Mary Clark - Let Me Call You Sweetheart

“Jonathan,” Grace Hoover murmured reprovingly. “You can tell it’s an election year, can’t you, Amanda?” As they all smiled, she added, “Now we mustn’t keep you any longer.”

“My wife has been keeping me in line since we met as college freshmen,” Jonathan Hoover explained to Jason. “Good seeing you again, Mr. Arnott.”

“Mr. Arnott, haven’t we met before as well?” Grace Hoover asked suddenly.

Jason felt his internal alarm system kick in. It was sending out a strong warning. “I don’t think so,” he answered slowly. I’m sure I’d have remembered, he thought. So what makes her think we’ve met?

“I don’t know why, but I feel as though I know you. Well, I’m sure I’m wrong. Good-bye.”

Even though the Cobles were their usual interesting selves and the dinner was delicious, Jason spent the evening heartily wishing he had stayed home alone and cooked the filet of sole.

When he got back to his house at ten-thirty, his day was further ruined by listening to the one message on his answering machine. It was from Kerry McGrath, who introduced herself as a Bergen County assistant prosecutor, gave her phone number, asked him to call her at home till eleven tonight or first thing in the morning. She explained that she wanted to talk to him unofficially about his late neighbor and friend, the murder victim, Suzanne Reardon.

On Friday evening, Geoff Dorso went to dinner at his I parents’ home in Essex Fells. It was a command performance. Unexpectedly, his sister Marian, her husband, Don, and their two-year-old twins had come in from Boston for the weekend. His mother immediately tried to gather together her four other children, their spouses and offspring, to welcome the visitors. Friday was the only night all the others could make it at once, so Friday it would have to be.

“So you will postpone any other plans, won’t you, Geoff?” his mother had half pleaded, half ordered when she had called him that afternoon.

Geoff had no plans, but in the hopes of building up credit against another demand invitation, he hedged: “I’m not sure, Mom. I’ll have to rearrange something, but…”

Immediately he was sorry for having chosen that tack. His mother’s voice changed to a tone of lively interest as she interrupted, “Oh, you’ve got a date, Geoff! Have you met someone nice? Don’t cancel it. Bring her along. I’d love to meet her!”

Geoff groaned inwardly. “Actually, Mom, I was just kidding. I don’t have a date. I’ll see you around six.”

“All right, dear.” It was clear his mother’s pleasure in his acceptance was tempered by the fact that she wasn’t about to be introduced to a potential daughter-in-law.

As he got off the phone, Geoff admitted to himself that if this were tomorrow night, he would be tempted to suggest to Kerry that she and Robin might enjoy dinner at his parents’ home. She’d probably run for the hills, he thought.

He found it suddenly disquieting to realize that several times during the day the thought had run through his mind that his mother would like Kerry very, very much.

At six o’clock he drove up to the handsome, rambling Tudor house that his parents had bought twenty-seven years ago for one-tenth of its present value. It was an ideal family home when we were growing up, he thought, and it’s an ideal family home now with all the grandchildren. He parked in front of the old carriage house that now was the residence of his youngest and still-single sister. They’d all had their turn at using the carriage house apartment after college or graduate school. He’d stayed there when he was at Columbia Law School, then for two years after that.

We’ve had it great, he acknowledged as he breathed in the cold November air and anticipated the warmth of the inviting, brightly lighted house. His thoughts turned toward Kerry. I’m glad I’m not an only child, he said to himself. I’m grateful Dad didn’t die when I was in college and Mother didn’t remarry and settle a couple of thousand miles away. It couldn’t have been easy for Kerry.

I should have called her today, he thought. Why didn’t I? I know she doesn’t want anyone hovering over her, but, on the other hand, she doesn’t really have anyone to share her worries with. She can’t protect Robin the way this family could protect one of our kids if there were a threat.

He went up the walk and let himself into the noisy warmth, so typical when three generations of the Dorso clan gathered.

After effusive greetings to the Boston branch and a casual hello to the siblings whom he saw regularly, Geoff managed to escape into the study with his father.

Lined with law books and signed first editions, it was the one room off limits to exploring youngsters. Edward Dorso poured a scotch for his son and himself. Seventy years old, he was a retired attorney who had specialized in business and corporate law and once numbered among his clients several Fortune 500 companies.

Edward had known and liked Mark Young and was anxious to hear any behind-the-scenes information about his murder that Geoff might have picked up in court.

“I can’t tell you much, Dad,” Geoff said. “It’s hard to believe the coincidence that a mugger or muggers just happened to botch a robbery and kill Young, just when his fellow victim, Haskell, was about to plea bargain in return for testifying against Jimmy Weeks.”

“I agree. Speaking of which, I had lunch in Trenton today with Sumner French. Something that would interest you came up. There is a planning board official in Philadelphia they’re positive gave Weeks inside information ten years ago, about a new highway being built between Philly and Lancaster. Weeks picked up some valuable property and made a huge profit selling it to developers when the plans for the highway were made public.”

“Nothing new about inside tips,” Geoff observed. “It’s a fact of life and almost impossible to police. And frequently difficult to prove, I might add.”

“I brought this case up for a reason. I gather that Weeks bought some of these properties for next to nothing because the guy who had the options on them was desperate for cash.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Your favorite client, Skip Reardon.”

Geoff shrugged. “We travel in close circles, Dad, you know that. It’s just one more way Skip Reardon was pushed down the tube. I remember Tim Farrell talking at the time about how Skip was liquidating everything for his defense. On paper, Skip’s financial picture looked great, but he had a lot of optioned land, a heavy construction mortgage on an extravagant house and a wife who seemed to think she was married to King Midas. If Skip hadn’t gone to prison, he’d be a rich man today, because he was a good businessman. But my recollection is that he sold off all the options for fair market value.”

“Not fair market if the purchaser has privileged information,” his father said tartly. “One of the rumors I heard is that Haskell, who was Weeks’ accountant even then, was aware of that transaction too. Anyhow it’s one of those pieces of information that may be useful some way, some day.”

Before Geoff could comment, a chorus of voices from outside the study shouted, “Grandpa, Uncle Geoff, dinner’s ready.”

“And it has come, the summons, kind…” Edward Dorso quoted as he stood and stretched.

“Go ahead, Dad, I’ll be right behind you. I want to check my messages.” When he heard Kerry’s husky, low voice on the answering machine tape, he pressed the receiver to his ear.

Was Kerry actually saying that she wanted to go to the prison and see Skip again? That she wanted to have his mother and Beth Taylor there? “Hallelujah!” he said aloud.

Grabbing Justin, his nephew who had been sent to get him, Geoff scrambled to the dining room, where he knew his mother was impatiently waiting for everyone to sit down so that grace could be offered.