“I don’t seem to recall your making an appointment to see Mr. Wolfe,” I said. “What would Miss Manners have said about people who drop in unannounced?”
“Hah!” Doyle James said, slapping his knee. “You’ve got yourself a point there, Goodwin. I told Megan we probably wouldn’t accomplish a thing by coming here, but she insisted. She thinks she can get anyplace with anybody by bullying them.”
“But you tagged along anyway, I notice,” Megan snapped.
“Hell, if only to save you from yourself, my dear,” he replied with an impish grin. “Somebody has to tell you when it’s time to go. And it’s time. Say good night, Gracie.”
Megan James was so livid she was speechless, which was a relief. They both got up, and I rose with them, following them out. Not a word was spoken as we walked down the hall, but after I swung the door open and Megan stalked out, Doyle gave me a wink.
It was nice to see he was in such apparently good spirits, because he’d need them. If those two were planning to share a taxi, even for a few blocks, he would need all the humor he could generate to keep from getting roasted by his former mate. Something about his good spirits was troubling, though. After all, wasn’t this a man whose daughter had been attacked and his son arrested for murder? Was I off base, or shouldn’t he be angrier than he appeared to be? I resolved to think about that.
Nineteen
After bolting the door behind the battling Jameses, I went to the kitchen, where I found Wolfe and Fritz staring glumly into a pot on the counter.
“Don’t tell me it’s another one of your arguments over what should go into the perfect New Orleans bouillabaisse,” I said in mock disgust. “The Israelis and the Arabs will be going to block parties together before the two of you agree on this one. Making any progress?”
That got no reaction whatever. Wolfe muttered to Fritz and Fritz muttered back. And more things, I didn’t pay attention to what they were, got tossed into the bouillabaisse, but neither of them acknowledged my presence. I was feeling neglected.
“Will you be needing my services any more today?” I finally asked Wolfe.
He looked up as if I had shrieked during a séance. “I will not,” he said absently, turning his attention back to the pot.
“Okay, good luck with your soup,” I said, walking out and feeling two glares aimed at my back. The remark was directed to both of them, and to be honest, it was made with malice aforethought. Referring to bouillabaisse as soup is like calling someone’s Lhasa apso a pooch.
I went to my desk in the office and dialed Lily’s number, getting her after two rings. “My day so far has been fraught with difficulties,” I told her, “but suddenly there appears to be a break in the storm, if you’ll allow a literary allusion, and I thought perhaps we might take this opportunity to dine together and share our dreams and aspirations.”
“Ever the sweet-talker,” she said. “And although I could take umbrage at being asked so late, I will overlook that egregious breach of etiquette and accept, conditionally, of course.”
“Egregious, eh? You’re getting to sound more like Wolfe all the time. Okay, state the condition.”
“That we dine at Rusterman’s, of course. I’m saving La Ronde for my birthday.”
“Sold. I’ll be by to get you in a taxi, honey — in twenty minutes.”
“For a second there, I thought you were onto a really catchy lyric,” she said. “But somehow, the ‘in-twenty-minutes’ part needs work.”
“If you like it, I’ll tinker with it,” I replied. “Better not be late.”
“I think you’re onto something, fella,” she said, hanging up.
A half-hour later, Lily and I were in our favorite corner booth in the small upstairs room at Rusterman’s, courtesy of Franz, the current owner.
“Well, Escamillo,” she said after we’d ordered a drink and I’d given her a quick summary of the visit to the brownstone by Megan and Doyle, “now how do you like dealing with various members of my family?”
“Mixed, if I have to reduce it to a single word.”
“Care to get more specific, or has Nero Wolfe sworn you to secrecy?”
I lifted one eyebrow, grinning. “With you, I’m always happy to get specific. I’ll blab all you want, but there’s a price.”
“Naturally there is — and knowing you, it’s answers to some questions.”
“M’God, you are perceptive,” I replied, proceeding to tell her, in varying degrees of detail, what had transpired over the last couple of days.
“Interesting,” she said as we attacked our salads. “Sounds like our Megan is running true to form.”
“So is Wolfe. I’m worried that after today’s session with her, he may suffer a complete relapse and withdraw to his plant rooms and his food and his books and his beer forever, poor chap.”
“Nonsense. Megan isn’t worth the grief, although the way you’ve just painted the situation, it doesn’t sound like grief — it sounds exactly like the way your boss lives now.”
“Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a bit. Now for a question: Is your sister — make that half-sister — capable of murder? And if the answer is yes, would she let her own son take the fall for it?”
“That’s really two questions, but you know that I’m a good sport. Answer to the first part — yes, assuredly. I think Megan would kill if, one, it suited her purposes and, two, if she thought she could get away with it. As to the second part — that’s a lot tougher. She and Michael haven’t gotten along, to say the least. I told you that there is some uncertainty as to his father’s identity. Several years ago, during either his freshman or sophomore year in college, Michael found out — I’ve never known how — that there was a question about his parentage.
“The upshot is that rather than being mad at the man purported to be his father, a guy — I met him once and was unimpressed — who now lives in Europe, he took it out on Megan, suggesting in somewhat graphic terms that she was, shall we say, a woman of less-than-exemplary morals. His conservative nature — and God, is he conservative, especially for someone his age — drove him to outrage over what his mother had done. They were very close before that, but they haven’t been since, although they do maintain a civility toward each other. Anyway, despite the rancor, I’d have to say that I don’t believe Megan would let him take the fall, to use your term.”
“So you’re giving her a pass?” I asked as we each started in on our roast leg of lamb.
“You asked me a question, Escamillo — make that two questions — and I tried to answer them honestly, based on my knowledge of my half-sister’s behavior and temperament. If that’s giving her a pass, then I’m guilty as charged, your honor.”
“Time off for good behavior, case closed,” I said between bites. “What about Doyle James? How do you rate him as a suspect? Based on your knowledge of his behavior and temperament, of course?”
“Archie, I’m sorry, but I have just as hard a time there. Like with Megan, I can see Doyle killing Linville, given the circumstances — in fact, it’s a lot easier to picture him doing it than Megan. But where it falls apart for me again is that I can’t conceive of him standing by and watching Michael go to prison, or whatever, for what he did.”
“Even though he, Doyle, might not be Michael’s father?”
“I don’t think that matters — not to Doyle. I know he’s had a pretty wild life, a lot of women, some hard drinking, some heavy spending. But almost all of that came after he and Megan got divorced, and he’s essentially a very decent, honorable man. Rough around the edges, yes, and impulsive, but good-hearted and honest. If that’s my heart talking rather than my head, dammit, so be it.”