Christie made a face. “My fault, Enid. I should have talked to you. Donovan’s not back yet and I’m not really sure about Jack and Bennet. What are we having? Will it hold?”
“Baked chicken breasts. I stopped off at the market on my way in to work. I went ahead and changed the menu, so there’s plenty if you’re having extra people. I did up some oven-roasted potatoes and a casserole of sweet-and-sour cabbage. I can wait and serve if you like.” Somehow she managed to indicate without a word that waiting around to serve dinner was the last choice on her list.
“No, no, no. I don’t want you to do that. Just leave things in the oven and we can help ourselves. As soon as you’re ready, go ahead and take off. I know you were in early.”
“Yes, ma’am. Myrna called me. I came as soon as I heard.”
“Have the police talked to you? I’m assuming they have. They talked to everyone else.”
Enid picked at her apron uncomfortably. “I talked to Lieutenant Bower shortly before you did, I believe. Do you want me tomorrow at the usual time?”
“I don’t know yet. Call me in the morning and we’ll see what’s going on. I may want you here early if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.”
As soon as she withdrew, Christie said, “Sorry for the interruption. That’s Enid Pressman. She’s the cook. I guess I could have introduced you. I didn’t mean to be rude. Tasha’s met her before.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” I said. I made a quick mental note to have a chat with Enid at some point. She’d neatly avoided relating much in the way of information.
Tasha said, “Maybe I will have that drink. Here, let me get it. You look exhausted. We need to sit.”
Christie had put the wine bottle in a cooler and now grabbed two more glasses. Tasha moved over to the bar and took the cooler from her, setting it down on a table between two chairs. Christie quizzed me with a gesture, asking if I was ready to have wine.
“I’m fine for now, but go ahead,” I said.
Christie curled up in one of the leather chairs. She tucked her legs under her and crossed her arms.
I took the chair closest to the fireplace while Tasha perched on the arm of the chair next to Christie’s. Tasha said, “What about Bennet? Where was he last night?”
“I’m not really sure. You’d have to ask him about that.”
“And Jack?”
“Over at the country club with a hundred other fellows. There’s a pro-am tournament coming up this weekend. Practice rounds start on Thursday. He went to the pairings’ party with a friend of his.”
“That should be easy enough to verify,” Tasha said.
“Would you quit talking like that? He didn’t kill Guy and neither did I”
“Christie, I’m not accusing you. I’m trying to analyze your position here. Given the situation, suspicion’s bound to fall on one of you. I don’t mean you specifically, so don’t take offense. Other people may have access to the property, but who’d have a better motive than the family? There’s a lot of money at stake.”
“But Tasha, that’s ridiculous. If one of us were going to kill him, why do it here? Why not somewhere else? Make it look like an accident or random violence.”
I raised my hand like a student. “Think of the convenience. If you kill a man in his sleep, you don’t have to worry about him putting up a fight.”
Jonah Robb appeared in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Christie. “We’ll be taking off shortly. The bedroom’s still sealed pending the coroner’s report. It’s strictly off limits until you hear from us. We’ll be here early tomorrow morning to finish things up.”
“Of course. Will there be anything else?”
“I understand your brother-in-law received some mail…”
“We gave that to the other detective, Lieutenant Bower.”
Jonah nodded. “Fine. I’ll check with her.”
“Do you have any idea what time we can expect my husband? When I left the station, he was still being interviewed.”
“I’ll have him call if he’s there when I get back to the station. With luck, he’ll be done and on his way home.”
“Thanks.”
Jonah’s gaze came to rest on mine and he tilted his head. “Can I see you out here?”
I got up and crossed the room. He held the door open and we went into the hall.
He said, “Donovan tells us you were the one who located Guy on behalf of the estate.”
“That’s right.”
“We’re going to want to talk to you in the morning, picking up background information.”
“Of course. Glad to help. I can stop by at nine on my way into work,” I said. “What’s this business about the mail?”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” he said obliquely, meaning none-of-your-beeswax. We looked at each other for perhaps half a moment longer than was absolutely essential. I’d always thought Jonah was good-looking. Black Irish, I think they call them. Blue eyes, coal-black hair. He looked worn-out and tense, his eyes surrounded by a lacework of fine lines, his skin looking coarser than I remembered. Perhaps as a side effect of my renewed sexuality, I found myself sizing up the men in my life.. With Jonah, there was a dark radiance in the air. I felt like a fruit fly, wondering if the pheromones were mine or his.
“How’s Camilla?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Ah.”
“What about. you? You involved with anyone these days?”
“Could be. It’s hard to know.”
His smile was brief. “See you in the morning.”
That you will, I thought.
FOURTEEN
Once Jonah was gone, I found myself reluctant to return to the library. I could hear Christie and Tasha talking together companionably, their voices light, the conversation interspersed with nervous laughter. The subject had obviously changed. The ego is ill-prepared to deal with death for long. Even at a wake or a funeral, the topic tends to drift to safer ground whenever possible. I scanned the empty foyer, trying to get my bearings. Across from the library was the living room. I’d been in there, but I’d never seen the rest of the ground floor.
I passed under the stairs to an intersecting corridor that branched off in both directions. I caught a glimpse of a powder room across the hall. I saw two doors on the right, but both were closed. Under the circumstances, I thought it unwise to snoop indiscriminately. In the unlikely event I encountered a cop, I was roaming in the guise of someone looking for the kitchen so I could offer my help.
Before, the house had felt comfortable despite the touches of shabbiness that appeared throughout. Now I was acutely aware of the imprint of Guy’s murder.
The very air seemed heavy, the gloom as languorous as a dense fog drifting through the rooms.
I took a left, moving toward the unhappy scent of cooked cabbage at the end of the hall. In a sudden glimpse of the future, I could envision the day when this house would be sold to a private boys’ school and the smell of cruciform vegetables would overpower all else. Young lads in hard shoes would clatter through the halls between classes. The room where Guy had. been bludgeoned to death would be turned into a dormitory where adolescent boys would abuse themselves surreptitiously after lights out. Always, there would be rumors about the pale apparition gliding down the corridor, hovering on the landing at the turn of the stairs. I found myself walking quickly, anxious for human company.
Beyond the dining room and butler’s pantry, the swinging door to the kitchen stood open. The room looked vast to me, but then my entire culinary kingdom would fit in the rear of a moderately priced station wagon. The floors were pale, glossy pegged oak planks stretching out in all directions. The custom cupboards were dark cherry and the counters were topped with mottled green marble. There were sufficient cookbooks, utensils, and small appliances in view to furnish one small section of a Williams-Sonoma retail outlet. The stove top looked bigger than the double bed in my loft and the refrigerator had clear doors with all the contents on view. To the right, there was the equivalent of a little sitting area; and beyond, there was a glassed-in porch that extended the entire length of the room. Here the lush scent of roast chicken and garlic overrode the odor of cooked cabbage. Why does someone else’s cooking always smell so much better than your own?
Myrna had come back from the police station. She and Enid were standing together near one of the two kitchen sinks. Myrna’s face looked puffy and the prickle of red around her eyes suggested she’d been crying, not within the last few minutes, but perhaps earlier in the day. Enid had pulled on a poplin raincoat and the yards of tan fabric gave her the hapless form and shape of a baked potato. She’d removed her bandanna. Bareheaded, she had a wiry bird’s nest of hair that was dark strands streaked with gray. Tea mugs in hand, they must have been having a few last words about the murder because both looked up guiltily as I came in. Given their proximity to events, the two of them must have been privy to just about everything. Certainly, the family wasn’t shy about airing their conflicts. God knows they’d squabbled in front of me. Enid and Myrna must have picked up on plenty and probably compared notes.