Compliments of a Friend Page 6

  “Why couldn’t he just wait till the divorce was over? Why push it?”

  “Because he is spoiled worse than rotten. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. He wanted out of the marriage and he wanted a baby, so he got Ryn pregnant. Except Vanessa wouldn’t cooperate with him. Somehow she got wind that the baby was coming. Maybe he even told her. But she started holding him up for more than what the prenuptial agreement stipulated. That kind of chutzpah wasn’t in his calculations, and he became enraged. He wanted out, and fast, and if Vanessa was going to make it difficult for him, she’d have to go. Why don’t you check? I bet there’s a period of time when he was out of town. That would be the days or weeks when he expected her ‘suicide’ to happen. Except it didn’t.”

  Kim stuck his hands in his pockets.

  Finally, he asked: “And how am I supposed to prove this?”

  Kim called me that night. The medical examiner’s findings reported that the stomach contents had included a trace amount of gelatin, enough for a large dissolved capsule.

  I waited. In a whodunit, I would have been Kim’s partner, leading him (carrying the search warrant) to a dusting of Vitamin X and Xanax mixture in the pocket of Stan Giddings’s cashmere sports jacket. Or I’d be luring Stan into an Edward Hopper diner for a coffee and then snatch the cup and … Aha! … The dribblings on the so-called suicide note turned out to be a match for Stan Giddings’s DNA on his cup.

  But, in life, the scales of justice hardly ever achieve the exquisite balance that they do in a whodunit.

  To give Detective-Sergeant Kim credit, he did his homework, albeit a little late. Two artist friends told him how Ryn had given Stan an ultimatum: a month to finalize his divorce. If he couldn’t, she would get an abortion. As to having a child out of wedlock, they laughed. Ryn? No, Ryn knew what she wanted. Having a baby was simply the means of getting it. No “it,” no kid.

  And yes, Stan had gone to his house in Maine for a month in October with Ryn, around the time he left Vanessa, around the time he was waiting for her to kill herself so he and Ryn could come back and get married. But nothing happened. So Stan wound up giving Vanessa an extra three mill to ease her pain in getting cut loose so fast.

  Finally, the cops did find Stan Giddings’s fingerprints on a brown amber bottle of Sunrise Antiox Detox in a bathroom adjacent to Vanessa Giddings’s workout room.

  “What does that prove?” Stan’s lawyer screamed to the district attorney of Nassau County.

  And the DA conceded grudgingly: “It means maybe he took an antiox pill.”

  Thus, Stan’s longstanding policy of giving campaign contributions not just to right-wingers but to the local candidates of all parties, even the most marginal, was vindicated. And, sad to report, Stan Giddings himself was vindicated.

  It was too late for true justice, although the New York Post somehow got wind that the Vanessa Giddings’s suicide was once again under investigation, as was her former husband, Stanley Giddings. Suicide … or murder? Xanax in a big, fat antioxidant capsule? A dandy photograph of Stan and Ryn ran on the front page, along with insets of old-money Giddings House and Vanessa’s nouveau-riche-but-somewhat-tasteful Tara. And when you turned to page 47 to continue reading, there was a photo of a Sunrise Antiox Detox bottle with a scattering of large brown gel caps, some of them pulled apart, presumably to show how easy they were to open.

  “Good enough for your friend Vanessa?” my friend Nancy Miller demanded that morning.

  I held the phone away from my ear as she made one of those hideous Georgia ya-hoo sounds, half yell, half screech.

  “I whispered a few words into the shell-pink ear of a reporter pal at the Post. If I’d given it to Newsday, there was a chance it might be handled tastefully; sometimes they’re such prissy fucks. But the Post, bless their darling, vulgar hearts. None of that ‘respected businessman’ shit. ‘Did Sox Heir Slay Ex for Sex?’ ”

  “Nancy, thank you! God bless you! I held the paper at arm’s length and smiled at the front page paparazzo-style photo of a sullen Ryn and an infuriated Stan leaving church the previous Sunday. They held their baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, awkwardly between them, as if it were a football hand-off neither wanted to accept.

  “Are you okay on the Nelson front, kiddo?” Nancy quizzed me.

  “Fine.”

  “Being so close to him and not having him even say hello really got to you.”

  “He kind of gave me the teeniest nod, but it wasn’t a nod filled with significance, if you know what I mean. Basically, it was your typical, indecipherable cop nod.”

  “He really got to you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not going to do anything profoundly stupid, like call him.”

  “No,” I assured her.

  “Or fax him Bob’s obit.”

  “That’s an elegant idea! God, I wish I’d thought of it. No, no, don’t worry.”

  “Hey, aren’t I a good friend?” she asked.

  “There’s none better!” I told her.

  “No. You’re better. There’s none better than you, Judith. To me and even to that tedious clotheshorse, Vanessa, poor thing. I just don’t want you getting hurt, is all and—”

  “Call waiting. Hold on.”

  I never got back to her that day. It was Nelson Sharpe.

  He said, “Judith,” and then …

  But that’s another story.

  Afterword

  ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS FORCED TO WRITE A SHORT STORY AND …

  All right, “forced to write” is an overstatement if your idea of coercion is the muzzle end of a pistol an inch from one of your sinuses. In fact, the mood in that restaurant couldn’t have been more amiable. There we were, way back in the 1990s, my writers’ group, the Adams Round Table, at our monthly first-Tuesday get-together. As usual, we sat around the table, downing tough-guy whiskey or Chardonnay or teetotaler’s club soda. The first two minutes were taken up with publishing news. Then a healthy half-hour was spent on the most urgent writers’ gossip. After that, with plates of pasta or the joint’s weekly special—invariably a flat, flaccid white thing the menu persisted in calling Dover sole specially flown in (we assumed from the Bronx)—each of us took turns speaking about our writing lives.

  We covered all the territory. The real downside of first person is the reader knows the narrator’s not going to die, but I tried the omniscient third and, boy, did it suck the big one. Then the next member would relate how Warner Brothers said they were definitely going to option Dead, Dead, Dead, but they never called back and I’m not sure if they’re playing hard to get or, you know, maybe … Could they have lost interest? They really seemed to love it.

  As the newest member of the group, I reveled in the congeniality, the shoptalk, the mutual trust. All these terrific mystery and suspense writers: gifted and articulate, some cheery, some morose, and one or two who appeared to have overdone it at some controlled-substance happy hour. But they were all talking the talk I was aching to hear. We spoke in confidence. Not that we were sharing dark secrets, but it was comforting knowing whatever you said about your agent or some other writer would not pop up on Page Six of the New York Post. Being a novelist meant a professional life of isolation, sitting alone in a room telling yourself a story. This monthly dose of collegiality always invigorated me.

  The next person who spoke said, “[Our editor] called. The publisher wants another anthology from us. Something like Murder Among Friends.”

  “Anthology?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Every few years, we put together an anthology of short stories, all with a similar theme.” I must have looked either dubious or stricken, because he or she added, “It doesn’t have to be a long short story.”

  “It’s always fun,” someone else added. “You know, the variety: seeing what everybody writes, plus we make a couple of bucks.”

  I confessed: “I’ve never written a short story.”

  Okay, there weren’t exactly gasps, but nearl
y all the other members looked a bit surprised. Not only do many novelists start with a short story form, but among mystery and thriller and horror writers, getting into the genre magazines, the pulps, was step one on the career path.

  I, on the other hand, had been an editor at Seventeen magazine and also a freelance political speechwriter. After that, aside from the occasional article, I’d been a stay-at-home mom, reading so many whodunits during my kids’ naptime or preschool that I may have become somewhat unhinged. But at some point, I told myself: “I think I can do this.” The “this” was writing a novel. Not a novella, not a short story. Truthfully, I rarely read short fiction. I wanted a universe, not a galaxy, not a solar system.

  But I wanted to be a true part of the group, so I settled for maybe being able to come up with an asteroid. “Okay,” I said breezily, even though, that very second, my intestines were tightening into a figure-eight knot: “I’ll give it a shot.”

  The next day, the next week—who knows how long afterward (one of the joys of writer’s block, aside from the usual self-loathing and doomed attempts to search the Bible or Mother Goose Tales for some antique plot to crib, is that time alternates between slo-mo and fast-forward; fourth-dimension-wise, you never know where you are), I do know I was getting desperate, especially after a lighthearted call from one of the other group members asking if I had any idea when I’d be handing in the story. “Probably in a few days,” I said cheerily.

  “I was only asking because everyone else’s pieces are in. But no pressure. If you need a little longer, just let me know.”

  That’s when Judith Singer returned to my life to save me. My first novel, Compromising Positions, was narrated by Judith, a stay-at-home Long Island mom, who tracked down the killer of M. Bruce Fleckstein, the Don Juan of Long Island dentists. Not only did the book get published, it was also so successful (bestseller, tons of translations, critically lauded movie) that it equaled even my most grandiose fantasies.

  Now she was back in my head. In a genuinely kind voice, she said: Use me. You know me so well. You know my voice, my friends and family, my feelings. And admit it. Aren’t you dying to know what happened to me after Compromising Positions ended?

  Yes, I was! Two days later, I handed in “Compliments of a Friend,” the continuation of Judith’s story. True, I’ve altered it quite a bit for this edition. But the bottom line is Judith Singer is my coauthor on this one. I sent out an SOS and she rushed over to collaborate. And I loved being back in her company so much that my next novel, Long Time No See, was simply an extension of what you’ve just read, my first short story.

  I hope you enjoyed being with her as much as I did.

  And a personal message to Judith: Thank you and bless you.

  —Susan Isaacs

  A Biography of Susan Isaacs

  Susan Isaacs (b. 1943) is an award-winning author of mystery and literary fiction who holds the rare distinction of having had every one of her novels appear on the New York Times bestseller list.

  Born in Brooklyn, New York, she attended Queens College, and upon graduation took an aptitude test for a position as a computer programmer. She failed the test, but when the interviewer saw that she had written for her college newspaper, she offered her a job at Seventeen magazine.

  After several years writing advice columns, then political speeches, Isaacs tried her hand at a mystery novel, and Compromising Positions was published in 1978. The story of housewife-turned-detective was a runaway success. It has been translated into thirty languages and adapted into a film starring Susan Sarandon and Raul Julia, and Isaacs wrote the screenplay herself.

  Isaacs’s experience in city politics informed her second novel, Close Relations. Like Compromising Positions, it became a critical and commercial success, and established her as an author of literary fiction. Her fourth book, the World War II drama Shining Through, was later made into a film starring Michael Douglas, Melanie Griffith, and Liam Neeson. Isaacs also found success as a screenwriter, penning 1987’s Hello Again, a comedy starring Shelley Long and Gabriel Byrne.

  A former president of the Mystery Writers of America, she is a winner of the John Steinbeck Award, the Marymount Manhattan Writing Center Award, and the Writers for Writers Award. Isaacs is currently chairman of the board of the literary organization Poets & Writers. She has continued her involvement with politics, covering the 2000 election for the Long Island daily newspaper Newsday, an experience she has called “one of the greatest thrills of my life.”

  Since 1968 she has been married to Elkan Abramowitz, a criminal defense lawyer with whom she has two children. Now a grandmother, she lives on Long Island.

  Susan, the budding author, at about ten months of age. “Note the toothless smile,” Isaacs says. “Perhaps I’d not yet developed my ironic sensibility?”

  Susan’s uncle, Herbert Isaacs Nova, a bomber pilot, named his B-26 for his niece in celebration of her birth, which was December 7, the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. This is one of the reasons she feels such a connection to World War II—and returns to it a few times in her novels.

  “Cowgirl—such a practical ambition for a girl from Brooklyn!” says Isaacs.

  Susan and Elkan Abramowitz on their wedding day. Susan says, “Marrying Elkan was the smartest decision of my life.”

  Susan and Elkan’s son, Andy (now a lawyer), with the dog Susan calls “the noblest collie since Lassie.”

  Susan with her daughter, Elizabeth (now a philosopher), in the early days.

  Family vacation circa 1987. According to Susan, she is “98 percent sure we’re at Versailles.”

  Susan (right) with Ethel Merman and Liz Smith at the launch of her second novel, Close Relations (1980).

  The Compromising Positions film wrap party. From left to right: Susan Isaacs, Joe Mantegna, Frank Perry, Deborah Rush, Josh Mostel, and Anne De Salvo.

  Susan and Elkan at the Tetons during one of their great vacations in Wyoming.

  Susan’s mom and dad. She calls them “charming, bright, and warmhearted.”

  Susan’s scene with Shelley Long in Hello Again. She wrote herself a role in the film—and actually got to play it!

  Susan Isaacs signing books at the annual Book Expo. She is pictured with her publicist, Jane Beirn, and her late editor, Larry Ashmead.

  Susan at home in New York during a New York Post photo shoot. (Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Lippman.)

  Susan at the 2010 Poets & Writers bash with emcee Dave Barry. She has been chairman of the board of Poets & Writers (www.pw.org) for many years.

  Susan’s family on her grandson Edmund’s first birthday. Edmund was born developmentally disabled and Susan’s daughter and son-in-law decided to celebrate his first birthday with a softball game/picnic/fundraiser for the 5 P Minus Society (www.fivepminus.org).

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan Isaacs

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  978-1-4804-5497-2

  Published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  THE JUDITH SINGER SERIES

  FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA

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