“Why doubt it? Awful accidents like that happen,” I said. “How much had Tom had to drink when he drove home? How far away was the dinner party?”
“About four miles, and I’ll make no excuses for Tom in that department. Knowing his drinking habits, I’ll admit he probably should not have been behind the wheel of a car. But that is very much beside the point. Barry is a self-described insomniac. He talks about staying up all hours watching Turner Movie Classics. Why did he fall asleep, altogether uncharacteristically, on this particular night?”
“Unless he chose to? Is that what you’re saying?”
“It’s a terribly harsh suspicion, I know. But Steven and I were not the only people left wondering. The entire Supper Club talked about little else for months afterwards. It was only after it came out that Barry wasn’t in Tom’s will – as Barry apparently thought he was – that the suspicions subsided.”
I said, “And is Barry in Bill Moore’s will?”
“Bill has no will. He mentioned this in passing to me once, and when I suggested he make one, Bill sloughed it off. He is a melancholy man who I think has had some sadness in his life – he’s close-mouthed about what it might have been – and an important part of his makeup is a strong strain of fatalism. With no will, of course, Barry Fields will be Bill’s sole heir when they marry on September twenty-sixth.”
“And Bill is wealthy, too, like Tom Weed?”
“Bill took early retirement from some kind of federal government work – Commerce Department, I think – but there is some family money. I’m not sure how much.”
So what was this? Was Sturdivant a meddling buttinsky with an overactive imagination in need of a lecture on manners from Dear Abby? Or could there actually be something dangerous, to use Sturdivant’s word, about Barry Fields? It didn’t sound that way. But I’d have to know more.
I said, “So what is it you’re asking me to do, Mr. Sturdivant? You just want me to check this guy out? See if he’s got a past your friend Bill should know about and be either worried or reassured about?”
“Please call me Jim. Yes, that’s exactly how you can help. I want to know who Barry Fields really is. And once we know who he is, perhaps we’ll know what he is. An uncertain young man with an unhappy past, as Bill has made himself believe, or a conniving con man – or even worse?”
“Jim, I do do background checks for people. Private investigators do this work routinely. It’s usually not complicated. But I’m generally hired by the party most directly involved. The ethics here are a little ambiguous. Does Bill Moore know you’re asking me to do this?”
Another sip of latte. “No, he does not. Bill is so irrational when it comes to Barry, he might well demand that I call off the sleuthing. But why should Bill’s being unaware preclude your taking this on? I would be your client, and I would be the recipient of your report, and it would be up to me to either warn Bill away from Barry, or reassure him, or perhaps say nothing at all.”
“I could do this much more efficiently,” I said, “with Moore ’s knowledge and cooperation. And with me nosing around, both of them are likely to find out I’m doing a check on Barry.”
“Oh, really? You couldn’t do it discreetly? I thought that’s one reason people hired private investigators. For their discretion.”
This was all new to Sturdivant, who seemed entirely unaccustomed to dealing with persons of my racy calling. “Discretion is possible up to a point,” I said. “But inevitably a friend or family member or co-worker gets wind of the snooping and mentions it to the subject. I would not be obliged to reveal your identity as my client. But my not disclosing your identity wouldn’t really be fair to Bill or Barry. It would drive them crazy not knowing who was investigating Barry. It’s not a position I would want to find myself in, and neither would you, Jim.”
He was unfazed by my ethical qualms, which I was trying to find a way around but hadn’t yet, and Sturdivant was not helping. He said, “I would certainly make my role known if it seemed necessary, but I seriously doubt it will get that far. One thing I should add, and it may make a difference to you, Don. There are actually two of them – two suspect young men.”
“What do you mean?”
“Barry has a cohort who may be in this with him – whatever Barry is up to.”
“And who would that be?”
“Bud Radziwill. He’s Barry’s age, around twenty-seven, and they arrived in the Berkshires together six years ago. They might once have been boyfriends – I’m not sure – and possibly still could be. The two of them are thick as thieves; that I do know. And Bud is as patently phony as Barry is. He tells people he is a ‘Kennedy cousin.’ He actually goes around announcing that! But, as you no doubt know, Lee Radziwill is Jackie’s sister and acquired the Radziwill moniker by marriage to a Polish aristocrat she later divorced. There were two children, a son who died in 1999 and a surviving daughter, Anna. There were no ‘Buds’ in the Radziwill picture. In any case, it’s preposterous to suppose that this fey – ditzy is another word that comes to mind – that this absurd young man is any kind of Kennedy cousin.”
I said, “Timothy Callahan once met a Kennedy when Timmy was in the Peace Corps in India. This was some years ago, well before the tables turned and India was busy on the phone instructing Americans on how to make our computers function. Eunice Kennedy Shriver, JFK’s sister, visited Timmy at his poultry development project in Andhra Pradesh. He fried her an egg, and she ate it. She told Timmy that a few days earlier Mother Teresa had fixed her an omelet that the nun guaranteed had been made with unfertilized eggs, so there was no chance Mrs. Shriver would inadvertently ingest a tiny fetus.”
Sturdivant seemed to ponder this. He said, “Oh, yes. The Peace Corps.”
“The farmers Timmy worked with produced unfertilized eggs, too. With so many vegetarians in their customer base, the farmers had to be able to assure everyone that their products contained no meat in any sense.”
After a moment, Sturdivant said, “Is this a parable of some kind?”
“No.”
“I was beginning to wonder if you were attempting to speak to me in code.”
“Nope,” I said. “It’s just a Kennedy story. It’s the only firsthand Kennedy story I’ve got. You’re from Massachusetts, Jim. You’ve probably got dozens.”
He sipped his latte again, or perhaps what I heard was not a sip but a sigh. Sturdivant said, “So I’m getting the impression that you are not interested in pursuing this investigation I have proposed. Our friend Preston alerted me that you pick and choose the cases you take.”
One of the flies samba-ing on my coffee cup slipped and fell in. The other one flew off. I said, “You can pick your cases, and your friends can pick their cases, but you can’t pick your friends’ cases.”
“Is this more code-talk?”
“No, just an observation.”
“So, you’ll not take the case?”
“No,” I told him, “I will take the case.”
“Oh. Excellent!”
I quoted my terms and Sturdivant accepted them. He told me how to find him in the Berkshires, and where Barry Fields and Bill Moore lived in Great Barrington.
“Don, why have you decided to take this on?” Sturdivant asked. “I had the impression you thought I was overreacting and perhaps a bit of a busybody. But don’t you agree that there is at least room for suspicion here?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll find out, and you can take it from there. But mainly I’m interested in collecting another Kennedy story. Timothy’s been dining out on the one we’ve got for decades now, and it’s time we came up with a fresh one. Even if Radziwill is a fraud – escaped embezzler Norman
Seffenfeffer from Harrisburg, or whatever – it’ll qualify as a Kennedy story, if only a faux-Kennedy story. And those can be replete with meaning about American life also.”