The doorbell rang. Durant was surprised. While he rose to answer it, I asked where the bathroom was. If it hadn't been rude, I would have stayed in there a long time. On the walls were framed letters from famous biographers – Boswell, Leon Edel, Henri Troyat. Intriguingly, the more recent ones were personal letters to Durant answering questions he'd apparently had about the biographers' subjects. Richard Ellmann's letter about James Joyce's favorite music was alone worth the price of admission.
When I finally pulled myself away from the room, another surprise was waiting at the front door. Durant was standing there laughing with Carmen Pierce, the infamous defense attorney. She represented, among other flakes and dangerous beings, the Malda Vale religious sect. If only Veronica had been around they could have swapped stories and gossip.
I was introduced to the flamboyant lawyer who seemed to be on television with one client or another every time I turned it on. We chatted awhile. I told her a friend of mine had been a member of the sect before they went on that notorious last airplane ride to oblivion.
"I don't envy you, Mr. Bayer." She smiled.
"Oh really? Why's that?"
"Because the more I discover about the Malda Vale, the more dubious I am of its members, past and present."
"But you're representing them!" I couldn't believe she was saying this out loud.
"No, I'm representing an idea. Religious persecution is not permitted in this country. What the government did to the Malda Vale is illegal. I don't have to like them to represent them. That's part of the fun of being a lawyer.
"Edward, I must go. Thank you so much for your help. Those articles were invaluable."
She drove off in a ruby red Jaguar while the two of us watched until her car was out of sight.
"Carmen is a great woman. I don't often agree with her methods, but her grasp of the law is phenomenal."
"Are you helping her with something?"
He put his hand on my shoulder and steered me back into the house. "No, not really. We've known each other for years. Now and again she calls up with a question and I do what I can. She lives just down the road in Nyack. Luckily when one retires, one's profession becomes a hobby and with that sudden shift of perspective, it can become interesting again."
"Your son wanted to be a lawyer."
"Not really. My son wanted to please me, which I selfishly encouraged. Another of the great mistakes of my life. He was a genuinely good poet, you know. Published two poems in The Transatlantic Review when he was twenty. An important magazine in its time! I'll find those poems and send them to you. They should be in your book. They'll show a side of him not many people knew about."
"What did you think of Pauline?"
He took a long time to answer. "She frightened me. She was one of the most erotic women I ever met. He called her Beehive and it was a perfect nickname. Always buzzing around, and you knew she could give you a hell of a sting! She made me admire my son more than ever. He had the courage to pursue and win this sizzling woman. Never, even when I was young and full of myself, would I have had the guts to go after someone like her. And she loved him! It was so plain. They were mad for each other."
"Did you know they were married?" I expected the question to stop or at least make him pause, but he only nodded.
"Yes Sam, I knew. You really have done your homework."
Edward Jr. had told his father the last time they'd ever seen each other. He must have been planning his suicide for some time because in that last conversation he said everything that was on his mind and in his heart. The single thing he did not talk about was how the other inmates were abusing him. He looked different from in the past – thinner and grayer, but the old man thought it was because the boy hadn't adjusted to the bleak life in prison.
"I had friends in the penal system. They assured me they would arrange it so Edward would be protected. But a large prison is like a city. No one can be watched all the time. He was doing hard time. He was surrounded by bad men."
"Do you think Gordon Cadmus ordered it?"
"For years I did. I was convinced Cadmus was guilty of everything. I'm sure you know Pauline and he were lovers. She was still sleeping with him when she began going out with Edward. For years I wanted the explanation to be simple and there was one: Pauline was with Cadmus, then she left him for my son. When I was assigned to investigate Cadmus, he killed her because he was afraid she knew something about his affairs or simply because he was jealous. He found the perfect time to kill her and frame an innocent man. Edward was sent to jail for the crime, suffered terrible abuse, and committed suicide.
"Cadmus Cadmus Cadmus. I was furious when they shot him. Banal little gangland killing, and you know what? He wasn't even the target. One of the other dinner guests was. I wanted him for myself. I wanted to take the law of the United States of America and shove it so far up his ass he would have had a second tongue. But then he was dead and there was nothing more I could do."
"You don't think he killed Pauline?"
"No, Sam, not anymore. For years I did, but not anymore. Not since last week." His voice was peaceful. Some part of his soul had come to the end of the line and was calm. A car drove by on the street outside. One of his dogs scratched at the screen door to be let in. Durant closed his eyes and didn't move. I got up and opened it. The pug waddled over to its master and, tensing down a couple of times, finally jumped onto his lap.
"Who did kill her?"
"I don't know, but he's contacted me." He gently lifted the dog off his lap and put it down next to him on the couch. It looked indignant but didn't move. Durant went to a desk in the corner of the room and picked up a manila envelope. He came back to the couch and handed it to me.
"As you can see by the postmark, it was sent from Crane's View. Whoever it is likes his irony. Open it. All of the answers are inside."
It was nothing special – one of those brown manila envelopes you buy by the dozen at any stationery store. Durant's address was typed out in a nondescript font, no return address at the top-left corner or on the back.
"I had a friend dust it for fingerprints but of course there were none. This person knows what he's doing."
I put the envelope down and looked at him. "From the look on your face I feel nervous opening it."
"Better nervous than the way I felt when I took it out of the mailbox. I thought it was an advertisement so I opened it on the way back to the house. When I saw what was inside it felt like I had been punched in the heart. Go ahead, take a look."
Inside were four photocopies of original newspaper articles, and a typed note. The articles described separate murders spanning the last thirty-four years. The first was a teenage girl in Eureka, Missouri. The second Pauline Ostrova. The third a waitress in Big Sur, California, and the fourth David Cadmus. The words on the note were typed in the middle of the page: "Hi Edward! I hear you're dying. Don't go before I tell you my stories. These are only some of them."