continued to peruse the menu. “I’ve decided. Lobster salad,” she replied.
Sam motioned to the waiter who came over to take their orders.
“Two lobster salads and a bottle of Dom Perignon.”
The waiter scurried off to the kitchen.
“Are you packed?” Sam asked.
“Almost,” she replied. “I have an appointment at Beverly’s. Beverly herself called me this morning. They’ve come out with a new designer line. I must have something new for Monte Carlo. When do I have to be ready?”
“We’re flying out on Top Flight Jet . But I’m afraid I have some bad news. We’re going to have to share the plane with another couple. The limousine will pick you up around four.”
“Sam, another couple? I had plans for the plane.” She licked his finger lasciviously.
“Save it for tonight. I have a surprise for you anyway.”
“Surprise?” she queried.
“Never mind, a surprise is a surprise.” The champagne arrived. The waiter popped the cork and poured. “Here’s to the face that launched a thousand ships,” Sam said.
“Here’s to Monte Carlo,” Esther answered. They touched glasses and sipped some of the bubbly.
“I’ll drink to that,” shouted a voice from over Sam’s shoulder. It was Frank Thorpe, Sam’s close friend and business associate. “You’re the luckiest man in town, Sam.” Frank was a top Wall Street lawyer who had used the services of Sonn and Son on many occasions. Over the years their business relationship had grown into a close personal friendship. But the two men lived in different worlds. Sam was a New Yorker of Jewish descent and although not at all religious he had a strong ethnic identity. Frank was a Sutton Place WASP— part of the good old boy network that extended back for generations. Sam could not even play a round of golf with him at Frank’s elitist country club but he understood.
Frank had taken the Ivy League route, graduating from Princeton and then Harvard Law. Like Sam, he inherited his father’s firm, and took it to new heights. But unlike Sam, Frank had successfully ensconced himself into the fabric of the upper crust of New York society. Sam admired Frank both for his intelligence and his business acumen. And he knew that in a pinch Frank could always be depended upon.
“That perfume . . . ” Frank sniffed, “it’s intoxicating.”
“Not to mention sinfully expensive,” Sam said.
“You can afford it old chum,” Frank quipped. “I’ll call you later with regard to some business. Oh, by the way, I want you to know that I’m lunching with, of all people, Tynan Wesley.”
“Tynan Wesley,” Sam said in amazement. “I’d very much like to meet him.”
“It’s funny you should say that, Sam, because he asked to meet you as well. Your name came up with respect to the crossword murders. Wesley heard your name on the radio in connection with the case; Sam Sonn, Super Sleuth was how the media referred to you.”
“Yes, Frank, the Moreau family retained me. I’m on the case. I understand that Wesley was one of the intended victims.”
“Yes, I’m afraid his secretary bought it in his place. He was all broken up about that. He’s hoping you can catch the killer. He’s willing to help you in any way he can.”
“I would welcome his input, Frank.”
“Great! When you’re done with lunch, you’ll join us. Walk out onto the pier and down the boat slips until you come to the Constitution.”
“The Constitution?” Sam repeated the name sarcastically.
“You know Wesley, Sam. Oh, and I’d best warn you. There are other guests on board.”
“What others?”
“You know, Wesley’s usual boatload of cronies. He has security posted at the entrance to his slip. Tell them you were invited. I’ll keep an eye out for you.” Frank kissed Esther on the cheek before bidding them adieu.
“Tynan Wesley,” Esther repeated the name with disdain. “Why do you want to meet that conceited old dinosaur?”
“Well for one thing, he’s not a dinosaur. He’s one of the brightest political pundits of our time and one of the most eloquent speakers that I’ve ever heard. And I’m told he’s quite charming.”
“If you say so, Sam.” Esther had no interest in meeting any man who was over the age of forty. Besides, she didn’t relish the prospect of having to tax her brain to comprehend the multi-syllabic words for which Wesley was famous. “I’m on a tight schedule,” she said.
“You mean you’re giving me permission to meet Wesley alone?” Sam asked. His expression said it all.
“You can fill me in on the plane,” she said. “But what did you find out about the crossword murders at police headquarters? I’m dying to know.”
“Morgan is at a loss. It’s bad enough that the puzzles themselves are next to impossible; but, even when they are solved, the clues as to the identity of the victim and the time and place of the murder are well camouflaged. The references are oblique. They could only be known by the victim himself. It’s as if the killer knew his victims intimately. Also, even though there seems to be a message or rationale for each crime, there isn’t a common thread that we can identify.”
“What kind of message, Sam?” Esther asked.
“Well, initially the police hypothesized that the killer was an environmentalist who sought revenge for environmental crimes. That m.o. fit some of the cases, but Moreau was an environmentalist herself.”
“Maybe in the Moreau case the motive was personal. She could have known the killer—maybe there was a romantic link,” Esther speculated.
“It’s possible, Esther. The puzzle associated with Moreau contained many personal references and attacks on her character. The theme clues were all famous prostitutes. I’m sure it was a way of insulting her, perhaps a sardonic epitaph.”
The lobster salads arrived. In the Water Club a lobster salad consisted of a two-pound lobster shelled and ready to eat. The meat was diced and placed in the center of a salad consisting of romaine lettuce, New Jersey beefsteak tomatoes, avocados, cucumbers, carrots, chickpeas and mushrooms, basted in a yogurt dill dressing. Sam was a controlled eater who rarely finished his portion, and a deliberate one. He never rushed down his food. His table manners were a reflection of his sophistication. Esther, on the other hand, ate virtually nothing—a controlled anorexic—controlled, meaning she took vitamins. She was well versed in the art of deceptive eating. She endlessly pushed the food around with her fork, occasionally making time-consuming efforts to cut her food with the knife. Now and then, she would consume the tiniest morsel, chewing on it incessantly to maintain the illusion that she was eating.
“You know,” she said after imbibing nearly half a glass of champagne in one gulp, “it’s possible that Lentz was murdered by the crossword killer.”
“No, Esther, that’s not possible. I told you that Lentz died of a heart attack.”
“The killer could have used a poison.”
“I was with Lentz the entire time,” Sam affirmed. “There was no way anyone could have poisoned him.”
“Are you certain, Sam? It doesn’t take long to poison someone. Remember, Weijnstein was drugging me with tiny pricks of his pinky ring. Did anyone have casual contact with Lentz during the time you were with him?”
“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “When we left the police station, Lentz purchased a flower from an old oriental woman who was selling dry goods from a push cart.”
“He could have been poisoned then,” Esther said.
“But