As for crimes of the more violent sort, there had been a number of those, too. Probably the most infamous of them took place in 1975, when Michael Skakel, a nephew of Ethel Kennedy, beat fifteen-year-old Martha Moxley to death with a golf club. Not until 2002 was Skakel brought to trial, convicted, and given a life sentence. His attorneys kept pressing, and in 2013 he was released on bail to await a new trial.
Barker’s own experience with crime in Greenwich had been more recent. Not long ago he’d come there when New York cops were on the trail of a mutual fund manager who was accused of running a Ponzi scheme. The suspect lived in a huge house off Round Hill, and when Barker and the others arrived, the place seemed deserted. They forced open the front door and poked around until they found the guy hanging from a beam in the basement. Anticlimactic, but what the hell. Saved everybody a lot of time and effort.
Today was an entirely different matter. The Delure murder had aroused more public interest than anything Barker had ever worked on, by far. But he had to admit that even with all the pressure, it was pleasant to be out in the country. The trees were lush and green and the leaves were glistening with raindrops.
Courtesy required a cop from another jurisdiction to check in with the local police department—which Barker had done when he came to Greenwich earlier—and he planned to do so now. He drove up North Street and from there over to Bruce Place, where GPD headquarters was located.
Critics said the Greenwich force was more interested in serving the needs of the town’s rich residents than anything else. Whether or not that was true Barker didn’t know, nor did he care. It was none of his business.
He parked his Mustang and went into the station. The police weren’t exactly happy to see him, having been burned by other cop visitors who had later criticized their operation.
The chief wasn’t in, but Barker presented ID and explained his mission to a desk sergeant who wrote out a pass for him. Barker thanked him and turned to leave.
“Hey, tell me something,” the sergeant said.
“Sure, what is it?”
“You getting anywhere with the case? I heard it was an inside job, and the guy who did it used to work for the hotel. That true?”
“It’s news to me,” Barker said. “But anything’s possible. Thanks for your help.” Jesus, even the cops were circulating rumors. He left the station and went back to his car.
To get to the church where the service was scheduled, he had to retrace his route. Once back on Putnam Avenue, the old Gothic stone structure was easy to find. A hearse and a line of cars were out front, and again uniformed officers were holding back a large crowd of onlookers. Naturally, the media were on hand as well.
Barker parked some distance away and dropped his police plate onto the dash. He walked back to the church, showed his shield and the pass to a cop at the door, and went inside.
What little light there was came through the stained-glass windows and from an array of tall candles, and it took several moments for his eyes to adjust. Large floral arrangements lined the walls, and their fragrance was almost enough to make him dizzy. A closed casket of gleaming mahogany lay on a low platform before the altar. Soft organ music wafted through the air.
Barker stepped into a dark corner and stood there, looking over the attendees. All were dressed for the occasion: mostly black suits on the men, black dresses on the women. The ladies also wore hats, many with veils.
As he watched, a few more people arrived and took off raincoats as they moved into the pews. Even in their funereal garb, the women managed to look stylish. They were thin and graceful and carried themselves with an air of confidence.
He didn’t recognize any of them and hadn’t expected to. Until he studied the backs of three people sitting side by side in the front pew. Two, a man and a woman, were strangers to him. Probably family members, he thought, Delure’s brother and his wife.
But the third person, another woman, looked familiar. At one point she turned her head slightly, and he saw that it was Dana Laramie, Delure’s secretary.
Okay, that figured. Laramie had been as close to the star as anyone the family would know about, most likely, so it was no wonder that she’d joined them for the funeral, probably at their invitation.
And for Barker, her being here was a stroke of luck. After the autopsy, he’d tried to locate her for another talk, but she’d left the Sherry-Netherland and hadn’t left a forwarding address. He assumed she’d returned to Los Angeles. Now he’d catch her, either here or at the cemetery, and ask more questions.
Several minutes passed, and it became clear that there would be no more attendees than were present now. Another long pause while the organ music swirled, and at last the minister got things under way.
Fortunately, the ceremony was brief. A few psalms, and a cliché-filled oratory that sounded as if it could have applied to any woman, just fill in the name. Listening to the man drone on, Barker wondered if the minister had ever known Delure. It sounded as though he hadn’t. More psalms, and then it was over.
As the pallbearers lifted the casket and carried it out to the waiting hearse, people rose from the pews and followed, led by the threesome in the front pew. Barker tried to catch Dana’s eye, but she kept her head down and was out the door before he could speak to her.
When he emerged from the church and went down the steps to the street, the casket had already been loaded and she was getting into a car. The couple she’d been sitting with was in a limousine directly behind the hearse. The crowd seemed larger than when he’d arrived earlier, and the TV camera people were busy shooting this part of the event as well. They even panned shots of the hearse pulling away.
Rain was falling again. Barker got back into his car, and when there was an opening in the slow-moving procession he pulled in and joined it. It took only a few minutes to reach the cemetery, which was on a tree-lined side street.
He parked and took a raincoat out of the car and shrugged into it as he walked to the entrance, where a cop was admitting only those with invitations. As at the church, many other officers were on hand, and this crowd seemed even bigger. The media were already here, red lights glowing atop their video cameras.
When he showed his pass and went through the ornate iron gates, Barker saw that many of the headstones were ancient, some so old he couldn’t read the inscriptions. There were also elaborate statues here and there, and they too seemed very old. In some of the plots, bouquets of flowers lay near the graves, wilted and bedraggled by the rain.
Dana Laramie and the couple from the church were standing beside Delure’s casket, which was suspended over an open grave. Barker again took a position that was on the edge of the crowd, one that would give him a good view of the goings-on. It would also enable him to keep an eye on Miss Laramie.
Like most of the others, she was wearing a raincoat, and it was buttoned up to her neck. But she was holding a small umbrella and wore no hat, and he was able to see her clearly. She really looked beautiful, he thought, even in these circumstances.
Next he swung his gaze to the couple and studied them. The man was tall and somber faced, his hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat. He had on a gray fedora, so Barker couldn’t make out his features all that well. The woman was also bundled up against the drizzle, and she too wore a hat. He could see that she had black hair and pale skin, and that was as much of an impression as he could get.
When the mourners were assembled, the minister reappeared and conducted a service that was only half as long as the one in the church had been. He read the Twenty-Third Psalm, said a few more words, and that was it. Maybe he was mindful that some of the women were quietly weeping and wanted to spare them further pain. Or maybe he just wanted to get out of the rain.
Afterward, Barker moved closer to the gates, so he could catch Dana on her way out. She said something to the couple and shook hands with them, and as people offeri
ng condolences surrounded them, she collapsed her umbrella and joined those who were leaving.
As she approached, Barker raised his hand in greeting and smiled at her. The reaction he got was not at all what he’d expected.
Dana looked at him and seemed stunned, as if she were seeing a ghost. Before he could explain that he only wanted to spend a few minutes speaking with her, she rushed past him and hurried through the gates. From there she ran down to where a large black car was parked. She ducked into the backseat and the car drove away.
10.
Barker was nonplussed. Dana Laramie had been completely cooperative when he’d seen her at the hotel after the homicide, and she’d expressed willingness to help the investigation in any way she could. He knew she’d even assisted the forensics cops in creating a likeness of the perp.
Now she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. What had happened to change her attitude?
Whatever it was, he couldn’t sort through it at this stage. Instead, he’d concentrate on his initial purpose in attending the funeral. He walked back to where the couple was standing, and as they too began moving toward the entrance, he introduced himself and showed them his ID.
“I’m Roger Delaney,” the man said. “And this is my wife, Sarah. Catherine was my sister. How can we help you?”
Barker spoke quietly, so that the conversation would be private. “First,” he said, “I’m sorry about your loss. I know what it’s like to lose a family member, and I can understand how you must feel.”
“Thank you,” Delaney said. “But you didn’t come here just to tell us that, did you?”
“No sir, I didn’t. As you’ve probably seen, the stories in the newspapers and on TV have all suggested that the killer’s motive was to steal your sister’s jewelry.”
“Yes, we’ve seen the stories.”
“It might be true, or it might not be. I’m trying to learn if there was another reason for her death.”
“Such as whether she had enemies who’d want to harm her?”
“Exactly. Can you comment on that, or give me any information that might shed some light?”
Delaney hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure. But there might be something. In any event, I’d prefer not to discuss it here.”
“Anywhere you say,” Barker said.
“We were about to go back to our family home, the place where Catherine and I grew up. My father still lives there, although he’s in very poor health. For that reason, we’re not having people in after the funeral. We’ve been staying with him during his illness. If you wish, you can follow us, and I’ll try to give you whatever help I can.”
“You sure that would be okay? I wouldn’t want to upset your father.”
“No, it’s quite all right. One person won’t disturb him. You see, he doesn’t know Catherine is dead.”
Barker thanked him and went to his car. The TV people were busy once again, and he resisted an urge to tell them to turn off their damned cameras and beat it. Not that it would have done much good, but they did remind him of vultures. And now that he noticed, several of the onlookers were snapping shots with their cell phones. What would you call them, amateur vultures?
He got into his car and waited, and when the long black limousine eased past, he pulled out and swung in behind it. They went back through the center of town and then turned toward the Sound. Eventually they came to a private road with an entrance between two stone pillars and a booth for a security guard. A plate on one of the pillars announced that the area was Belle Haven.
The limo stopped, and Delaney apparently spoke to the guard before driving on. The guard then waved Barker through.
Barker continued to follow, ogling the homes as he tooled along the streets. The houses were all immense, and much of the architecture was Victorian. Some places appeared to have been built more recently, but they were no less elaborate, with wings off the main sections, and with cupolas and towers and dormers. Shade was provided by tall trees, mostly oaks and maples.
Somehow the name of the area seemed familiar, and after a moment Barker realized why it did. Belle Haven was where the Moxley murder had taken place. But he doubted that would discourage a prospective buyer. You’d have to be rich to afford a place here, with many millions to spend. And who cared what might have happened years ago?
When they reached the Delaney estate, Barker thought the structure looked more like a castle than somebody’s home. Three stories high, it was built of stone and had a steep slate roof. Four chimneys rose from the central part, one at each corner.
A long, tree-shaded circular drive led up to the house, and a guy wearing a windbreaker and a Yankees cap was standing near it. He touched a finger to his cap as the limo approached, and Barker realized he was another security guard.
The limo stopped in a porte-cochère that shielded the occupants from the rain. Delaney and his wife got out and the chauffeur went on, probably to where the garages were, behind the house.
Before Barker could pull closer the guard approached his car. Barker rolled down the window and the guard said, “Who are you?”
“Name’s Barker,” Barker said. “The Delaneys invited me here.”
The guy still seemed suspicious. Barker noticed he had a boxer’s nose, a misshapen blob of tissue in the middle of his face. He was about to say something else when Delaney called out, “It’s okay, Carl. He’s with us.”
The guard nodded and signaled to Barker to pull up and park his car in the porte-cochère. After doing so, Barker got out and followed the couple into the house.
Once inside, they guided him to a parlor that struck him as about the size of a basketball court. Table lamps provided light, and there were various groupings of sofas and chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor, and the walls were decorated with oil paintings of landscapes and sailing ships and horses. Although it was summertime, logs were burning in a massive stone fireplace.
A maid took his raincoat, and those of his hosts. The maid also took the Delaneys’ hats, and now that he could see her, Barker thought Sarah Delaney was fairly attractive, in a brittle, too-thin way. She ran a hand through her hair and said, “I want to change out of these wet clothes. Please excuse me.” She left the room.
Delaney asked whether Barker would care for something to drink. He said he’d like coffee, and Delaney said he’d have some as well. A maid hurried to get it for them.
“I apologize for intruding,” Barker said. “On this of all days.”
Delaney shrugged. “You’re doing what you have to do. And I hope what I can tell you will be useful. This has been a terrible shock, and frankly, the worst part for me has been to control my anger. Catherine was a wonderful person.”
Barker was about to reply when the French doors at the far end of the parlor opened, and a woman in a white nurse’s uniform pushed a wheelchair into the room. Sitting in it was a wizened man who wore pajamas and a bathrobe and had oxygen tubes stuck up his nose. His head was as bald as a peeled egg.
“Hello, Father,” Delaney said. “Come and meet our guest.”
The nurse pushed the wheelchair closer, and Delaney said, “This is Mr. Barker, from New York.”
There was no response. The old man’s eyes were rheumy and unfocused and he showed not the slightest sign that he’d understood. Delaney might as well have been talking to a statue.
“He’s not doing too well today,” the nurse said. “I thought seeing you might make him more alert.” A drop of saliva appeared at a corner of the old man’s mouth, and she wiped it away with a tissue.
“Thank you for trying,” Delaney said.
“I’ll take him to his room.” She turned the wheelchair around and pushed it back out through the French doors.
A moment later the maid returned with their coffee. Delaney told her they’d have it in the library, and the two men followed her to a room j
ust off the parlor.
The walls in there were paneled in dark wood, and two of them contained bookcases that ran from the floor to the ceiling. A large mahogany desk stood near the window, and leather chairs were grouped before a fireplace. As in the parlor, logs were burning, filling the room with a pleasant fragrance.
A portrait of a beautiful blonde woman hung above the mantel. Delaney gestured toward it. “My mother,” he said.
To Barker, it was like looking at a picture of Catherine Delure. Same high cheekbones and full lips, same blue eyes. He could also see the resemblance between her and her son, although it wasn’t as pronounced. Delaney’s hair was darker, and it was thinning. In time, Barker thought, he’d be as bald as his father.
The maid placed the tray on a table and left the room. Delaney poured for them, and both took their coffee black.
“Please sit down,” Delaney said.
Barker sank into one of the leather chairs and sipped coffee. “You thought there might be something,” he said, “that could help our investigation.”
Delaney put his cup down and went to the desk. He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of blue paper, returning with it and sitting opposite Barker.
He held up the paper and said, “This is a letter Catherine sent me a short time ago. I’ve thought about going to the authorities with it, but I hesitated because I didn’t know how significant it might be. I also thought it could cause more trouble needlessly. Especially if it were leaked and the media got hold of it. Please read it, and tell me what you think.” He handed it over.
Barker saw that the letter was handwritten, in the style taught in fashionable schools, a combination of cursive and printing. It said:
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