"You don't know," she objected. "That it wouldn't hurt anyone. You can't predict."
"I'm willing to take the risk," he said. "Are you?"
She was silent.
"Think about it," he entreated.
"All right," Dora said, "I will."
Chapter 29
He said his name was Ramon Schnabl, and no one questioned it or even considered inquiring about his antecedents. He was a serious man, and the few people who had heard him laugh wished they hadn't. He was reputed to be enormously wealthy which, considering the nature of his business, was likely.
He was an extremely short, slender man whose suits were tailored in Rome and his shoes, with an invisible build-up, were the creation of a London cobbler. Everything he wore seemed tiny, tight, and shiny, and it was said that the toilet seats in his Central Park South apartment were custom-made as he might fall through a conventional design.
He was not an albino, exactly, for his eyes were dark and there was a faint flush to his thin cheeks. But he was undeniably pale, hair silver-white, skin milky, and even his knuckles translucent. He favored platinum jewelry and double-breasted white suits that accented his pallidness. He also wore, indoors and out, deeply tinted glasses as if he could not endure bright light or garish colors.
Turner Pierce thought him a dangerous man, quite possibly psychotic. But Helene thought him a fascinating character. What attracted her, she said, was the contradiction between his diminutive size and the menace he projected. Ramon never threatened, but associates were always aware that the power to hurt was there.
His apartment was as colorless as the man himself. The living room had blank white walls, a floor of black and white tiles set in a checkerboard pattern, black leather furniture with stainless steel frames. Over the cold white marble fireplace was the room's sole decorative touch: the bleached skull of an oryx.
Ramon and Turner sat facing each other in matching clunky armchairs. The host had provided glasses of chilled Evian water. He was both a teetotaler and rigidly anti-smoking. At the moment, his guest was wishing fervently for a cigarette and tumbler of iced Absolut.
"Matters are progressing well," Schnabl said in his dry, uninflected voice. "You agree, my friend?"
"Oh yes," Pierce said. "No problems."
"None?" the other man said. "Then tell me why you appear so troubled."
"Do I?" Turner said, wishing he could peer behind the dark glasses and see the eyes that saw so much. He tried a laugh. "Well, you know they say a man has only two troubles in this world: money and women."
"And which is yours?"
"Not money," Pierce said hastily. "No trouble there at all. I have a personal problem with a woman."
"Oh?" Schnabl said. "Surely not Helene, that dear lady?"
Turner shook his head.
"Then it must be Felicia Starrett, Clayton's sister."
Turner nodded, not questioning how Ramon knew. This little man knew everything. "Not a serious problem," he assured Ramon. "But she is inclined to be very emotional, very unpredictable."
"A bad combination, my friend. Vindictive?"
"I'm afraid the possibility is there."
"I thought she was dependent on you for her supply."
"She is," Turner said, "but it isn't working out quite as I had planned. She still wants more."
"More?"
"Me," Pierce said, realizing he was giving up an edge but not seeing any alternative.
"I understand, my friend," Ramon said, totally without sympathy. "You have a management problem."
"Yes," Turner said, "something like that."
"Perhaps stronger medicine is called for."
Pierce looked at him, puzzled. "Such as?"
Ramon regarded him gravely for a moment. Then: "I am introducing a new product line. Large crystals of metham-phetamine that can be smoked. On the street it is called 'ice.' I believe it may be the preferred recreation of the 1990s; other products will become declasse. The great benefit of ice is that it produces euphoria that lasts twenty-four hours. It might prove to be the answer to your management problem."
"Thank you," Turner Pierce said humbly.
He met Felicia that night. They dined at Vito's, and he smiled at her blather, laughed at her jokes, and held hands when they strolled back to his apartment. A tumescent moon drifted in a cloudless sky, and the whole night seemed swollen with promise: something impending on the wind, something lurking in the blue shadows, ready to pounce, smirking.
"What a hoot," she chattered on. "Clay divorces Eleanor and marries Helene. And you and I tie the knot. One big, happy family! Right, Turner? Am I right?"
"You're right," he said. "We'll be the fearless foursome."
"Love it," she said, squeezing his hand. "The fearless foursome-that's us. We might even have a pas de quatre some night if we all get high enough. Would you go for that?"
"Why not," he said.
She wouldn't even let him pour brandies, but began removing her clothes the moment she was inside the door. But he was deliberately slow, something spiteful in his teasing. He did enjoy her need and his power, meaning to punish for all the trouble she was causing him. But his cruelties only aroused her the more, and she welcomed the pain as evidence of his passion. This woman, he decided, was demented and so trebly dangerous.
Later, he left her on the bed and went into the kitchen for his cognac. He returned to the bedroom carrying the brandy, a glass pipe, a small packet of crystal chunks. She looked at him with dimmed eyes, then struggled upright.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Something new for you," he said. "It's called ice. The latest thing. You smoke it."
"You, too?"
He held up the brandy. "This is my out," he said. "The pipe is yours."
She inspected the crystals. "Ice," she said. "Like diamonds."
"Exactly like diamonds," he told her. "It's the in thing. Everything else is declasse."
That's all she had to hear, being a victim of trendiness, and she packed the pipe with trembling fingers, clutching it tightly while he held a match. She took a deep puff and inhaled deeply with closed eyes.
The rush hit her almost immediately. Her eyes popped open, widened, and she sucked greedily at the pipe.
"Good?" he asked her.
She looked at him with a foolish smile and leaned back against the headboard. She continued to fellate the pipe but slowly now, sipping lazily.
He put a palm to her naked shank and was shocked at how fevered her flesh had become. She was burning up.
The crystals were consumed. Turner took the glass pipe from Felicia's limp fingers and set it aside.
Suddenly she began to laugh, convulsed with merriment. Energized, she rose swiftly from the bed, stood swaying a moment, still heaving with laughter. She rushed into the living room, staggering, banging off the walls, and returned just as quickly, before he could move.
"How do you feel?" he asked curiously.
She looked at him, laughter stopped. She pulled him onto the bed with a strength he could not resist.
"I am the world," she proclaimed.
"Of course you are," he agreed.
"The stars," she said. "Planets. Universe. Everything and all."
"And all," he repeated.
She flopped around and crammed his bare toes into her mouth. He pulled away, and again he felt her incredible heat and saw how flushed her face had become. He put a hand to her breast, and the heavy, tumultuous heartbeat alarmed him.
"Are you all right, Felicia?"
She began to gabble incoherently: unfinished sentences, bits of song, names he didn't recognize, raw obscenities. The jabber ceased as abruptly as it had started. He left her like that and went into the kitchen for another brandy.
She was still at it when he returned to the bedroom. But now her face was contorted, ugly, and she was panting. He sat on the edge of the bed and observed her dispassionately, noting the twitching legs, toes curled. She seemed to be winding tighter and tighter, her entir
e body caught up in a paroxysm.
Suddenly she shouted, so loudly that he was startled and slopped his brandy. Her body went slack and her eyes slowly opened. She stared at him blankly, not seeing him, and he wondered where she was.
"Felicia," he said, "I'm Turner."
"Turner," she repeated, and soft understanding came back into her eyes.
"You're in my apartment," he told her.
She looked at him with love. "Do you want to kill me?" she asked. "You may, if you like."
Chapter 30
Mrs. Olivia Starrett, wearing a lacy bed jacket, sat propped upright by pillows, a white wicker tray across her lap. And on the tray, tea service and a small plate of miniature croissants, one half-nibbled away.
"He was such a dear man," she said, dabbing at her eyes with a square of cambric. "I would be even more desolated than I am if I wasn't inspired by his teaching. Accept all, he said, and understand that pain and suffering are but a part of the holy oneness. Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea, dear?"
"Thank you, no, Mrs. Starrett," Dora said. She sat alongside the canopied bed in a flowered armchair. "You have certainly had more than your share of grief lately. You have my deepest sympathy."
Olivia reached out to squeeze her hand. "How sweet and understanding you are. The passing of Lewis, Sol Guthrie, and Father Brian were sorrows I thought would destroy me. But then I realized that one cannot mourn forever. Does that sound cruel and heartless?"
"Of course not."
"One must continue to cope with life, the problems of the present, and worries for the future." She picked up the half-eaten croissant and finished it. "You told me you have no children?"
"That's correct."
Mrs. Starrett sighed deeply. "They are a blessing and a burden. Have you heard about Clayton? And Eleanor?"
"Heard about them? No, ma'am, I've heard nothing."
Olivia, alternately dabbing at her eyes and taking teeny bites of a fresh pastry, told Dora of her son's impending divorce.
"Eleanor has already moved out," she said.
Then she spoke of Clayton's plan to marry Helene Pierce.
"Much too young for him, I feel," she said. "But I do so want a grandchild. Father Callaway, the last time I saw him, told me I am not being selfish."
"He was right," Dora said. "You're not."
"Still…" Olivia said, and looked about vaguely. "Sometimes it is difficult knowing the right thing to do. Young people are so independent these days. They think because you are old you must necessarily be senile."
"You are not old, Mrs. Starrett, and you are certainly not senile."
"Thank you, my dear. You are such a comfort. Sit with me a while longer, will you?"
"Of course. As long as you like."
"I could never talk to Lewis. Never. Not about important things. He thought I was just chattering on. And he would grunt. I love Clayton, of course. He is my son. But I can't talk to him either. Clayton is lacking. There is no depth to him. I love depth in people, but Clayton is not a serious man. He floats through life. He has never been a leader. Sometimes he lacks sense. Eleanor knew that when she married him. Perhaps that's why she married him."
Dora listened to this rambling with shocked fascination. Shocked because she suddenly realized that Mrs. Olivia Starrett was not a flibbertigibbet, not just a soft, garrulous matron. There was a hard spine of shrewdness in her. Despite her religiosity she saw things clearly. She had depth and had been married to a man who grunted.
"Felicia…" Mrs. Starrett maundered on. "So unlucky with men. A pattern there. She has taste in clothes, music, art. But not in men. There her taste deserts her. All her beaux have been unsatisfactory. Weaklings or cads. I could see it. Everyone could see it. But not Felicia. The poor thing. So eager. Too eager. Now she is running after Turner Pierce. Oh yes, I know. A man much younger than she. It is not seemly." Her gaze suddenly sharpened. She stared at Dora sternly. "Do you agree?"
"You're right," Dora said hastily. "It's not seemly."
"You are such a bright, levelheaded young lady."
"Thank you, Mrs. Starrett."
"I wish you'd talk to Felicia."
Dora was startled. "Talk to her?"
"About her life, the way she's wasting it."
"But I'm not a close friend."
"My daughter has no close friends," Olivia said sadly. "Not even me. Perhaps she'll listen to you."
"But what could I possibly say to her?"
"Offer advice. Give her the benefit of your experience. Try to steady her down. Felicia has these wild mood swings. Sometimes she frightens me."
"Mrs. Starrett, she may need professional help. A psychotherapist."
"It may come to that," Olivia said somberly, "but not yet, not yet. Oh, she is such a desperate girl. Desperate! But she will not discuss her problems with me. And she refused to talk to Father Callaway. But you are near her age. Perhaps she will confide in you, and you may be able to help her. Will you try?"
"If you want me to," Dora said doubtfully, "but she may resent my prying into her personal affairs."
"She may, but please try. I know she is unhappy, and this business with Turner Pierce worries me. Felicia has been hurt so many times; I don't want her to be hurt again."
"All right, Mrs. Starrett, I'll try."
"It's my family," the older woman said fiercely, "and I must do everything I can to protect them. Even if I think them stupid or wrong, even if they cause me pain, I must protect my children. You do understand that, don't you?"
"Of course," Dora said, rising. "Thank you for giving me so much of your time. I wanted to express personally my condolences at Father Callaway's passing."
"It was sweet of you, and I appreciate it."
"Mrs. Starrett, did Eleanor leave an address or telephone number where she can be reached?"
"She's staying with friends. Charles has the address and phone number. He'll give them to you."
"Thank you. And I'll try to set up a meeting with Felicia."
Mrs. Starrett turned her head away and stared at the thin winter light at the window. "She didn't come home last night," she said in a whispery voice.
No one awaited Dora in the foyer, so she walked back to the kitchen. Charles and Clara Hawkins were seated at an enameled table, drinking coffee and sharing a plate of what appeared to be oatmeal cookies. Houseman and cook looked up when Dora entered.
"Good afternoon," Dora said briskly."Mrs. Starrett said you could give me the telephone number for Mrs. Eleanor Starrett."
Charles nodded and stood up slowly.'T'll fetch it," he said, and left the kitchen. Dora figured he was going to get Olivia's approval before handing over the phone number.
"How are you today, Clara?" she asked brightly.
"Surviving," the woman said, and Dora decided this had to be the most lugubrious couple she had ever met. She wondered if husband and wife ever laughed or even smiled, and she tried to imagine what their sex life must be like. She couldn't.
"Clara," she said, "Detective John Wenden told me you think the eight-inch chefs knife disappeared during the cocktail party on the night Mr. Lewis Starrett was killed. Do you have any idea who might have taken it?"
"No."
"I'm not asking if you know definitely who took it. I don't want you to accuse anyone. I'm just curious about who might have taken it."
Clara stared up at her, and Dora saw again that discernible mustache and couldn't understand why in the world this dour woman didn't do something about it. A daily shave, for instance.
"I don't name no names," the cook said sullenly.
Dora sighed. "All right," she said, "I'll name the names. You just shake your head no or nod your head yes. Okay?"
Nod.
"Was it Clayton Starrett?"
Shake.
"Eleanor Starrett?"
Shake.
"Felicia Starrett?"
Shake.
"Helene Pierce?"
Shake.
"Turner
Pierce?"
Shake.
"Father Brian Callaway?"
Nod.
Charles came back into the kitchen, carrying a scrap of paper. He looked at his wife accusingly. "You been shooting off your mouth again?" he demanded.
"She hasn't said a word," Dora told him. "I've been doing all the talking, about what a great chef my husband is."
"She talks too much," he grumbled, and handed over the slip of paper. "That's Mrs. Eleanor's phone number and address. West Side," he added snifiily.
"Thank you, Charles," Dora said. "Now would you get my hat and coat, please; I'm leaving. Nice to see you again, Clara."
"Likewise," Clara said.
Dora hurried back to her hotel, anxious to get to her notebook and record all the details of that surprising conversation with Olivia. Plus what she had learned from Clara's dumb show.
She filled two pages with notes that included all her recollections of what Mrs. Starrett had said and implied about the Clayton-Eleanor-Helene triangle and the Felicia-Turner relationship. If this entire case was a soap opera, Dora reflected grimly, it had a deadly plot. Too many corpses for laughing.
She went down to the dining room for dinner and ordered a tuna salad, trying to recall if this was her fourth or fifth diet since being assigned to the Starrett claim. Brooding on her futile attempts to lose poundage, she remembered what John Wenden had said about her increasing girth: "More of you to love." What a nice man!
She returned to her suite and called him. He wasn't in but she left a message, hoping he might get back to her before midnight. He didn't, so she called Mario. He wasn't home. There was nothing left to do but brush her teeth and go to bed in a grumpy mood, wondering what the hell her men were doing and imagining direful possibilities.
Chapter 31
It was easy to fake it, with Clayton or any other man, and Helene Pierce had learned to deliver a great performance. She considered herself a "method" actress and her motivation was that growing hoard of unset diamonds.
The dialogue came easily:
"Oh, Clay, you're too much… you drive me wild… I can't get enough of you… Where did you learn these things?"
The seventh commandment Page 16