by Barbara Paul
For a long moment there was no sound, no movement. Then abruptly, violently, Jack McKinstry burst into motion. He jumped up, grabbed his chair, and in one oversized motion smashed it down on the conference table.
“Hey!” Ivan shouted. He and Marian were out of their seats in a flash.
Jack lifted the broken chair over his head and brought it down on the table again. And again. His white teeth glistened through a rictus grimace; his eyes were slits. Marian grabbed one arm while Ivan made a try for the chair. Jack was strong enough to hold them both off for a few seconds, but then they got what remained of the chair away from him. Marian could feel his body tensed as tightly as a coiled spring; his skin was covered with cold sweat. She held on to his arm and walked him around and around the conference table until gradually he began to calm down.
His breathing was shallow. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he managed to choke out.
They took him outside. The morning sun was shining without enthusiasm, but the air smelled unexpectedly clean. Jack wandered off the back patio on to the drive leading to the service gate, the two police detectives right with him every step. Their suspect didn’t go far. Ivan was pointedly looking at his watch when Jack turned to them. “I apologize for that tacky little scene I played in there,” he said. “Something just … broke. I don’t usually make an ass of myself like that,” he finished bitterly.
“Ready to talk to us now, Mr. McKinstry?” Marian asked briskly, hoping to speed him along.
“Sure, why not? You know everything anyway.”
“Not quite everything. We know the three of you forced your way into Strode’s vault yesterday afternoon—”
“So Castleberry shot off his mouth, did he? Huh. I knew Richard couldn’t buy him off.”
“—and we know about the power play you tried on A. J. Strode and what his counterplay was. But what we don’t know is which of you killed Strode. Or whether all three of you did.”
“None of the above, Sergeant. Two of us did. You want your killers? Go arrest Richard Bruce and Joanna Gillespie.”
“You know that for a fact, do you? That the two of them together killed him?”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Sergeant Larch, open your eyes! Those two have cozied up together and … and I don’t know how they’re going to do it, but they’re going to blame Strode’s death on me. The two of them have been trying to edge me out all weekend. You know how it is when three people are thrown together. Two always end up siding together against the third. It always happens.”
Marian waited out the bout of self-pity and said, “Satisfy my curiosity. Why didn’t you sell to Strode when you had the chance?”
Jack looked straight into her eyes and smiled sadly. “It would have been like leaving a knife with my fingerprints on it in his possession.”
Marian thought that over, and nodded.
Ivan was growing impatient. “Look, Mr. McKinstry, we don’t have a hell of a lot of time left. You were in your room when the fire broke out, you say. Did you see anything, hear anything?”
“No, Sergeant, I didn’t,” he sighed. “Nothing more than what I’ve already told you. I’d love to be able to say I saw Richard Bruce creeping away from the monitoring room with an empty gasoline can in his hand, but the truth is I saw nothing.”
“Which means that nobody saw you either,” Ivan pointed out.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I, didn’t, kill him. Either Richard or Jo set that fire, not me.”
“It was cleaning fluid that was used, not gasoline. And you know where the cleaning supplies are stored.”
“Hell, we all know. Right next to the wall cabinet where the keys are kept.”
Marian exchanged a glance with her partner and said, “You want to tell us about that?”
Jack told them about how they’d borrowed the keys, the ones to Strode’s rooms and the one to the wine cellar. He explained how he and Jo Gillespie had searched Strode’s bedroom and library and had left the door to the latter unlocked. He explained how Jo and Richard Bruce had pretended to leave the house but then had sneaked back in through the service gate and the wine cellar. He explained how they were able to do that because he, one Jack McKinstry himself, had sabotaged the security system. Any questions?
“So that’s how the killer got into the library,” Ivan said in a tone of discovery. “Did Richard Bruce know you and Ms Gillespie had left the door unlocked?”
“Damn right he did. He was even in the library, later on. He and Jo hid there while I called Castleberry and got him over here. But the plan didn’t end there—they just didn’t tell me the rest of it.”
“You mean the murder?”
“I mean the murder.”
Ivan looked doubtful. “And you’re convinced Richard Bruce killed Strode and Joanna Gillespie helped him?”
“Or vice versa. Jesus, Sergeant, a woman who’d killed her own mother and father wouldn’t have any scruples about getting rid of a man who threatened her! She even admitted it, to Richard and me! Killing her parents, I mean. But they were in on Strode’s murder together, I tell you, Jo and Richard. I know they were. They probably took turns shoving knives in him … they planned it together and they did it together. And I’m not going to make any cracks about the warmth and wonderfulness of all that togetherness.”
“I’m glad,” Marian said dryly. “Joanna Gillespie actually admitted killing her parents?”
“She sure as hell did. Saturday afternoon, in some bar where we stopped for a bite to eat.”
“I want to talk to Joanna Gillespie while we still have time,” Ivan said to his partner.
Marian agreed. “Mr. McKinstry, you know not to try to leave, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I know. How could I leave? There’s a cop every ten feet.” He glanced back at an officer on the patio who’d been following him every place he went. “Besides,” he finished tiredly, “I’m not a player anymore. I’m out of it. It’s somebody else’s game now.”
They left him standing in the middle of the service driveway, staring dejectedly down at his shoes.
“I wonder if the captain called while we were outside,” Marian said as she and Ivan went back in the house.
“Let’s not ask,” he muttered. “You think McKinstry could be right? Bruce and Gillespie did it together?”
“Sure, it’s possible. But that could be sour grapes talking. Something’s happened to make Jack McKinstry feel left out. But maybe it’s nothing more than sex—Joanna Gillespie’s preferring Richard Bruce to him, something like that.”
“Yeah? What is she, some kind of glamour girl?”
“Far from it. At least I don’t think she is. I’ve never seen her up close. That thing McKinstry said about not being a player anymore—you buy that?”
“Naw, he was just feeling sorry for himself. It won’t last.”
They stopped in the conference room with its broken chair and marred table only long enough to pick up the remaining set of file folders Castleberry had provided. The nearest police officer told them which was Joanna Gillespie’s room, but it would have been easy to find even without directions. In the upstairs hallway two policemen sat in chairs flanking one door. In answer to Marian’s question, one officer said yes, both suspects were inside. Marian knocked, and a woman’s voice said come in. Marian and Ivan opened the door and entered.
Their two suspects were sitting hip to hip in a bay window seat, their backs to the sun. One of Joanna Gillespie’s hands rested lightly and yet possessively on Richard Bruce’s thigh—high on his thigh, and toward the inside. She didn’t move her hand or change position in any way when the two police detectives came in. The expression on her face—matched exactly by that of the man sitting next to her—said: Yes, we are together. What about it? They hadn’t even bothered to smooth out the bed.
Marian, who normally performed the introductions, was momentarily rendered speechless by the intimacy of the scene they’d walked in on. Ivan took care of it and then told Richa
rd Bruce they wanted to talk to Ms Gillespie alone.
Richard slipped an arm around Joanna and gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Then he stood up and walked over to face the detectives. “I called my lawyer in Los Angeles,” he said. “Even now he is arranging with a New York firm to represent us—both of us. I don’t think we should proceed much farther without legal representation.”
“That certainly is your right,” Ivan said without expression. “But let me remind you that no charges have been brought, and we haven’t detained you as material witnesses.”
“Not yet, you haven’t,” Richard smiled icily. “We intend to cooperate, Sergeant, but there is a limit to how long we’ll allow you to inconvenience us. I just wanted to warn you that that limit is fast approaching.”
“I gotcha.”
Richard glanced back at Joanna Gillespie and left without saying more. Marian found her voice and asked the other woman to account for her whereabouts during the time of the fire and the murder.
She and Richard were planning to leave, Joanna said, when she asked him to wait while she made a quick trip back up to her room. She wanted to test her blood-sugar level; she was a diabetic and needed to run frequent checks. She finished and was leaving her room when she heard shouting and smelled smoke. She saw Jack McKinstry about halfway down the stairs, and one of Strode’s bodyguards was yelling at him to go back to his room. She did the same. She waited until Richard came up and told her A. J. Strode had been murdered. That’s all she knew.
All the time she was talking, Marian watched her closely. No, Joanna Gillespie was no glamour girl. She didn’t need to be. She was one of those people who could never slip quietly into a room; they were always noticed. Marian glanced at Ivan and could see he was puzzled. Ivan liked women who worked hard at making themselves attractive, and Joanna Gillespie obviously didn’t fit into that category. He questioned her about the location of the cleaning supplies and the wine cellar; she denied knowledge of both.
“Did Jack McKinstry see you?” Marian asked her. “When he was going down the stairs to see about the fire.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then he can’t confirm your story that you were coming out of your room when you saw him?”
“What do you mean, story? Where else would I have been?”
“You could have been downstairs—you could have seen him from there. Or you could have been upstairs, but heading toward Strode’s private wing.”
“Don’t be absurd. I was exactly where I said I was. I’ve never been in Strode’s private wing. I’m not even sure where it is.”
“Oh yes, you know where it is, because you’ve been there. Twice. The first time with Jack McKinstry when you were searching for some indication as to where Strode might be hiding out. You left the door to the library unlocked, making it easy for the killer to get in later on. The second time was with Richard Bruce. The two of you hid in the library while McKinstry lured Castleberry over here. Oh, you know where the private wing is, all right.”
Joanna Gillespie licked dry lips and said one word. “Jack.”
“Mr. McKinstry told us part of it, yes, but Mr. Castleberry had already filled us in pretty well. Why don’t you stop lying to us, Ms Gillespie? We know about the papers you burned in Strode’s office.”
Joanna got up from the window seat and moved aimlessly about the room. “Well. I see our secrets are not as secret as I thought. What else do you know?”
Wordlessly Ivan handed her one of the file folders.
She opened the folder and glanced through the contents, not reading everything but just checking to see what was there. She closed her eyes and started rocking back and forth on her feet, saying nothing for a long time. Then she laughed. Sourly, but it was still a laugh. “That bastard.” She dropped the folder carelessly, spilling papers on the floor. “I should have known he’d have one final trick up his sleeve. He just had to have the last word. Even if it was posthumously.” She went over to the door, placed her palms against the wooden panels, and braced herself there, her chin pressed down against her chest.
Looking for a way out? Marian wondered. “Ms Gillespie, did you kill A. J. Strode?”
“No,” Joanna answered almost carelessly. “But I’ll tell you this. Whoever did kill him has my gratitude. I’m glad Strode is dead. Life will be more sane for all of us now. The killer did me a favor, and I don’t deny it. I hope he gets away with it.” Then, almost to herself: “I didn’t think he had the guts.”
“Who’s that?” Ivan asked, playing dumb. When she didn’t answer, he prodded: “Richard Bruce?”
She whirled around from the door. “Of course not! Richard didn’t kill him!”
Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Dear me. That leaves only one ‘him’ around. You must be saying Jack McKinstry killed Strode. Do you have any reason to think he was the one? Or do you just want him to be?”
“Oh, you’re very smart, aren’t you, Sergeant Malecki?” she snapped. “You come in here and start playing twenty questions with me when you already know the answers. Now you’re manipulating me into accusing Jack and making it look as if I’m just trying to protect Richard.”
“Excuse me,” said Marian, “but I don’t think it’s my partner who’s been doing the manipulating. You oh-so-casually mumble you didn’t think ‘he’ had the guts to kill Strode—but just loudly enough to make sure we’d hear. Now you’re trying to make it appear that my partner tricked you into saying that. It won’t do, Ms Gillespie. Jack McKinstry thinks you and Richard Bruce together killed A. J. Strode. I’m beginning to think he might be right.”
“Jack McKinstry is a fool!”
“But you’re grateful to him, right? Because he did your dirty work for you? Is that what we’re supposed to believe?”
“You believe whatever you want. But all three of us wanted Strode dead, and any one of us could have killed him. But whichever one of them found the courage to do it, more power to him.”
Marian didn’t bother hiding her distaste. “Are you listening to what you’re saying? Does human life mean so little to you?”
“A. J. Strode wasn’t human. He was a feral beast who preyed on real humans.”
“What do you call someone who murders her mother and father?”
Joanna Gillespie smiled coldly. “Ah yes, I was wondering when we’d get to that. Strode used that accusation to hound me too.”
“Jack McKinstry says you admitted killing them.”
Her mouth dropped open. “He says what?”
Marian repeated the accusation. “He says you were all in a bar somewhere when you admitted it to him and Richard Bruce.”
Joanna sank down on the side of the bed and shook her head in amazement. “The man’s treachery is endless,” she said wonderingly. “Sergeant Larch, I did not kill my father. I did not kill my mother. I did not tell Jack McKinstry or anyone else that I did. And I most certainly did not kill A. J. Strode.”
Just then something of an uproar broke out in the hallway. They could hear Richard Bruce’s voice raised in anger and the quieter answering tones of the policemen standing guard. “I demand you let me in there!” he was saying.
Before the other two could stop her, Joanna Gillespie was at the door jerking it open. Richard Bruce came barreling in, shrugging off the two cops who were trying to restrain him. He placed a hand on Joanna’s shoulder and said, “They know about the evidence we thought we’d gotten rid of.”
“I know. They have copies.”
“Don’t say another word—not until we have a lawyer.”
Ivan asked, “How did you find out about it? We didn’t tell you.”
“Jack McKinstry,” Marian said. “Had to be.”
Joanna laughed unpleasantly. “It’s always Jack. Richard?”
“Yes, Jack told me,” he said tiredly. “Smilin’ Jack McKinstry. But this changes everything. What happens next, Sergeant? Sergeants?”
Marian said, “Right now we want you to go back to your own
room so we can finish—”
“I don’t mean right now. I mean what action do you intend—”
“Take Mr. Bruce back to his room,” Marian instructed the two uniformed policemen. “And make sure he stays there. Thank you.”
One of the officers placed a hand on Richard Bruce’s arm. “Come along. You heard the sergeant.”
He jerked his arm away. “I heard her.” He turned to Joanna. “Don’t say anything more. Not a thing.” He left the room, followed by the two officers.
As soon as the door was closed, Ivan snapped out a question. “How long does it take to run a blood-sugar test?”
“I think I’ve just been given good advice,” Joanna said tightly. “I’m not going to answer any more of your questions.”
“Does that mean you still know something you haven’t told us?”
She didn’t answer.
Marian stepped over and stood face to face with the other woman. “If he did it, we’ll find out. You can’t protect him, you know.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort!” Joanna shot back. “I don’t know that he did it, or that you’ll find out who did. Are you infallible, Sergeant?”
Marian didn’t think that worth answering. “Is McKinstry right? He’s convinced the two of you did it together.”
Joanna’s lip curled. “And we all know how reliable Jack McKinstry is. Sergeant, I’m through talking to you.” She went over to the window and stood with her back to them.
Marian and Ivan exchanged a glance and a shrug and temporarily abandoned their interrogation of the world’s best-known violinist. They gathered up the papers Joanna had spilled on the floor and left. Out in the hall Ivan said, “Whew. All that stuff about her being grateful to the killer? That’s pretty goddam hardhearted. She just doesn’t care, does she? And she sure as hell doesn’t give away much. She and Richard Bruce, they’re two of a kind.”
Marian grunted agreement. “They deserve each other. I wonder where McKinstry is?”