Too Many Murders

by Colleen McCullough

  “You never remarried, did you?” he asked.

  “No. Desmond was my only love,” she said, giving Skeps his full name as if she never did otherwise. Then she dropped her bombshell, voice tranquil. “We were reconciling.”

  His startled eyes rested on her face, which remained smooth and impassive. “You were? After so long?”

  “Yes, for young Desmond’s sake. I contacted Desmond over four months ago, and we’ve been having a series of discussions ever since. There is another woman, you know.”

  “If there is, Mrs. Skeps, we haven’t found a trace of her.”

  “It’s Erica Davenport, of course.”

  “She denied it emphatically, ma’am.”

  “Naturally! It wasn’t a great love affair, to be sure. On either side. Nevertheless, Captain, that Desmond should dispense with her services was one of my conditions.”

  “And did he dispense with her services?”

  “Yes, shortly after I first contacted him.”

  “Did he give her a farewell gift of diamond earrings and a diamond pendant?” Carmine asked, curious. Well, according to the selfsame Erica Davenport, curiosity was his besetting sin.

  Mrs. Skeps laughed, genuinely amused. “Who, Desmond? No! He may be one of America’s richest men, but he’s a miser.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, dear, it’s so hard to speak—or think!—of Desmond in the past tense. No, what Desmond gave Erica was infinitely more valuable than diamonds, though it cost him nothing.”

  “A seat on the Board, among other things.”

  “Quite so. I didn’t mind her at all. While she was with Desmond, he didn’t plague me.”

  “You’re well educated.”

  “Yes, mostly from reading.”

  “The sheepskin’s fine, but it’s the extracurricular reading that really educates. But why, Mrs. Skeps, did you make your overtures of reconciliation? Your husband’s jealousy ruined your marriage.”

  “I told you, because of young Desmond.”

  “Isn’t he better off without the horrors his father used to put you through? I’ve had to read all the divorce material, so I know.”

  “I made him give me his word that he’d never repeat that kind of conduct,” said Mrs. Skeps. “His word was sacred to Desmond. You see, young Desmond is moving into his teens, and a boy of that age needs a father, no matter how inadequate. I would die for my child, Captain! I also believe that, having given his word, Desmond would have kept it.”

  “And now all your plans have collapsed.”

  “Yes, but at least I tried, and young Desmond knows that I tried. With his father gone, my own brothers can step in—they didn’t dare while Desmond was alive. He threatened them with hired killers, and he meant the threat. He said anyone could buy a killer if they knew where to go.”

  I wonder, who else knows where to buy a hired killer? Dr. Erica Davenport, maybe? Philip Smith? Frederick Collins? Gus Purvey, even if I do like the man? Carmine thought. Aloud he asked, “How is your son?”

  “Recovering slowly. He had such a terrible bout of what I’d always dismissed as a benign children’s complaint—chicken pox. He had the sores right down inside his throat—everywhere! The worst is that he’s going to have to repeat his school year.”

  “Not if you hire coaches and he goes to summer school,” said Carmine, whose own health had always been rude.

  “Only if he feels up to it,” Philomena said, tone steely.

  Uh-oh! An overprotective mom! Carmine changed the subject. “Tell me about Erica Davenport, Mrs. Skeps.”

  “I detest her as a person, but she deserved her seat on the Board, which is more than I can say for those other slugs. Oh, not Wally Grierson! That man’s a treasure. When old Walter Symonds headed the legal division, it was pathetic. Cornucopia was forever making contractual errors and settling out of court for big sums on damage lawsuits. But after Erica took control, all that gradually stopped. Desmond adored her because she saved the company so much money.”

  At that moment someone shouted from the front regions of the house, answered by the hoarse, light voice of a boy. Quick talk passed, but when the newcomer entered, Desmond Skeps III was not with him. The fellow might have passed for Carmine’s brother, cast in the same muscularly tall mold, with the same olive skin, broad facial bones, and extremely intelligent eyes; the differences lay in the hair, his worn fashionably long, and the color of the eyes—in his case, dark brown. He wore bell-bottomed jeans, a white sweater and denim jacket, but contrived to make the clothes look formal, and with him he brought an air of ownership that wasn’t lost on Carmine.

  “Tony Bera,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Carmine Delmonico.”

  “You all right, Philomena?” Bera asked Mrs. Skeps.

  “Perfectly, thank you.” She turned to Carmine. “Tony seems to think the whole world is out to get me.”

  “Don’t decry a good watchdog, Mrs. Skeps. I wouldn’t be visiting you if there weren’t a murderer on the loose. Not that I think you’re in danger—I don’t. Just the same, I’m happy to see Mr. Bera. Do you live hereabouts, sir?”

  “Yes, just down the lane.”

  “Good. According to Desmond Skeps’s will, Desmond Skeps the Third inherits everything. I was supposed to get a full copy of the document, but so far it hasn’t materialized. Dr. Davenport called Captain Marciano and said your son was the full heir, but gave no further details. Maybe you can fill me in, Mr. Bera?”

  “I wish I could,” the lawyer said, frowning, “but so far, we haven’t even heard that much.”

  “I thought there had to be a reading, especially in the presence of the heir,” Carmine said.

  “Not necessarily. It all depends what the will itself directs be done. Mr. Skeps’s lawyers in New York City will have known the contents. If young Desmond is the heir, I’m entitled to see the will in its entirety because I act for his mother, and therefore for him.”

  “Is that ironclad, sir?”

  “Well, no, but she’ll be his guardian!”

  “Yes, of course.” He looked at Philomena Skeps. “There are still a few things I need to know, ma’am. Can you give me an actual date for your first overture to your ex-husband about the possibility of reconciliation?”

  “We talked about it on the phone on the Monday of the third week of last November.”

  “And when did Mr. Skeps hand Dr. Davenport her marching orders?”

  “Very soon afterward. That same week, certainly.”

  So Erica Davenport had known of the reconciliation for four months, give or take a few days. Not much reason for murder now. A woman scorned with murder in mind wouldn’t have waited this long. It looked more as if, the Skeps fish having slipped her hook, she baited it again and caught Myron. The diamonds were a gift from Myron, the most generous of men. Given that they totaled about eight carats, the price tag must have been somewhere between a quarter and a half million dollars. No chunks of Coke bottle for Myron Mendel Mandelbaum! And he was serious. The last time he threw gems like that around was for Sophia’s mom.

  “Now tell me about the—er—slugs, Mrs. Skeps.”

  She sneered, an expression that didn’t suit her face. “Oh, them! Desmond called them his yes-men, with good reason. Phil Smith admits it freely—he can’t even be bothered heading up a specific company, which I guess means he’s landed on his feet as usual. He’ll step into Desmond’s shoes, chair the Board, you name it. Hypocrite! Anyone would think he was royalty.”

  “What about their past histories? Shady activities? Shady deals? Shady women?”

  “Not that I know of, apart from Gus Purvey, who pretends to be a man’s man—and is, in the one respect men’s men don’t aspire to. Namely, that he is a homosexual with a penchant for youths dolled up as women.”

  Carmine looked at Anthony Bera. “Anything to add, sir?”

  “No. I’m not a part of the Cornucopia world.”

  Maybe not, thought Carmine, getting to his feet, but I am going
to be investigating your whereabouts on April third, Mister Fat Cat Lawyer. A winterized house in Orleans says your legal practice must pull in a healthy income. You’re in love with Mrs. Skeps, but she doesn’t even see you except as her friend. That’s a very frustrating situation to be in.

  He repeated his trick with flashing light and siren on the journey home; from Providence back to Holloman was a well-worn beat. Maybe the visit to Orleans had done his soul some good, but it hadn’t advanced his investigation. Time to get tough. If no copy of the will had appeared at County Services, he had every intention of invading Erica Davenport’s lair and demanding one immediately. But the document was waiting. Accustomed to legalese, he read its many pages swiftly, then sat back, winded. Someone had blabbed that he was seeing Philomena Skeps today, and Erica Davenport had deliberately withheld knowledge of the will from him and Philomena Skeps until the meeting was in the past. No wonder! The fur would have flown like wildcats locked in mortal combat. What a blow for Philomena Skeps and Anthony Bera! What might they have said in the throes of rage?

  Desmond Skeps III was indeed the sole heir, but guardianship belonged to Erica Davenport. Not in a maternal sense: Philomena was still free to house the boy, feed him, dress him, nurture him. Be his mother in his home. But she was stripped of all ability to control his destiny, his fortune, the fate of Cornucopia. When it came to the power and the money, Erica Davenport stood in loco parentis. And in the years between now and the boy’s twenty-first birthday, Erica Davenport was the head of Cornucopia. Nor could Carmine see how Anthony Bera had a hope of overturning the will in court. Philomena Skeps had no business experience, nothing to offer a judicial panel. No, the only way Philomena Skeps could win anything was to stay on the right side of Dr. Erica Davenport, chief of Cornucopia. Whom she detested.

  Poor Myron! This lightning bolt meant that Erica didn’t need to find a rich husband, if that was what had prompted her assault on the affections of Carmine’s friend. She could set her own salary and perks, with no one to gainsay her—Van Cleef’s, here I come! No, thought Carmine, the gold-digger image felt wrong. This woman was after power, not money, which suggested a side to Myron he hadn’t suspected. Myron had come into Carmine’s life nearly fifteen years ago and been taken at face value as a very wealthy film producer; it hadn’t occurred to Carmine to burrow into the dear man’s commercial affairs. Now, far too late for it to matter, he was beginning to think he should have.

  And what of the woman given her marching orders by Desmond Skeps over four months ago? She’d probably interpreted her lover’s action as the beginning of her absolute end. Instead she had succeeded him as ruler of the Cornucopia kingdom. So the big question was: did Erica Davenport know the contents of Desmond Skeps’s will? A colossal motive for murder if she did. But how could she have discovered what lay inside a document held in a vault in New York City guarded by a firm she didn’t know? The only way would have been if Skeps told her, but would he? No, he would not, was Carmine’s instinctive conclusion; Skeps wasn’t that kind of man. Rather, he would have relished tormenting her as the weeks and then the months went by; beneath the obvious differences, he was not unlike Evan Pugh. I bet they both pulled the wings off butterflies, Carmine thought.

  When had the will been made? Carmine looked again, just to make sure he hadn’t mistaken the date. But no, he hadn’t. It was made two months ago, well after Skeps had dispensed with the lady’s services as his mistress. That meant Skeps had coldly considered her merits for the job, and liked them.

  He looked at his watch: still time to pay Dr. Davenport a visit before Cornucopia closed its offices for the day. Nor did he call her to make sure she was there; with this new job draped around her shoulders, she’d be there.

  Having made a useless trip to Skeps’s offices, he found her upstairs in the penthouse. Which, Abe had discovered, had a small internal staircase hidden inside a guest lavatory. The back wall opened inward when the second in a row of fancy knobs was pressed, revealing a very tight set of iron spiral steps. So Carmine used them, and emerged as if he’d availed himself of the facilities. His appearance didn’t alarm her, just annoyed her.

  Today she was wearing dull red, and the eyes she turned on him had gone khaki. Chameleon’s eyes, he thought. They reflect the color around her, but they can’t achieve dull red. The pigment for it isn’t there.

  “I must be your prime suspect now,” she said.

  “No, if anything you’ve gone down a few notches. Unless he told you what was in his will?”

  “Desmond Skeps, so indiscreet? The only thing that ever loosened Desmond’s tongue was alcohol, and by the time I met him, he’d limited his intake severely. One single-malt Scotch a day, that was it, and he never, never deviated. He headed one of the country’s biggest companies, and he knew the damage a loose tongue could wreak. When he first took over the firm, he compromised Cornucopia’s tender for one of the earliest atomic reactors, which enabled a rival company to undercut him using Cornucopia’s own design. It all but killed him. Grierson was the one pulled him out of the fire—if Des loved anyone, it was Wal Grierson. His board was brand-new then. He should have fired all of them except Grierson, but he decided yes-men had their uses—provided, that is, that the boss didn’t get drunk.”

  “Obviously you indulged in pillow talk, Dr. Davenport.”

  “Oh, she told you, did she? She would!”

  “Did Mr. Skeps like women? Get on with them?”

  “Oh, come now, Captain, you know full well he hated women! That’s why his will really staggered me. It never occurred to me that Des valued my business sense. Now look at me! I’m Chairman of the Board and I have complete control of young Des’s shares, interests, money.” She gave a breathy laugh. “I, Erica Davenport, am cock of the walk!”

  “So you’re going to rub Mrs. Skeps’s nose in it.”

  “Not at all.” The eyes were so earnest they were struggling to be blue. “I have no intention of interfering with Philomena Skeps or with her duties as a mother.”

  “I have a different question for you, Dr. Davenport. What would happen if Desmond Skeps the Third died?”

  Her skin lost its color. “Don’t! Oh, don’t!”

  “You’re a lawyer, the eventuality must have occurred to you. So what happens?”

  “There are other members of the Skeps family. I daresay the closest agnate relative would inherit.”

  Carmine’s heart sank. “Mr. Philip Smith?”

  “No, definitely not. Mr. Smith claims blood relationship, but the degree has never been investigated. There is a male nephew and a male first cousin. They would come first, with the first cousin ahead. The nephew is the child of Desmond Skeps’s sister. The first cousin is the child of Desmond Skeps Senior’s younger brother. However, the will was drawn up under New York State law, and I am no expert on that.”

  “And it’s irrelevant besides, since Young Des is very much alive. Thank you.” He looked around. “Are you planning to live here?”

  “I don’t see why not, though I’ll have to gut the place. Poor Desmond had no taste.”

  “You do?”

  “I’d rather say that my taste is quite, quite different. I’ll be buying paintings for my pension plan, and hanging them in here. I’ll also be getting rid of that monstrosity.” She flapped a hand at the telescope. “He used to love to play Peeping Tom.”

  “So I realized. Did he have a camera attached to it?”

  She jumped. “Yes, he did! He did! But it’s not here now.”

  “It wasn’t here when his body was still on his massage couch,” said Carmine grimly. “Well, at least I know what Ted Kelly removed.”

  “Or perhaps the murderer removed it,” she said.

  “Possibly.”

  He moved toward the elevator.

  “Captain? Will you and your family be at Myron’s party tomorrow?”

  “If we’ve been invited, yes.”

  “Good! I’m anxious to meet your wife.”

 
; “Why, in particular?”

  “She’s brave. Myron told me. It’s not a quality usually associated with women.”

  “Hogwash!” Carmine snapped, goaded. “Women are incredibly brave, every day of their lives. To a cop like me, they’re prey. There’s always someone out there watching, stalking, snooping, and no one knows which woman will be a target. Though that’s not what I was driving at, ma’am. Women are brave because they bear the babies and hold the home together—and, man, that can be hard!”

  “You’re a romantic!” she said, clinically surprised.

  “No, I’m a realist. Good night, Dr. Davenport.”

  And what would you know about real women, you attenuated society princess living in an executive washroom world? He seethed, thinking of the thousands of women he had met in the course of his work, tiny memories flashing in and out of his rage, understanding himself no more than a witness to their troubles, pain, hideous predicaments. Cooling, he began to think of the upside, and was able to go home with the worst memories returned to his subconscious.

  “You are so too a romantic,” said Desdemona, handing him his bourbon and soda.

  He had actually made it in time to receive a wide-awake Julian, who jigged up and down on Daddy’s lap because he wasn’t old enough yet to do much else. Opened, his eyes were revealed as a pale topaz color with a thin outer ring of jet; their lashes were thick, black, and so long they curled, and he had a thatch of black curls atop his big head that would have done credit to any girl. In spite of which no one mistook his sex; there was too much Carmine about him, determined, dogged.

  His genesis was a source of perpetual wonder to Carmine, who had never imagined himself fathering a son, and couldn’t think of enough ways to show Desdemona what a gift she had given him so far into his life.

  “Squeeze Daddy’s hand,” he commanded.

  Julian squeezed; Carmine went through a histrionic performance of ow’s and flinches that had the baby squealing with delight. After that father and son indulged in an orgy of kisses that ended only when Desdemona swooped on the child and bore him off.