The Groaning Board

What was the
unpleasant incident?”
    “Anti-Semitic accusations were made
that had no validity, and there was an ugly scene. And the instigator wasn’t
even the other girl’s mother. You see, Stacy Morgenstern and Sheila Gelber are
both Jewish.” He put down the medallion and removed a white linen
handkerchief—tiny initials ORF embroidered in gray—from his breast pocket and
blotted the perspiration from his upper lip.
    “Dr. Furgason, who was the other
girl?”
    “I am very concerned about
confidentiality, Ms. Wetzon.”
    “My business is based on
confidentiality, Dr. Furgason. However, everything must be carefully
scrutinized, as I am sure you understand. Sheila Gelber was murdered. Anything
kept hidden, then later discovered, will be blown out of proportion and the
school will suffer.”
    “But this had nothing to do with Ms.
Gelber’s death.“
    “How do you know that for certain?”
    “It is inconceivable.”
    “What was the name of the other
girl?”
    With a great sigh, Furgason picked up
the medallion again and stared at it, then at Wetzon. “Ellen Moore,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

     
     
     
    Wetzon leafed
through the latest issue of Business Week , one of several magazines on the coffee table at Veeder and Kalin,
PC.
    The receptionist, an attractive
fiftyish woman in a formal shirtwaist dress that was unsuccessful in
suppressing her full bosom, was transferring Rolodex card information to a
computer. A small nameplate on the desk said: MRS. COPELAND. She looked up,
catching Wetzon’s eye, and assuming perhaps that Wetzon was becoming impatient,
murmured, “I’m sure he won’t be too long now.” Her vocal tone and attitude were
so neutral, Wetzon couldn’t help wondering how many of Bill Veeder’s women had
sat where Wetzon now did.
    When the phone rang, Mrs. Copeland
answered, “Law offices.” Then: “Mr. Veeder is in conference. No, Mr. Kalin is
out of town. Mr. Josephson is here. I’ll connect you.”
    Actually, although it was after six,
Wetzon wasn’t at all impatient. They hadn’t intended to eat before the ballet.
The ballet. Bill Veeder wasn’t letting her keep the different areas of her life
in separate little compartments. Unlike Silvestri, who’d shown only a casual
interest in either of her lives, Wall Street or Broadway.
    In a way Bill’s determination was
flattering, but it made demands, flicked at her veil of passivity, drove her
out in the open. Made her a target.
    When they didn’t see each other, he
called her late in the evening, sometimes early in the morning. He wanted to
know what she was thinking, what she had read, what she had done that day. She
told him broker stories, made him laugh. He shared his day with her, asked for
her opinions, and took what she said seriously. His telephone voice had a husky
intimacy that was like a loving embrace.
    A soft buzzer sounded and Mrs.
Copeland picked up her phone. “Yes, sir.” She cradled the phone and smiled her
neutrality at Wetzon. “Mr. Veeder would like you to wait in his office. Through
that door, turn right, end of the hall. Shall I show you?”
    “No, thank you. I remember where it
is.” Wetzon remembered it well. Taupe and brown. Lots of wood and brown
leather. Stickley desk. They had that in common.
    On her way she passed a young
Hispanic man carrying a tray of soft drinks and bottled water. He knocked on a
door, then opened it. Inside, an argument was in progress and it didn’t cease
with the open door. Wetzon caught a glimpse of the conference room. Laura Lee
was there. And Hem and AT. She couldn’t see Bill, or Micklynn, for that matter,
but she heard all of them.
    As the young man came out of the room
with the empty tray, Wetzon walked swiftly toward Veeder’s office, opened the
door, and went in. She counted to twenty, then peeked out. The hallway was
empty. She retraced her steps and stopped outside the door to the conference
room in time to hear Micklynn’s sharp, “Never!”
    “You’re not competent to make that
decision.” A.T.’s voice was cold steel. “You’re drunk. It’s my business
too, don’t forget.”
    Micklynn gave a vulgar laugh. “How
could I? You’re always reminding me.”
    Bill’s voice, firm tones: “Micklynn,
A.T., let’s stop this infighting. May I remind you both you’re paying me $450
an hour and Jonathon $200? You’re obviously not ready to commit at this time.
Hem, get back to me when you’re serious.” When Big Daddy speaks,