The Groaning Board

along the Drive
with their ferocity. But just now the Drive was lyrical with greenery, and the Hudson was becalmed and flecked with white sails.
    The sky was a serene blue and birds
held conversations in the trees. On an arching lamppost a row of pigeons sat
wing to wing as if waiting for the No. 5 bus down Riverside Drive, which never
came, or came three at once, each on the other’s tail. Wetzon knew from
experience, because she’d lived on Riverside Drive when she first came to New York.
    Bucolic was the word for the
afternoon, for the area, but she’d come here to talk about murder.
    Wetzon gave her name to A. T.
Barron’s doorman, a shriveled man with an oversized, almost musical-comedy
mustache. In his dark blue uniform and peaked hat and white epaulets, the man
looked like a musical-comedy New York cop. He buzzed up announcing her, then
told her to take the appropriate bank of elevators to 8A.
    A.T. stood in her open doorway
talking to a tall woman, whose black hair was pulled tight into a bun. Huge
glasses magnified her eyes. A grand Chanel purse swung from her shoulder. A.T.
wore black, but since she rarely wore any other color, it was unlikely she was
in mourning.
    The tall woman, who was also in
black, gave A.T. an affectionate hug as Wetzon emerged from the elevator. “Take
care of yourself, dear.” She fixed her sharp eyes on Wetzon.
    “This is Leslie Wetzon, Enid,” A.T. said. “Enid Nemy...”
    Nemy and Wetzon shook hands. Nemy did
interviews and character pieces for the Times and chic magazines. Had
Nemy done a quick double take on Wetzon after hearing her name? Or was Wetzon’s
paranoia getting the best of her?
    “Bye, Enid, dear. Thank you.” A.T.
held the door for Wetzon, then followed her inside and shut the door. “Anita,”
she called. “Iced teas.” She looked at Wetzon. “Okay?”
    “Fine.”
    When there was no response from
Anita, A.T. said, “I’ll get them. Go on into the living room.” She waved her
hand in no particular direction, opened a side door, and went off.
    The foyer was a huge square; it ended
in an arch leading to another huge square. Wetzon wandered forward and
eventually found the living room full of plants, overstuffed sofas, fat easy
chairs with ottomans. Persian rugs left more than enough of the elaborate
inlaid parquet floor visible.
    Wetzon had absolutely no idea what
she was going to ask A.T., but she knew she needed to verify what Dr. Furgason
had told her and she hoped to get an explanation.
    The plants were profuse in clay pots
and jardinieres; the azaleas were aflower, spicing the area with their deadly
essence. She sat on one of the easy chairs as A.T. set a tray with two tall
saucered glasses of iced tea on a book-laden Brancusi coffee table. The lemon
slices were wrapped in cheesecloth.
    A.T. handed Wetzon a napkin and one
of the glasses. “Lemon?”
    “Yes, please. You were expecting
Ellen when I called. Did you hear from her?” Wetzon squeezed the lemon into the
tea and dropped the remnant onto the saucer. When she sipped the tea, it was
fragrant with mint and... something else, something pleasant.
    “Yes. Not long after I spoke with
you. She’d gone over to Colton to pick up some of her papers and talk with one
of her teachers. She’ll be home soon.”
    Oh, sure. “I suppose she’ll stay on with you now that
Micklynn’s gone?”
    “I’d love to have her. Ellen’s like a
daughter to me, and of course she’s only sixteen. She has another year at Colton before college.”
    “It’s costly supporting a child these
days, and then there’s college...”
    “I’m sure Micklynn left enough for
Ellen to be independent.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    “Do you? I suggest you tell me why
you’re here,” A.T. said. She sat on the sofa like a coiled spring. She hadn’t
touched her tea.
    “My partner has been telling me what
a fine girl Ellen is and we wondered if she’s going away to camp or summer
school because... we may have a part-time job for her with us. That is, if
she’d like to learn executive search.“
    “Well.” A.T.’s expression turned from
suspicious to moderately cool. “That’s a nice thought. I’ll ask her, of course,
but I don’t think she’ll want to do it.”
    “Is she going to summer school?”
    “No. She’s brilliant, you know. She’d
won a place at Johns Hopkins, but the teacher in charge of it chose someone
less worthy than Ellen.”
    Wetzon set her glass down on the
tray. She felt a little queasy. Maybe