Right to Die

never go dancing at one of those in Boston , my students would be all over it. But down there we partied till sunrise, especially with the tournament people. Tuck and his partner finished third in the Celebrity Doubles part, and I ate the most spectacular things, including roast shank of ostrich at a restaurant Tuck scouted out for our last dinner.”
    Andrus was gushing a little, but I didn’t want to interrupt with business until she turned to it herself. The waiter provided a convenient break by bringing our meals.
    In between bites of an omelette, she said, “Any progress on my case?”
    I condensed what I’d learned since the drive to the airport, including Gunther Yary. I came down hard on the last note at the law school and Hebert’s dismissal on the phone.
    “I’m sorry about Tuck, John, but he was doing only what he thought was best, and he was right. Inés showed me that note when I got back, and you know what? It didn’t shake me. Not in the least. I feel recharged, reborn.” Andrus rubbed the back of her neck again.
    I said, “Sunburn?”
    “No. No, some damned insect got me in bed, our last night on the island. I can’t even see the infection without being a contortionist. Inés scraped it and applied some Bacitracin.” Andrus shivered again. “I hate that stuff, like somebody’s spit on you. Plus it itches like poison ivy.”
    “Probably a sign it’s healing.”
    “That’s what Enrique used to say.“ Andrus left her neck alone, a bittersweet smile crossing her face. “You know, I’ve been quite lucky that way, really. The two men I’ve been with the most have been the best men I’ve known.” Her eyes refocused, and I think Andrus suddenly realized I was still a widower.
    Brusquely, she said, “So, we’ll be leaving in a day or two for California . I’ll be back in mid-February for a lecture, but only briefly. What, if anything, do you think you need to do in the interim?”
    “That depends. Who’s going with you?”
    “Tuck, of course. Inés is staying here. I’ll be mostly speaking and networking out there, not writing.”
    “Manolo?”
    Andrus sighed. “He was terribly moody when we got back. Like a neglected cat, if that doesn’t sound inhumane. I think we’ll have to bring him with us, but more for his sake than as a bodyguard.”
    “That last note. It went through the school’s interoffice mail.”
    “Yes?”
    “It’s possible that some of the outsiders, like Louis Dole-man—”
    “Who?”
    “The man whose daughter took her life after reading your book.”
    “Oh. Yes, sorry. Go on.”
    “It’s possible that someone like Doleman or Gunther Yary could have figured out how that works, but more likely it’s somebody closer.”
    Andrus waved impatiently. “And therefore?”
    “Something a cop said that I’ve been thinking about. People who get their kicks scaring other people like to use the phone for threats.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s more direct. More personal.”
    “But this one sends notes.”
    “Yeah. Why?”
    “Why notes, you mean?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Andrus caught the waiter’s eye and placed her utensils at two o’clock on the plate. “I have no idea.”
    “Maybe it’s because you’d know his voice on the phone.”
    “A possibility, to be sure.“
    “Professor, be sure of another thing, okay?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Maybe our boy doesn’t use the phone because he doesn’t have any voice at all.”
    Andrus looked at me strangely, then brayed a laugh loud enough to turn heads.

    Walking from the Ritz in a snow flurry toward my office, I realized that neither Maisy Andrus nor I had mentioned Alec Bacall. At Charles Street I turned right instead of continuing through the Common. I couldn’t remember hearing Bacall’s address, so I had to check three lobby directories on Boylston before finding his building. Prewar (almost any war), it was opposite one of the oldest burying grounds in Boston , a fenced square of gravestones dating from colonial times.
    Taking the elevator to the fourth floor, I knocked on the door marked bacall office help. Del Wonsley’s voice sang out.
    Wonsley was sitting at the reception desk in a tasteful waiting area, holding a telephone receiver to his sweatered chest. “Hello, John Cuddy.”
    “How are you?”
    “Fine, fine.”
    “Is Alec in?”
    Wonsley’s tongue made a pass between his lips. “Just a second.” Into the receiver he said, “Kyle? Kyle, I’m going to have to put you on hold for just