The Groaning Board

going well?“
    “Only moderately. Evelyn had another
incident last night. She’s in Lenox Hill for a few days.” Wetzon picked up the
phone and tapped in some numbers. When Arthur answered, she said, “Arthur
Margolies, darling, this is Leslie Wetzon.”
    “Leslie, a pleasure. I hope all is
well with you.”
    “It is. I have a quick question.”
    “Ask away.”
    “I’m not sure you know this, Arthur,
because she was so secretive, but Micklynn hired me as a consultant.”
    Arthur gave a deep sigh. “It’s a terrible
tragedy. What were you consulting on, the IPO? She was dead set against it.”
    “No, not that. Mickey had a friend,
Sheila Gelber, who was murdered about four months ago. Micklynn hired me to
look into Sheila’s death because she felt in some way responsible.”
    “Mickey felt responsible for the
whole world, and I suppose it all got too much for her.”
    “I’d like to continue working on the
case, Arthur. I believe Micklynn was murdered.”
    “Murdered. Leslie.” He sounded
shocked. “Oh, dear, this will change everything.”
    “I’ve come up with some really good
information, Arthur. Will you okay my tracking down this lead?”
    “I don’t know, Leslie. Maybe we
should let the insurance company handle it.”
    “She was insured?”
    “I really don’t feel comfortable
saying anything right now, Leslie.”
    “Arthur, I swear to you you’re going
to hear any minute that she was murdered. What difference does it make if you
tell me now what her insurance policy says?”
    “I suppose you’re right.... In case
of suicide, there is no settlement. In case of violent death—that is, murder or
accident—it is double indemnity. If Micklynn was murdered, her policy will pay
one million dollars.”
    Wetzon let out a long exhale. “Which
is precisely why you must let me investigate. The insurance company would
rather it be suicide, isn’t that so?”
    “In case of suicide, they wouldn’t
have to pay off the policy. Leslie, you will tell the police about your
information?”
    She crossed all her fingers. God
would forgive her this one time. “Of course, Arthur. You know me, old honest
Leslie herself.”
    “You sound exactly like Carlos when
he’s dodging the truth.”
    “Not me, Arthur.”
    “Be careful.”
    “I will. By the way, who is
Micklynn’s beneficiary?“
    “Leslie, you are pushing me beyond my
limit.” Gentle Arthur was sounding a little like Bill Veeder.
    But determined, Wetzon pushed a
little more. “I swear it, Arthur. Trust me.” Oh, shit, now she’d said it.
    Arthur sighed again. “Leslie—I would
like you to promise me this information will go no further.”
    “I promise.”
    “Any income from Mickey’s estate will
be divided between two charities.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s it,” he said.

Chapter Forty-Seven

     
     
     
    “I’ve spent
my whole career with this firm,” Bob Walters said. “I can’t look for another job now. I’m
fifty-eight years old. Who would hire me? I wouldn’t.”
    “Hasn’t Rosenkind said anything about
another management position?”
    “Not a word. They’re telling me I’ll
have a desk in the regional office for a couple of months.”
    “And after that?”
    “Who knows? They say nothing is
available.”
    Wetzon knew very well something was
available at Rosenkind. Word on the Street had it that they were looking to
replace their manager in international. It was top secret because the man
they’d brought in from Merrill six months before was still sitting there. But
top secret on Wall Street never stayed that way for long. Brokers were terrible
gossips. Word got around.
    Bob Walters was a nice guy and they
were going to let him hang there until he was humiliated enough to take
retirement. His depression was palpable across the telephone wires. Although
Smith would kill her if she ever found out, Wetzon was going to throw him a
freebie. “Bob, there is something available that you’d be perfect for, and it’s
with your firm. I can’t understand why they didn’t offer it to you.”
    “Really?” He perked up immediately.
    “International is looking to replace
its manager.”
    “They never mentioned it.” The
amazement in his voice made Wetzon shudder. He was too naive by far. “Thank you
for the tip.”
    “Go for it, Bob.”
     
    “How do you know Ellen’s not there?”
Wetzon asked. She’d gone home, changed into cat-burglar clothing: black
leggings and a black long-sleeved cotton shirt,