In spite of all the celebrating, Andy was in his office at nine o’clock on Saturday morning and worked straight through until one, when John Bartlett came by to take him to the club for lunch and nine holes of golf. My standing appointment at the Delta Beauty Salon always has been for three o’clock on Saturday, so before I left the bank I went in and turned on Andy’s tape recorder. This is used at my discretion: when I’m not able to be there to take notes, or when my presence in the room would be an embarrassment. I listen to it later and decide what needs to be transcribed. The recorder is in a lower desk drawer and the pickup is in the desk lamp which always stands just about halfway between Andy’s chair and the one occupied by the person who has come to see him.
On this occasion, quite frankly, I wanted to know what Emil Sondergard would have to say about the route of the new freeway because of a piece of property I own. His appointment was for four thirty and I was afraid I wouldn’t be back in time. As a matter of fact, my roots needed a touchup and it was nearly five when I let myself into the bank. Emil’s car was in the parking lot and Andy’s door was closed so I sat down and typed a letter to the Chamber of Commerce saying Andy would be glad to pay for three trees on the east side of Sacramento Avenue, “same to be spaced evenly in the 150-foot strip north of Cabrillo Street and parallel with the property owned by the Wyattsville Farmers and Merchants Bank.”
The big clock over the entrance said exactly five o’clock when Mrs. Metcalf tapped on the glass door and I went through the bank to admit her. She was a trim, well-cared-for fifty or fifty-five; smartly, but not expensively, dressed in a lavender linen sheath, with matching pumps and handbag, and a bandeau of violets which fitted snugly over her short grey hair. What impressed me most was the fact that she looked cool, which is quite a feat in Wyattsville in September. She seemed well at ease.
“Mrs. Metcalf?” I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m Sylvia Sommers, Mr. Wyatt’s secretary. You’re new in town, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been here a few days.”
“One of our new teachers,” I guessed.
“Yes. Is Mr. Wyatt ready to see me?” she asked.
“Not quite.” I locked the door. “Come back where you can sit down. He shouldn’t be long.” In my office we talked about Pioneer Week and the marvelous record set by the Wyatt boys, and then the buzzer sounded. Emil Sondergard had left by the door to the parking area, the one we referred to as Andy’s “escape hatch,” so I took Mrs. Metcalf in and introduced her. “Unless you want anything else, Mr. Wyatt,” I said, “I’ll leave now.”
“Nothing more, thank you.” Andy smiled. “Will we see you at the Rodeo Ball?”
“No. Phil’s in San Francisco this weekend.” Phil Smart is the man who usually takes me to civic affairs.
“You can go with us,” Andy suggested.
“Thanks, but no just the same. I’ll see you Monday.”
I stopped at the supermarket and bought a T-bone steak and a can of asparagus (you develop a thing about the fresh vegetable when you live where it grows and have to breathe the peat dust) and then walked on to the Delta Arms where I have lived all the years since I went to work as Andy’s secretary. There are newer apartments, with pools and other attractions, but the Arms is within walking distance of the bank and it’s air conditioned. More than anything else, it’s sweet home to me.
After fixing a gin and tonic and leaving it to chill, I went in and took a shower and put on slacks and a shirt. It must have been seven thirty when Laura Lee called to ask if I knew where Andy was. They were already past due for the Bergens’ cocktail party and had to be at the Lambertsons’ for dinner at eight thirty. She reminded me (unnecessarily) that it was important they be on time because the dinner guests were all civic leaders whose appearance in time for the Grand March was obligatory. I promised her that I would go down to the bank and see if Andy were still there. I remember saying, “Wherever he is, Laura Lee, I’ll find him and send him home.”
I found him in his office, but I couldn’t send him home. He was sprawled in his chair, staring open-mouthed at the acoustical tile ceiling. Bits of him adhered to the wall behind him and his gun lay on the carpet under his left hand.
Habits of efficiency are a great help in a crisis. The Wyattsville High School’s marching band was to assemble in our parking lot, so I drew the curtains and made sure the “escape hatch” was locked. Then I picked up Andy’s phone, which is left with an open line after Velma closes the switchboard, and dialed Chet Bergen’s number. Someone answered and kept shouting “Hello? Hello?” over the background noise of a large and lively party. The answerer either closed a door or carried the telephone to another room because when he spoke again I could hear him distinctly and recognized his voice.
“Dr. Collins?” I said. “This is Sylvia Sommers. Can you come to the bank right away? Without saying anything to anyone? It’s very important.”
“Andy?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
“I’ll be there.”
“He sure as hell did it himself,” Corby Collins said. “Nobody gets a guy to open his mouth and take a slug like that.” He looked down at the gun again. “I never knew Andy was left-handed.”
“He was taught to write right-handed, but he attended so many service club luncheons that he had to learn to eat right-handed in self defense. Actually, he was a southpaw.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Collins nodded. “He played golf and tennis left-handed.” He gave a deep sigh. “You might as well call Bill,” he said.
Bill Dean is our chief of police and one of Andy’s oldest friends. I reached him at home. “Bill,” I said, “this is Sylvia. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Andy committed suicide. Dr. Collins and I are at the bank. Can you come down, alone, without saying anything to anyone?”
I hung up and fumbled in my purse for cigarettes and lighter. “You’d better talk to Laura Lee,” I told Dr. Collins. “They already have missed the Bergens’ cocktail party, and she’s afraid they’ll be late at the Lambertsons’ dinner.” Hearing my own words, I knew I was in a state of shock. “Well, somebody has to tell her something!” I said desperately.
“You have to,” he said gently. “If I call, she’ll get the wind up and think he’s had a heart attack. I wish it were only that!” He took a turn around the office and came back to stand in front of me. “Just say he isn’t here, and that you’ll phone around and see if you can locate him.”
“But this just isn’t like him!” Laura Lee wailed. “What should I do, Sylvia? Shall I go on or wait here?”
“You’d better wait,” I advised. “I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.”
When I had cradled the phone, Dr. Collins said, “Indeed she will. Poor Laura Lee. I’ve coped with some heartbroken widows in my day, Mrs. Sommers, but I have a nasty feeling that tonight is going to set some sort of ghastly record.”
“Shouldn’t you get in touch with Mr. Tuttle?” I asked.
Corby Collins gave me a quick look of appraisal. “Very good thinking,” he said dryly. “Who was it who said that behind every successful man was a clever woman, or words to that effect? Perhaps I’m just now learning what made Andy tick. I assume you know where Mr. Tuttle can be reached.”
Incredibly, my watch showed that it was not yet eight. “They will still be at the Whitmans’.” As I finished dialing the number there was a sharp, metallic rap on the front door. “That will be Bill,” I said, and handed the phone to Dr. Collins.