Jeremiah Healy - Right To Die

I said, "Any way to determine who had access to the books?"

"Not really," said Jurick. "We put the poster up last Monday.

Seven days of promotion is about the most our customers can tolerate. But copies of her book have been in the store for at least a month before that. I could check our invoices if you'd like?"

"I don't think that'll make a difference. The woman who brought the book to Inés Roja – "

"Mrs. Thomason."

"Mrs. Thomason said she got the book from the display table."

"Yes, well, I'm fairly certain that all of the books on the table came from the special shipment I ordered for the signing."

"And how long have they been here?"

"On the table, you mean?"

"In the store at all."

"Well, the boxes would have arrived about a week before the poster went up, meaning about two weeks ago."

"And on the display table?"

"We wouldn't have opened the boxes and set up publicly, you know, until the poster notice, so I would say early last week."

"Anyone on your staff mention anything odd about people hanging around the table?"

"No. But then, you must understand, Mr. Cuddy, this is a bookstore. Our customers leaf through books in the process of deciding which to buy. Since that horrible message was already on a mailing label, someone could have stuck it there in five seconds or so. None of my staff would have noticed that."

"Even if the person was wearing gloves at the time?"

Jurick shrugged. "It is December."

I looked over at the display table. nearly emptied of books now.

All our boy had to do, any time in the last week, was pick up a copy of Our Right to Die, stick the label in it, then bury the copy maybe halfway down one pile. To be sure it wasn't sold pre-signing but would be brought to Andrus during the signing.

Jurick said, "Will the book help at all?"

"Excuse me?"

She stopped just short of touching the plastic bag. "This copy. Will you be able to use it for clues?"

"The guy's been pretty careful so far. I'll take it to the police, but there's not much chance they'll get anything from it."

Jurick shook her head. "Who would do such a thing?"

"You find out, let me know."

I SAID TO ALEC BACALL, "HOW IS Inés DOING?”

He gestured at the massive central staircase. "She went up to her room to lie down."

"Inés lives here too?"

"Oh, yes. Maisy often likes to work at night, and this way Inés can be available for whatever."

Bacall said the last in a matter-of-fact way, no inflection or other indication of double meaning. We were standing alone in a ground floor parlor done in blue pastels. Bacall, Wonsley, and I had taken a taxi together, following another cab with Andrus, Tucker Hebert, Roja, and Manolo to the town house. Once there, Manolo exchanged hand signals with Andrus, then seemed to disappear while Andrus and Hebert climbed the steps to the second floor. Bacall and I had gone with Wonsley into the kitchen before he began opening cabinets and shooed us out the swinging door.

On a mews at the flat of Beacon Hill near Charles, the town house was more truly a mansion. Fifty feet wide at the street, at least seventy feet deep. We were within blocks of the buildings where Daniel Webster, Louisa May Alcott, and Henry James spent their time.

I said, "Just how big is this place?"

"We1l," said Bacall, "I haven't seen every nook and cranny, but the design is pretty typical for its vintage. The second floor front has a living room or library, the rear a large study. The master bedroom and bath are on the third floor, with a studio for painting or needlepoint or whatever the hell Mater and Pater did back then. Children's and staff quarters are on the fourth floor, under the eaves, where it's coldest in winter and hottest in summer. The Victorians really knew how to handle that."

Much of Beacon Hill is Federalist red brick, but there wasn't I much doubt Bacall was right about the period in which the Andrus home was built. Still, you'd have to be current in the real estate market to know how many millions it would fetch.

When I didn't say anything, Bacall leaned a little closer. "I really don't think you need worry about Inés. She's seen a lot worse than this."

"Coming over from Cuba?"

Just a nod. "She's a strong woman, and a good one too. She used to volunteer at an AIDS clinic Del and I support."

"Used to?"

"Inés found she couldn't stand to see people suffering?

"Not many can."

Another nod.

"Coffee or tea?"

Wonsley was carrying a tray with lots of things on it that I couldn't identify.

"I'll pass, thanks. Can you two give me a while upstairs?"

Bacall said, "Certainly. John."

I climbed to an elliptical landing with double doors on either end. I walked to the front set. Through the narrow slit between the doors came the muted noise of a stadium crowd and the strobing of a video monitor in an otherwise darkened room. I knocked and a southern accent said, "Hold just a second."

Tucker Hebert threw open doors which slid into the walls on either side of the threshold. He'd taken off the jacket, tie, and shoes. His dress shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist.

I said, "I hope I'm not breaking in on you?"

Hebert grinned. "Just trying to get comfortable. Maisy's in her study. You'd be the detective, right?"

"Private investigator. John Cuddy."

"Tuck Hebert." His grip was almost a vise. "Come on in and set yourself down. Fix you something?"

I could see a crystal tumbler, nearly full of amber liquid and ice cubes, on a cocktail table.

"Beer?"

"Easy enough." Hebert went behind a bar of padded leather and brass implates. I heard the noises a miniature refrigerator makes. The table with his drink squatted close to an Eames chair and ottoman. The chair was positioned in front of a wide-screen television and a console of video equipment. On the screen, two tennis players were moving around, the taller one slowing to serve, the other hopping and snorting to receive. The rest of the room was basically floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In the flickering light, the only things I could see on the shelves were videocassettes and trophies.

Hebert popped the cap from a bottle of Miller's Genuine Draft with a church key. "I know these fellers are twistoffs, but I cut my racquet hand on one once, and I've been shy ever since."

I took the beer from him, no mention of a glass being made. Hebert picked up a remote-control device, but waited while the point was being played on the screen.

"Watch me crush this one."

I did, realizing the bigger guy was a younger Hebert. He took a ball that bounced near his eyes and swept it away crosscourt, beyond the reach of the opponent with dark hair.

"That was match point against me there. Survived that and went on to take the set seven-six in the tiebreaker. Lordy, old Harold did give me trouble with that moonball of his."

Without looking at the remote device, Hebert hit stop and then off. Pushing a third button caused the recessed lights at the tops of the bookshelves to grow brighter.

He palmed the device lovingly before setting it down. "Littlefel1er does about everything for you except wash the windows. Now, what can I do for you?"

"Maybe answer a few questions?"

"Sure, sure." He curled into the Eames chair and reached for his drink. "Have a seat."

I angled a velvet wingback that probably once felt at home in the room and sat down.

Up close and well lit, Hebert's features were strong but lined, the year-round tan like the patina on the surface of an antique. The ready smile reminded me of locally produced car commercials, the only detraction other than age being a swipe line through his left eyebrow. He took a healthy swig of what looked more and more like Scotch.