Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

BENNETT, ARMAND: Age 44, of a sudden heart attack May 23. He leaves his wife of twenty years, Dr. Ruth Bennett, his mistress, and a pile of debts.

The mistress, who had a mental problem, was not amused, but the widow’s friends, acquaintances, and patients showered her with luncheon, dinner, and breakfast invitations and phoned to praise her audacious bravery. It was standing room only at his funeral and the Times sent a photographer. The widow sat in a front pew with her best friend, Maxwell Trumpet, an occasional writer for television soap operas whose own mountain of debts was all he had in common with the deceased.

Reverend Wister, said to be a descendant of Owen Wister, who had written the Western classic The Virginian, knew it was hopeless to eulogize the deceased as the obituary had itself become a classic within two days of its first publication, albeit it had been denounced by the pope and the Chinese Central Committee. Ruth Bennett had hoped there might be television or movie interest, but none had come forth to date, and she was still hopelessly mired in that pile of debts her husband had amassed and left as his dubious legacy.

Ruth and her friend Maxwell groaned as they heard the reverend extolling the late Armand as a respected certified public accountant (“Who had a problem with figures,” Ruth felt like shouting) who was a fine golfer and excelled at fly-fishing and contributed to the community chest. Said Ruth in a whisper to Maxwell, “I wish I knew how many community chests he’s contributed to.” Maxwell giggled and Ruth squeezed his hand. Good old Maxwell, thought Ruth as the reverend droned on about Armand’s good taste in neckwear, you can always count on good old Maxwell. He’s deeper in hock than even I am, and she was touched when he offered to pawn his late mother’s silver service to help defray the funeral costs. She squeezed his hand again and Maxwell wondered as he had wondered for over two decades if now there was some hope she’d go to bed with him.

Ruth’s thoughts were dwelling on the day Armand keeled over and the police arrived with the ambulance. One policeman questioned her and admired her for skillfully masking her bereavement. There was a tray of chocolates on the coffee table and she popped one in her mouth when he asked her, “Did your husband have a history of heart disease?”

“Not really,” said Ruth as she munched away. “He had a small disturbance about five years ago, but I always suspected it was indigestion. He liked to eat in exotic places, you know: Star of India, Mandarin Dynasty, McDonald’s.” She added with a sigh as she picked at a piece of caramel caught between two teeth, “Only last Monday I tested his heart and his blood pressure. Everything was quite normal then.”

“You’re your husband’s physician?”

“Yes. It’s cheaper.”

“And you signed the death certificate?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that a little unorthodox?”

“Why? We also have — had — a joint bank account.”

A real charmer, thought the policeman, whose name was Aubrey Winthrop. She also had great legs and a pretty face. Maxwell arrived as Armand’s body was being carried out of the apartment. Ruth accepted his hug as Aubrey wondered if there was anything going on between the two of them. But after further examination of Maxwell as he heard him consoling the widow, he decided they were just good friends, Maxwell having the kind of unappealing physical qualities that would consign him to the role of “good friend” for eternity.

Maxwell said to the policeman, “Forgive me for intruding, but the doctor and her husband and I have been good friends for many years. His death is a terrible shock. Why, only yesterday he crowed about swimming twenty lengths in his club’s swimming pool.”

The policeman clucked his tongue and said to Ruth, “Will you authorize an autopsy?”

“What for?”

“Some families permit an autopsy, especially in the case of a sudden, unexpected death.”

“Young man,” said Ruth authoritatively, “there is no such thing as sudden, unexpected death in my private canon. As a doctor, I know that death can strike at any time. Death is unavoidable. It comes to all of us. My husband always said he thought he’d die young.”

Maxwell agreed wistfully. “Yes, he always thought he would. The way he lived life to the hilt: drinking, eating, whor...” he caught himself, “...worn out by high living...”

“...And snorting crack,” said Ruth matter-of-factly.

Aubrey shot her a quizzical look and then decided against further investigation of her statement. He suspected she was pulling his leg. He wished he could pull hers.