“Do you know either Fields’ or Moore’s families?”
“No. I don’t think either of them is local.”
“How about Bud Radziwill? He’s a pal of Fields’.”
“Oh, sure. The Kennedy cousin, so-called. So-called by Radziwill, but not by anybody else.”
“That’s the one.”
“The thing is, there are some actual Kennedy cousins around here, and they laugh when anybody asks them about Radziwill. He claims to be related to Lee Radziwill, the Bouvier with the Polish aristocrat ex-husband. I know somebody who dated Bud for a while several years ago, and this guy said Radziwill did seem to speak with a slight Polish accent.”
I said, “What have you heard about the toads’ financial affairs? Anything about money-lending?”
“Do you mean like banking?”
“Like banking, but more informal.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But the two do seem to be well off. Jim cleaned up, I’m sure, doing PR for defense and utilities companies, and Steven made money in investment banking, I believe. They always donate to the theater. That’s basically how I know them.”
“Have you ever been to their house?”
“Once, yes. They did a cocktail-party fundraiser before our annual gala. Nice place. Gorgeous big Victorian manse. Gardens, pool, hot tub. No tennis court, as I recall.”
“Did you slide in, Preston?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you get in the hot tub with Jim and Steven?”
A pause. “You know, Donald, I’d forgotten those stories. If you’re referring to what you seem to be referring to.”
“I am.”
“Well, most of the STF board was there when I was there, and twenty or thirty other theater donors. The hot tub was not being operated on that occasion. There were lovely hors d’oeuvres, I’m sure, but I expect that the snacking was limited to mushrooms with goat cheese in a light phyllo.”
“Did you ever hear of Jim and Steven coercing men into their hot tub? In exchange for financial favors?”
Another pause. “Not for money, just for… oh. Oh crap.”
“Oh crap what?”
“Oh crap.”
“Yeah?”
“I know somebody who borrowed money from Jim once. A young actor who returns here every summer. I’d better not mention his name. You would recognize it.”
“And?”
“Oh crap.”
“Were there unconventional conditions attached to the loan agreement? Is that the oh-crap part that you just figured out?”
Morley said, “I assumed the upsetting conditions were financial when the borrower alluded to them. But he said something that afternoon about being exhausted from collecting his loan, and it struck me as odd at the time. Oh… yeeesh!”
“You bet.”
“So… was Barry Fields another of the toads’ banking customers? Do you think that’s what the fight was about in Guido’s yesterday?”
“I can’t say any more about it just yet, Preston. But I appreciate your pretty much confirming someone else’s story of similar bad behavior by those two. It’s no surprise to me that someone would wallop one of them with a wheel of cheese. It’s amazing they have avoided even worse, and it’s good that the law is restraining Barry Fields from further contact.”
“You know, Donald, I seem to recall David saying something about Jim having something shady in his past, but I can’t remember what it was. Jim is originally from Pittsfield, and I think David’s family might have had some distant connection to the Sturdivants. I’ll ask him.”
“Thanks, I’d be curious. Though I’m well out of Sturdivant’s life now. I got out before he got hit with the groceries, so at this point it’s mainly just gossip to me.”
Mainly gossip but, I understood, not entirely gossip. It was I, after all, who had stuck my nose into Barry Fields’ business, probably triggering his violent tantrum over the toads’ meddling, which had included me as their perhaps too willing instrument.
I forgave Morley for mentioning me to Sturdivant. His intentions were good – sending business my way – and he had guessed rightly that I had suffered far worse clients over the course of my checkered career.
I went back to my phone and Internet digging. I spent half an hour gathering information on the deadbeat Hummer-dealer husband of an Albany nail-parlor operator who had hired a lawyer friend of mine to extract additional support for the couple’s four children from the bad-citizen/bad-dad.
Then, around ten-fifteen, my cell phone rang, and it was Preston Morley again.
“Donald! Donald! Have you heard?”
“Heard what? I guess not.”
“Someone in the office heard it on the radio. Jim Sturdivant was killed last night. Murdered!”
I asked myself two things. One, was I going to see the Berkshires again without having to wait for the next Tanglewood season? I guessed I would. The second question was, had I somehow done this?
Chapter Six
“I’m Bill Moore. I need your help. You know who I am.”
“Yes, I do know who you are.”
The phone had rung not ten minutes after I had hung up with Preston Morley. In those ten minutes, I had found the Berkshire Eagle’s Web site, where a brief story had already been posted on the murder of James Sturdivant of Sheffield, a village south of Great Barrington. Sturdivant had been shot dead in his home at around nine o’clock the night before. His partner, Steven Gaudios, was not home at the time, but Sturdivant’s wire-haired terrier had apparently tried to protect his master, and he also was gunned down. Police had a suspect in the shooting, the Eagle reported, and he was being sought for questioning.
Moore said, “The police think Barry shot Sturdivant. They think this because of the fight at Guido’s yesterday. Are you aware of that incident?”
I said I was.
“But Barry did not shoot Sturdivant.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know why I’m calling you? Bud Radziwill suggested you were a decent human being who knew what you were doing. I double-checked. The reports I received were ambiguous about the know-what-you’re doing part, and not everyone in Albany thinks of you as decent. But overall you come well recommended. So I’d like to hire you.”
“To do what, Bill?”
“To clear Barry.”
“Uh huh.”
“Will you do it?”
“Won’t the facts clear him? Doesn’t he have an alibi?”
A pause. “Not exactly. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are Barry’s nights off at the theater, where he would normally be working at the time the shooting is believed to have happened, around nine. Instead, he was alone at our house. I was working late on a job in Springfield. But Barry was home when I arrived just after eleven.”
“Watching a movie on TMC?”
This reference to the circumstances surrounding Tom Weed’s sad demise was probably unfair, and Moore swallowed hard. “Of course. That’s what Barry does at night. He has ADD, and he’s not much of a reader. And he loves old movies. He was watching television when I got home, and he had not left the house all evening.”
“Did you ask him what movie he’d watched on TMC? Have the police asked him?”
Moore breathed hard. “Well, here’s the thing. The thing is, Barry has disappeared. The police are looking for him.”
“Where did he go?”
“I just said he disappeared.”
“Yeah, I heard you, Bill. But you are the man Barry is planning to marry later this month. I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut that he told his fiancé – that would be you – where he could be reached.”
“Well, he didn’t. And it’s driving me crazy. I’m worried sick.”