by Barbara Paul
“Sweet,” Simon remarked.
“One more thing,” Toomey announced in an attention-demanding voice. “You said you planned to ‘borrow’ the diamonds for only a week or two,” he reminded Simon, “and that sounds as if you needed money in a hurry. Had something happened?”
“The Russians happened,” Simon answered. “When they—”
“Russians?” Gretchen interrupted. “How in the world can you blame this on the Russians?”
“Let me finish,” Simon snapped. “Whenever the Soviets are losing revenue from their oil resources or whatever, they like to compensate by selling state-owned diamonds. If they do it often enough, they’ll flood the market and the price of diamonds will drop to virtually nothing and even De Beers will be on welfare. But it hasn’t happened so far, and I learned that this month the Soviets were going to release a large amount of rough. It looked like a good chance to make a killing.” Simon blinked. “Unfortunate choice of words.”
Toomey asked, “Couldn’t you have converted some of your real estate holdings?”
“Not in time. I needed capital fast. I believe I told you once before, Lieutenant, that any merchant in the world would give his right arm for a steady source of diamonds that De Beers didn’t control. So when Lionel failed in London, it looked as if the Russian diamonds were my best bet. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to follow through—thanks to Uncle Vincent.”
“Aha!” Lionel pounced. “You did know about London ahead of time!”
“Yes, Lionel, we both know I knew about it ahead of time,” Simon answered with exaggerated patience.
“So why did you lie?” Gretchen asked. “Why pretend not to know that Lionel had visited De Beers?”
Simon was silent a moment, trying to think of a convincing lie. He couldn’t, so he told the truth. “That was a mistake, I see that now. I should have just said that you misunderstood me, Gretchen. But when you were telling me about Lionel and De Beers, at lunch yesterday—I didn’t know yet that the police had set the time of death between ten-thirty and eleven. The last I’d heard they were still asking questions about when the fire went out and when rigor mortis set in and all that.”
Gretchen frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“I do,” Lionel said. “He means he didn’t know three of us had an alibi.”
“Simon!” Dorrie cried, shocked anew.
“Not you, darling,” Simon said hastily. “Never you. Lionel was the one in hot water with Uncle Vincent, and it seemed logical that he’d be the one the police suspected.” He glanced apologetically at the other man. “Nothing personal, Lionel.”
Lionel’s mouth dropped open. “Nothing personal!”
“Well, that should do it,” Toomey said, standing up. “Unless … Rizzuto?” The Sergeant shook his head.
“Did you hear what he said?” Lionel asked Bjarne. “Nothing personal!” Bjarne clucked his tongue.
“Just a minute, Lieutenant,” Malcolm said officiously. “Why are you bothering to charge him? It’s clearly a case of self-defense. Simon, I’m not a criminal lawyer but I can recommend someone who—”
“Malcolm,” Simon said tiredly, “I don’t like you. I have never liked you. What’s more, I can say with full confidence that I won’t ever be proved wrong—I will never like you. Just don’t talk to me. Ever. Again.”
“You’re upset,” Malcolm said, and heard Gretchen snicker. “Lieutenant, the case won’t even go to trial. You’ll—”
“Oh, it’ll go to trial, all right. You don’t steal diamonds and kill a man and just walk away.”
“Self-defense,” Simon muttered.
“He put the diamonds back,” Dorrie said, fully recovered from her snit. “What if we don’t press charges?”
“We’ll press charges,” Lionel said firmly.
“Even if you don’t,” Toomey said, “stealing diamonds was the commission of a felony in connection with a homicide, and that means it’s not up to you to decide whether to press charges or not. It’s up to us. Pleading self-defense might work, though. But you’re going to prison,” he said to Simon. “We’ve got you on other counts. Felony theft, breaking and entering, interfering at the scene of a crime, withholding evidence, making false statements to the police, falsely incriminating an innocent person—”
“And runnin’ a stop sign,” Rizzuto added. Toomey just looked at him, not asking. “When I was tailin’ him and Dorrie,” Rizzuto explained, “when they threw that airline bag off the bridge? He ran a stop sign.”
Toomey couldn’t think of a thing to say to that. Instead, he told Simon again that he was going to prison. Then the Lieutenant laboriously squatted down and started stroking the cat. “Thanks for your help, Godfrey. I’m sorry we have to take your sparkly new toy away—how would you like to have a green latex froggie to play with instead?” Godfrey purred.
“Well,” Gretchen said, staring at Simon. “I don’t know what to say.”
Nicole did. She put her arms around Malcolm’s neck and announced, “I’ve made up my mind. I want to get married.”
“What?”
“Married. You know—here comes the bride and I do and all the rest of it?”
Malcolm gave a small whoop of pleasure and scooped her up in a bear hug.
“I want to buy a house,” Nicole said over his shoulder, “with huge grounds and a swimming pool. I want to have a child. Maybe we could get a dog. And a parrot.”
Toomey laughed to himself as he stood back up. All along he’d thought Malcolm must have a wild streak that appealed to Nicole, when it turned out she had a conservative streak that appealed to him. Nicole had only tiptoed to the sound of a different drummer.
Sergeant Rizzuto nudged Simon to his feet. “Let’s go.”
The prisoner turned to face his wife. “Dorrie, my love, I don’t suppose you’ll be waiting for me when I get out?”
She looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think so, darling. It could be such a long time. And when you get out, you’ll, well, you’ll be an ex-con, won’t you? You understand.”
Simon sighed like a martyr. “I do, unfortunately. A divorce, I suppose?”
“I think that’s best, dear.”
“I have to use the powder room,” Nicole said to Malcolm. “I’ll be right back.” She left the library.
Quite a few changes in this tight little bunch, Toomey thought, watching her go. Nicole and Malcolm are getting married, he mused, Dorrie and Simon are getting divorced, and Gretchen and Lionel are separated. Nothing has ended the way it began. What happens next? Do the newlyweds live happily ever after? Does Simon return from prison a changed man? Do Ellandy’s four partners learn to work together in spite of all that’s happened? Will the lure of Gretchen’s millions bring Lionel to attempt a reconciliation, or do Lionel and Dorrie get together? Tune in tomorrow.
Rizzuto took hold of Simon’s arm and started steering him toward the door. Lionel suddenly jumped forward and grabbed Simon’s other arm. “Let me help you, Sergeant,” he leered.
“I don’t need no help,” Rizzuto said, surprised.
“Oh, but I insist! It’s my pleasure!” Lionel gloated. “I can’t tell you how great a pleasure it is! Nothing personal, Simon.”
Rizzuto grinned at him and nodded. Simon gritted his teeth and accepted his fate. Toomey was following them out through the library door when he heard Mrs. Polk say to Gretchen, “If you think I’m going to pick up all that paper from the floor, you’ve got another think coming! You do it!” Toomey closed the door.
When the police had taken Simon away and Lionel had left, Dorrie and Malcolm drifted out to the front steps of Uncle Vincent’s house, where they sat down to wait for Nicole.
“I’m getting married!” Malcolm exulted.
“Congratulations,” Dorrie said desultorily. “I’m getting divorced.”
“It’s for the best, Dorrie,” he said gently. “I know it hurts right now, but you’re better off without him.”
“I suppose,” she sighed. “Wh
y did this have to happen to me? I followed all the rules! I was never afraid to explore my feelings or to seek in-self-knowledge. I committed myself to a structured, long-term personal relationship. I kept a positive attitude and sought out new areas of experience. So what went wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do all the things I’m supposed to do. I play racquetball. I dress rich. I vote Republican. And this is my reward—a husband carted off to prison?”
Malcolm draped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Sis, don’t let it get you down.”
“Oh, I won’t. I’m just trying to understand.”
“Speaking of racquetball, what about a game tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Dorrie’s eyebrows rose. “Isn’t that rather soon after …?”
“Ah, but who will know?”
“You’re right,” she giggled. “Who will know?”
Author’s Note
The idea for this book arose from a time I was watching television all day every day for two straight weeks. The reason behind this marathon viewing is long and boring and you don’t want to hear it. But I watched a lot of television.
One thing I watched was the weekday reruns of the old Perry Mason show. Of the ten episodes I saw, I think there was only one in which somebody did not say, “But He Was Already Dead When I Got There!”—or some slight variation thereof. It got so I was waiting for the line every day.
Then it occurred to me it might be fun to write an old-fashioned mystery story with clues all over the place and red herrings galore, and with the kind of plot that keeps complicating itself for no reason other than to keep the reader guessing. And of course the characters must be the sort of people who would never dream of calling the police when they find a dead body.
Therefore I want to dedicate this book to the makers of Perry Mason and to those responsible for all the other old mystery series in which story was more important than car chases, shoot-outs, and fist fights. In their comfortable, traditional way, the old shows were fun.
About the Author
Barbara Paul is the author of numerous short stories and novels in both the detective and science fiction genres. Born in Maysville, Kentucky, she went on to attend Bowling Green State University and the University of Pittsburgh, earning a PhD in theater history and criticism. She has been nominated for the Shamus Award for Best PI Short Story, and two of her novels, In-Laws and Outlaws and Kill Fee, have been adapted into television movies. After teaching at the University of Pittsburgh for a number of years, she retired to write full-time. Paul currently resides in Sacramento.
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 © 1986 by Barbara Paul
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3245-2
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