"It's hard to tell what Annette Dimola thinks about things," Ann confessed. "In a sense she's the odd man out. They haven't been married that long, about five years, I believe, and she is so much younger than he, nearly the same age as Maria. A bit of a mystery woman really and very secretive. I don't quite know what Rinaldo saw in her besides the fact she is young and fairly attractive; she seems, well, so neutral. Though she too can be surprisingly strong-willed at times. After the first crisis was past it was she who insisted that the nurses should go and the family care for Rinaldo."
"Isn't that sort of dangerous?" Penny queried.
"Not really. Inga"—Ann's color came up again—"was a trained nurse, and one of the Portuguese servants had been a practical nurse, so with them, Annette, Maria, and occasionally myself all taking turns, he has been well looked after. There's not much that can be done, you know, except wait and watch."
"Doesn't Alexander's wife come into this?"
"Wanda? Oh no, she's useless. Can't stand sickness, and is so nervous and up-tight she'd be more trouble than help. An ex-actress who has never got away from the tinsel — terribly narcissistic."
The Dimola men. Penny reflected, despite their enormous wealth, did not seem to go in for very high-born or high-powered wives. She voiced part of her thought. "And what does Rinaldo think of his daughters-in-law?"
Ann hesitated. "I think he was a little disappointed when Steven married Inga. But it was a fait accompli and so he accepted it. Steven had gone to the Middle East just after his father's second marriage. He got sick out there, and Inga was a nurse at the hospital he was in. They came back married. Mind you, Inga knows which side her bread is buttered on, she is very shrewd in some ways. She really used to play up to Rinaldo as father-of-them-all. and she is so devoted to and possessive of Steven—well, this in Rinaldo's book makes her a perfect wife." She blushed and looked down. "You see, basically with Rinaldo women really don't count for all that much. Wanda's a real pain, but she's extremely decorative and can be charming and amusing, so he likes her too. In fact, outwardly he seems to care a lot more for his 'in-laws' than he does for his own daughter."
"And how does Zeb Grange fit into the local and family picture..." Penny started to say, when the hidden phone shrilled suddenly, causing them both to jump. It was evidently located in Ann's bedroom, for she excused herself and was gone some time, returning a little pink in the face. "That was Steven," she announced breathlessly. "He has just got back from the hospital. I'm afraid there's ho change in Zeb's condition; he's stabilized but still in a deep coma. Steven wanted to know if you would be free to lunch with the family tomorrow. He's very anxious to meet you."
"Well, if that is convenient for you," Penny said doubtfully. She was not at all sure she was ready to face the Diraolas en masse, but realized she would have to do it sooner or later if she was ever to test out her hunch.
"I usually also have lunch there," Ann explained. "It saves time trekking to and from here, and I make it my main meal. I just get a light supper for little Penny and me. I'm not much of a cook," she added, causing the elder woman's gloom to deepen, for if there was one thing she coveted it was three square meals a day.
"Maybe I can help out while I'm here," Penny volunteered quickly. "I'm no gourmet cook but one of the best make-do-and-mend cooks on record. The things I can do with a few cans you wouldn't believe!"
"Oh, really? Yes, that would be nice," Arm said, but there was a faint doubt in her voice. "I've got to go and pick up Penny now. Would you care to come along?"
"Certainly," the elder Penny agreed, "but there's one more thing before we go. Zeb had a telephone and so have you, and yet when he contacted me he never once mentioned it and in fact seemed to go to some pains not to use it. When I tried to contact him I was told he wasn't listed. Have you all got unlisted numbers or what?"
Ann shook her head. "It is a bit complicated. You see the phones on the estate all link to the main house. It's a sort of intercom. We can get outside numbers on our phones, but it means dialling through the switchboard at the mansion, and the Dimola number is unlisted for obvious reasons. In the old days a security guard used to man it, but recently, since it's situated near the kitchen, usually one of the servants keeps an eye on it. They have a buzzer system."
Penny thought about that. A possible solution to Zeb's caginess came to her. "And, presumably, like most switchboards it has a listening device?" Ann nodded. "I see."
So Zeb had been unwilling to have anyone know about his attempts to contact her or to know about her visits. Why? Shyness about his personal affairs? Or because he did not trust one or more persons in that mansion and wanted to keep the knowledge from them? "When Zeb asked you about putting me up was it over the intercom?" she asked.
"No, he came here."
"Was that usual?"
"Not very." Again Ann looked uncomfortable. "Zeb was such a private sort of man, he rarely visited around. I was surprised when I saw him at the door, and he wouldn't even come in. He was terribly vague too—no names, no times—nothing."
"Did he seem nervous?"
"No. Worried, perhaps, but not nervous."
"I asked them in England to phone my cable, but if the number is unlisted could they have done that?"
Ann shrugged. "I don't think so—not unless Western Union had it. They would just send it along by messenger."
"And where would it go? Direct to Zeb or to the mansion?"
"To the mansion, and then the servants usually deliver it around."
"So someone at the main house could have seen the cable?"
"Possibly."
"That's something I'll have to check." Penny was thoughtful. "Oh dear, I wish I knew a little more about all this. I feel as if I'm groping in a thick fog."
"If there's anything I can do to help ... and Steven is very worried too. He likes Zeb very much."
"Thank you, my dear, I may need your help badly before I'm finished." Penny sighed as Ann gazed at her with troubled eyes.
They drove the short distance into Masuit and picked up the young Penny, who was a miniature version of her mother and whose fairness stood out in the small swarm of dark-haired, dark-eyed infants that clustered around the skirts of the evidently curious Mrs. Mendoza.
Ann became much more animated and much more her former self in the company of her small daughter. Penny watched them laughing and playing together with a stirring of pity in her heart. It seemed rather painfully obvious to her that, emotionally speaking, Ann had proceeded from the frying pan into the fire. Steve Dimola may have been Ann's rescuer from desertion and penury, but he appeared to have captured her heart as well—and he was very much a married man in a Catholic and conservative family. She wondered how he felt about it and found herself anticipating the morrow with misgivings.
After an insubstantial supper, which added to her dejection, jet lag began to catch up on Penny. "If you don't mind," she said after a huge yawn, "I think I'll turn in. I really will have to get busy tomorrow, and what with all the excitement and the time change Fm beat."
When she was finally abed in the small, cozy guest room, all the coffee she had consumed caught up with her, and, despite her tiredness, she found her mind ticking relentlessly. She gazed at the paneled walls with their bright prints, waiting for drowsiness to come, while outside the clustering pines whispered their secrets to the chill March night. Despairing of sleep, she sat up in bed, munched on a chocolate bar she had providentially supplied herself with, and tried to put order in her jumbled thoughts: (a) Zeb had had something urgent to tell her about the body in the bog—check the body, (b) Someone had silenced him before he could pass that something on. (c) The someone had known she was on her way, so must have seen the cable—check cable, (d) The someone had not finished off the accident/murder—why? Disturbed? Second party? Who had turned the body over? (e) Why had the photograph been stolen?
In a swirling kaleidoscope she saw the wolfish smile of Rinaldo Dimola as, clad in the armor
of a condottiere and mounted on a battle charger, he paced toward her. "My family is my God," he informed her. Zeb walked by his side, his hand on a stirrup, gazing devotedly up into his face. "I would give up my life for you," Zeb declared.
She slipped down in the bed, as the first waves of sleep lapped over her, but as she drifted off another disturbing vision came to her: a fair girl, eyes wide with terror, exclaiming, "Is he dead?" Not "What's happened?" not "Is he hurt?" just "Is he dead?" Now that, thought Penny, is queer, very queer indeed; and she slept.
CHAPTER 6
"John, I need help." Penny's tone was exasperated. "I've tried every which way to get the state police to let me see the body or at least a copy of the autopsy report and have gotten nowhere. And time is running out on it because the inquest is tomorrow and after that they intend to bury him, in spite of the fact he is still unidentified. Also—since Heaven knows how long I'll have to stay—I may have to have some cash advance on my royalties."
"No problem on that last matter, and I'll see what can be done on the other." John Everett's naturally exuberant curiosity was overlaid by a certain uneasiness. "But, Penny, in view of what you told me last night on the phone, do you think you ought to get involved in this? I mean, if your suspicions are correct and someone tried to silence Zebediah Grange before he could talk to you, you could be in some danger yourself. Why not leave it to the police?"
"Because, so far, both the state and the local police don't seem to believe a word I've said. They refuse even to consider a link between the two, even though I've shown them Zeb's letters and told them what little I know. Things aren't helped by the fact that the murder is the state police's baby and the attack on Zeb belongs to the local police, and they don't appear to communicate too well. My own case isn't aided by the complete dearth of concrete evidence or by Zeb's being recognized locally as such an eccentric character. Also the possible involvement with the Dimolas doesn't help either. I mentioned to the state detective in charge of the case—a Detective Eldredge—that I thought it was in some way connected with Rinaldo Dimola, and he shut up like a clam. I don't know whether it was because he knew something I don't, or whether the very name of Dimola is too powerful in these parts to be considered. So do you think you can pull any local strings to loosen them up a bit? I really would appreciate it."
John Everett sighed slightly on the other end of the phone. He knew Penny well enough to realize that she had the bit firmly between her teeth and would therefore be immune to sweet reason. "I'll see what I can do and call you back as soon as possible," he said. "I may be able to manage something with the state police but I don't carry any clout in Barnstable. Where can I reach you?"
"I'm calling from a phone booth at Chase's Variety Store in Masuit," Penny explained, "but you could call me at the Langley cottage." She gave the private Dimola number and the extension and added, "And don't say too much because, unless Zeb was completely paranoid, there is a strong possibility that there's a listening post in the Dimola house. It's a funny setup."
This did nothing to soothe John Everett's fears, "Well, for God's sake be careful!" he said, and rang off.
Penny emerged from the booth to find she had an audience. Mr. Chase was standing at the door of his store and Albert was peering under the hood of her car. "Bad business about Zeb," remarked Mr. Chase, his long face more lugubrious than ever. "I hear you were the one who found him ..." he invited.
She did not want to be involved in a long explanation, so she cut him off. "Yes—and I must get over to the hospital to see him. What are you doing, Albert?"
The towhead emerged from the hood. "What happened to the Triumph?" Albert asked sadly. "This one is a real clunker. Want me to try and rev it up a bit?" He looked as if he was nursing a powerful hangover.
"No, thank you," Penny said hurriedly, "it's a rental car, and it's fine for now." As she drove back to the cottage Albert's hung-over state called to mind another curious fact she would have to look into. Zeb had reeked of whisky when she had knelt over him, and there had been a smashed whisky bottle by his right hand. And yet, when she had talked to the local police, neither Officer Birnie nor Detective Thompson, who was now in charge of the case, had made a single mention of this fact. Her active imagination chewed on this. She recalled vividly Zeb's strong negative reaction to her own demand for a drink; it could have been the reaction of a fanatic teetotaler or of an ex-alcoholic. This was something else she would have to check. If it were the latter, the silence of the local police was understandable—they were not going to point the finger at a local man who had fallen off the wagon. And yet, if this were the reason, they were doing Zeb a disservice and had failed to make an observation she herself had made. As she had swabbed his face and listened to his labored breathing, her head almost touching his mouth, there had not been a trace of alcohol on his breath—it had all been on his clothes.
An ugly picture of the would-be murderer rose before her; the swift savage blow from behind that had sent Zeb toppling into the ditch by the culvert, then a hasty setting of the scene, the bottle smashed and poured on him. a stone of the culvert smeared with blood and hairs—the setting of a fatal accident for a drunk. And yet the scenario had not been completed— someone had interrupted, someone had turned Zeb over on his back before he choked to death in the mud of a ditch. But who and why? And had that someone seen the would-be killer?
She dulled her impatient waiting by writing a long letter to Toby detailing all that had happened so far, and was still -engrossed in this when the telephone shrilled and proved to be John Everett, announcing the success of his mission with all the pompous assurance of his Brahmin ancestry.
His news sent her hurrying to Hyannis and to the funeral home in which the body had been held since the autopsy. Here she was greeted by a very young man, whose cheerful countenance belied his mournful trade. He shook hands vigorously and introduced himself. "Dave Baxter, Dr. Spring. My father, Tom, and John Everett went to Harvard together. Er, this is all a bit irregular," he confided, "and I'd appreciate it if you didn't divulge where your information comes from, but, since Dad and Mr. Everett are such great friends, I'll try and tell you anything I can."
"May I see the body?" Penny asked eagerly.
"No, I'm afraid I can't go that far, and, besides, I'm afraid you'd find it a most unpleasant sight. He was very decomposed, you know."
Penny was crestfallen. "I've seen plenty of bodies before," she wheedled, 'Tm really not at all squeamish."
"No, I'm sorry."
"All right then, can you give me the autopsy findings?"
"Yes, that I can. Would you like the details technical or straight?"
"Straight," said Penny, who was a stout believer in simplicity.
"Oh, O.K. then. Male, Caucasian, about thirty-five years old, five-foot-seven, medium build but broad-shouldered, dark curly hair. Eyes gone so color not known. Killed by several blows on the head by an implement that had a sharp edge to it and was probably metal—in other words not a rock."
"Possibly a shovel or spade?" Penny queried, thinking of the excavation.
"Could be. The really odd feature is the mutilation of the face post-mortem; probably several days post-mortem."
"How did they figure that?"
"The face was badly mangled by repeated blows and earth was found impacted into some of the bony structures that remained, indicating that at least some degree of decomposition had started before it happened." He grimaced. "As I said, it's not very pleasant."
"But if he had been in the water all that time how was all that preserved?"
"Oh, he was in a burlap bag which protected at least parts of him, though it too had rotted."
"Has that been identified?"
"Yes, it was one of a bunch that came from a shed at the edge of the bog."
"The one by Zeb Grange's?"
"That I don't know."
"But the body was naked?"
"Yes, completely, and apparently bundled into the bag and sh
oved into the culvert either just before or just after the flooding of the bog. The pathologist can't pinpoint a day obviously."
"But sometime in September?"
"Late September, very early October. Normally speaking, the body would have been a lot more decomposed except for the freakish winter we had. The bogs froze solid in October and stayed that way almost to mid-February, so it slowed the decomposition down. We even managed to get some fingerprints off some of the fingers. Not that it did much good, I'm told. They sent them off to the FBI, but his prints are not on file there or in the Pentagon."
"How about his teeth?"
"Again, nothing much to go on. A good, strong set with no fillings and just one or two small cavities. Obviously hadn't been to a dentist in a very long time, if ever—a lot of tartar build-up, and the teeth were very uneven."
"In what way?"
"The left maxillary canine was markedly procluded, with a corresponding malformation of its opposing mandibular canine, which was also procluded and distorted—what in common terms would be called a 'wolf canine in the upper jaw and a 'pig-tooth' sticking out to match it in the lower."
The hairs on the nape of Penny's neck rose. "Good Heavens! And dental patterns are so often hereditary, aren't they?" she murmured faintly.
"I believe so. Why?" He looked at her with curiosity.
"Just an idea. Would you do something for me?"
"That depends on what it is." For a second he was very much the proper mortician.
"Take the cephalic index on the head—or let me do it."
"Measure the skull? What do you hope to prove?"
"I'll just make a small bet that it is very roundheaded. Will you do it?"
"Oh, all right." He went out with a mystified look on his face and came back looking even more so. "You were right. Brachycephalic as all get out—an extreme roundhead."
"In other words, taken together with the rest of his build, an extreme Alpine type," Penny murmured. "Ergo, he could be an Italian."
Cape Cod caper Page 5