Going Out in Style Read Free Page B

handsome in a rumpled, mussed-up way; even his face looked curiously disarranged, the nose a little too big, the mouth too wide, the eyes moonlike behind the lenses. It was a pleasant, sensitive face. He said, “No, not
fungus
 … damn, what’s that other word?… I always forget.…”
    Janovy glanced at Fish.
    “
Fruitcake
 … no … I know, I have it, it’s
Palomino
,” Whitaker said at last in triumph. “Forty-three ninety-five Palomino Grove.”
    Janovy regarded him doubtfully. “You get ‘Palomino’ confused with ‘Fungus’?”
    Albert Whitaker gave him a sweet smile. “Yes … yes, stupid, isn’t it? It has something to do with something I readonce … something about cowboys galloping across fields of mushrooms … somewhere out west … I can’t remember now.…” He paused and squinted out the window again.

    “Mr. Whitaker. Please go on. You were out with your friend—”
    “Oh, yes. We had dinner at the Golden Eagle, you know, that restaurant in the center of town—”
    Janovy nodded. Everyone in Ridgewood knew the Golden Eagle, famed for its hearty portions and low prices. “You went there straight from work?”
    “Yes. We went together. I’m a professor of European history at Edgemont, the local college here, you know, and Gretch—Dr. Schneider, I mean—teaches English. We met after classes and went straight over to the Golden Eagle.”
    “What time did you arrive there?”
    This took a bit of figuring out. The class was his last of the day, the one on Florence and the Italian Renaissance, and it was usually over … let’s see now … around five-thirty, so that would mean he went over to the administration building to meet Gretch—he corrected himself, Dr. Schneider—around five forty-five, so they would have been at the restaurant by …
    “Six-fifteen,” said Janovy. Edgemont College, a small unpretentious place which gave an excellent education, was no more than half an hour’s drive away, if that. “Thank you, Mr. Whitaker. Dr. Whitaker, I should say. And after dinner—?”
    After dinner, around eight o’clock, they had walked over to the art gallery in the center of town, a little place called Happy Dreams. Thinking on this, Albert Whitaker became quite enthused. He ran his fingers through his hair, dropped several pencils from obscure pockets in his clothing, and unfastened his watch and fastened it on again.
    “Fascinating show. Fascinating show of aboriginal art. The most amazing drawings I’ve ever seen. I would have loved to have bought some—in fact I’d have bought everything I saw, the whole show, except of course on a professor’s salary I couldn’t afford it. Still, Gretch and I are thinking of pitching in together—
oh!
”
    He gazed, stricken, at the two detectives.
    “Now you’ll think I wanted the money. Damned stupid thing for me to say to the police, I guess.
Damn
it. Oh, well.”
    “How much money did your mother have, Dr. Whitaker?”
    Janovy expected a startled stare and some obfuscations, perhaps some more pencils or pens dropping out of unexpected places, but instead Albert Whitaker merely nodded and came to the point with unexpected brevity.
    “One hundred and twenty million dollars, Detective.”
    It was Janovy’s turn to be stunned. One hundred and twenty million dollars! As luxurious as the Whitaker mansion was, he somehow had not expected them to be that rich. “Yes, well,” he said, casting a glance at Fish, whose impassive face and bulging eyes revealed nothing. “Yes. And who stands to inherit the money?”
    Albert Whitaker said calmly that there were just the two of them: himself and his sister Susan. “There’s also my great-aunt Etta—she’s around here somewhere today, probably in the kitchen—but I’m fairly sure Mother didn’t leave her anything. My great-uncle left Etta very comfortably off.”
    Janovy nodded. “Please go on, Dr. Whitaker. How long were you at the art gallery?”
    Albert