people are no dummies. Barry’s hooking up with Bill Moore soon after Tom’s death is the sort of early remarriage – re-boyfriending in this case – that always sets tongues wagging. But loneliness and emotional need sometimes give decorum a poke in the eye, and usually there’s no harm done. I’ll go ahead and check further on Barry Fields, if that’s what you guys want. His apparent cover-up of his past is unsettling, I grant you that. But I have to tell you, my inclination is to visit Bill Moore and say, ‘Hey – what’s the deal? Your fiancé seems to have adopted a new identity six years ago. What do you make of that, Bill?’ And just see what he says. That approach could introduce an element of clarity into the situation that right now is lacking.”

Sturdivant and Gaudios looked at me stonily. Sturdivant said, “But that is not the approach I am paying you to take. It is not the approach you agreed to take.”

“It’s just a suggestion, Jim. I thought I might try an approach that has a better chance of success than the one I am currently slogging along with.”

The efficient waiter, a clean-shaven, hazel-eyed youth clad in the green and black colors of the room, arrived with an assistant in tow, and they placed before each of us plates the size of Soviet tractor discs. Sturdivant’s and Gaudios’s were each adorned with a morsel of tilapia on a bed of what looked like sea urchin spines, and I got my side of beef and heap o’ starches.

Sturdivant remained sulkily mute as we dug in, but after a moment Gaudios said, “You’re quite trim, Don, for a man who eats like there’s no tomorrow. How do you manage that?”

“Apprehension,” I said. “I metabolize much of what I eat into apprehension over what’s going to happen next. You won’t find this in Atkins or the South Beach diet, but it works for me.”

Recovering his corporate-flack mien, Sturdivant said amiably, “I doubt you’ll have the opportunity to burn very many calories on this case, Don. Just find out who and what Barry Fields is, and the same for Bud Radziwill, if possible. It’s all fairly straightforward, as I see it. Would you please just do that? I’m prepared to offer a bonus of one thousand dollars if you’ll just complete this investigation in a straightforward manner and then hand me your report.”

My cell phone throbbed against my kidneys. I ignored it and said, “Jim, usually in life you get what you pay for. In this case, I do believe you would be getting something less than what you paid for. However, I’m willing to run a routine check on Fields, ask a few more questions around town, report my findings to you, and then be on my way – no bonus necessary – if that is what you wish to hire me to do.”

My cell phone vibrated with a second call just after the first unanswered one, meaning it was Timmy with something that couldn’t or shouldn’t wait. I excused myself – Sturdivant and Gaudios, predictably getting it backwards, looked at me if this was the height of impertinence – and walked out to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant to take the call.

“I thought you would want to know,” Timmy said. “You had a call from Barry Fields, who insists on speaking with you. He sounded pretty upset. He’s apparently somewhere near where you are, and he left a number.”

“How did he know to call me? He knows already who I am and that I’m checking up on him?”

“He didn’t say. He just said it was urgent that you call him. It didn’t sound as if he knows you’re in Great Barrington now. He just said he needed to speak with you and that you’d know what it was about.”

I wrote down the number Fields had left, told Timmy I might be late in getting back to Albany, and reentered Pearly Gates.

I thought it over and then told Sturdivant and Gaudios, “Great Barrington is such a pretty little town. I’m looking forward to spending a few days here.”

They both peered at me across their enormous dinner plates, exuding satisfaction.

“Look, all we need to know is who it was that hired you to check up on us,” Fields said. “We have basically nothing to hide, so if you want to drag your ass around town dredging up the boring details of our boring lives, go ahead. Hey, go wild! All we’re asking is, just tell us who the fuck it is that is so interested in us that they would actually pay somebody money to track us and find out what we’re doing.”

“It really is weird and kind of frightening being investigated by somebody,” Radziwill added. “It just seems fair that if a person is being put under a microscope by Big Brother, as it were, then that person should be able to find out who this particular Big Brother actually is. ”

We were in Radziwill’s apartment in the half-basement of an old frame house up the hill from Great Barrington’s downtown. The place was messy and comfortable in a college-apartment way, with wall posters of movie classics – Duck Soup, Open City, Band of Outsiders – and stacks of books and DVDs, along with a computer and printer. Simon’s Rock College was farther up the hill, so this apartment might have served at times as student housing – though conspicuously missing in post-grad Bud Radziwill’s current occupancy were the usual student-decor empty beer cans and ashtray roaches. Like others of his generation, Bud was a clean-living Kennedy cousin.