CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Elaine sat down in a corner of the drawing room that Katerina had been using while the office was off-limits. It was a good place to watch who came out of the library after being excused from the reading of the will. Alex and Marlon had already left the gathering and were now standing out in the hallway.
Everything Katerina needed at her new work station was within reach: a computer and word processor, dictating and adding machines, and a telephone. The golden oak, roll-top desk where Elaine sat was a dizzying display of nooks, crannies, and cubby holes. Elaine turned on the student lamp and then folded her hands against the clear plastic cover on top of the desk.
“Mr. McGhee,” Elaine said as he passed by the desk for a second time; he didn’t seem to know whether to leave the house or to stay. Stopping as soon as his name was called, he came closer and stared at her impatiently. And then mellowing as if on cue, he started playing with a paperweight resting on the edge of the desk. He managed to say as nonchalantly as he could, “What is it?”
“I think you’re in trouble,” she said quietly. That revelation gave him an excuse to panic.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“The police think you murdered Mr. Kastenmeier.”
“That’s ridiculous! Carl was the best friend I had the night he was killed. He promoted me. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, but in actuality he lied to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know that until the next day, and he was already dead by then.”
“There’s also the matter of the badge holder you can’t account for.”
“It’s probably on my dresser at home. I’ll go home right now and get it.”
“I wish you would,” she said, “for your own sake.”
“I’ll get the damn badge holder if you promise to stop pestering me about it!”
“The police are looking for it, not me.”
“Yes, yes, Miss Marple!” he said, looking quite irritated. “I hear you loud and clear.” He let the paperweight fall back to the desk with a thud and then stormed off.
Elaine watched him leave through the front door, her hands now trembling. Connery was right; she did feel like a sitting duck rubbing elbows with suspected murderers. But she wasn’t doing it just for Silas, was she? What she really loved was the thrill of the hunt, and perhaps Marlon McGhee was dead on when he referred to her as the amateur sleuth Miss Marple.
“Taking over for Katerina?” someone said, and her heart started racing with anticipation. Alex Gordetsky was standing next to her, gazing down at her with a stately smile on his face. “You’re taking down important messages from the police,” he observed, “and then running them over to us. I figure you must be vying for Kate’s job.”
“No, no, I’m not taking over for Katerina,” she said, putting her hands on her lap so he wouldn’t see them shaking. “I’m only borrowing her desk.”
“I see. Well, if I am right, your secret is safe with me,” Alex said, sitting down in a rosewood, Rococo Revival slipper chair with a high back and making himself comfortable.
“I hear that you’re pretty good at keeping secrets,” she said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The police seem very interested in how seasoned a liar you are, Mr. Gordetsky.”
“A liar? Why, because I co-signed Nicolette’s promotion and then kept my mouth shut about it? I wanted to keep my job, Elaine. I doubt I’ll be arrested for doing what my boss told me to do.”
“You’ve seen Detective Slye,” she said. “All he’s interested in is a name responsible for the casualty count. Any name will do. Believe me, he’s taken note of your sporadic deceptions.” She managed to wipe the smile from his face.
“How do I know that you didn’t murder Carl and John yourself?”
It was her turn to be nonchalant about his assessment of her. “You don’t,” she said, holding her head over to one side. She was looking devious, and she wanted to make sure that he noticed.
Nodding, he rubbed his sideburns. He always did that whenever he was nervous. “I am a good liar,” he declared unapologetically, “and I wouldn’t think twice about lying to save my own skin. And you can quote me on that.”
“Oh, I will.”
For no reason, Alex glanced down at the dictating machine on the desk, and then looked at her for some sort of assurance that it wasn’t on. She wasn’t about to give him any such guarantee.
“You have a good day, now,” he told her.
“You, too.”
“And don’t forget to drill the others,” he said, standing up. “I don’t want any of the principals in this play to feel left out.”
The Tattered Thread Page 48