He took the magnifying glass and studied the picture.
“There’s too much sky and clouds,” Claire said.
“Yes,” he said. “There’s something haphazard about the composition. Almost as if the photograph were taken by accident. It could’ve been taken by somebody lying down, who didn’t have control over the camera—or it could’ve been taken by a child.”
“A child!” Claire began to pace.
“I would say that the camera which took this picture was probably an old point-and-shoot model. An inexpensive camera, like a Kodak Instamatic,” Boulton said.
“How can you tell all that?” I asked, impressed.
He peered at me through the magnifying glass. “I’m fascinated by American gadgetry.” I smiled. “Photography is a hobby of mine.”
Claire stopped pacing. “Yes, a child.”
“You don’t think some kid was walking along the beach and accidentally took a picture?” I asked. “Then her parents have it developed and see Victoria and blackmail them?”
“We don’t need some mystery child to walk by conveniently and take a picture. There is a child. Victoria Moor’s child.”
“But…I don’t want to be silly about this…but that means that strange little girl is blackmailing her mother and grandfather?”
“Hardly. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t take this picture. And it does mean Victoria and Patricia could have been blackmailing Ellis. Incest is still a major sin in our society.”
“But not for the gods and goddesses of television land. I would think if this photograph were made public, Victoria could go on all the major talk shows, like Mrs. Henderson. Be the victim. Confess.”
“But there is no such venue for Ellis Kenilworth.”
“So he kills himself,” I said, resting my arms on the globe. “I thought it a little strange they were so quick, so willing, to pay us and to keep on paying their so-called blackmailer. It makes sense.”
“Miss Hill, you’ve somehow managed to drape yourself all over my globe.”
“It feels good. I’m leaning on the world.”
Claire slumped in her chair. “Before the world leans on you. It doesn’t make sense. Something’s wrong. Terribly wrong.” She closed her eyes.
“But it does make sense! She hated her father. Patricia hates the Kenilworths. The ultimate revenge.” I looked at Boulton. “What do you think?”
“I think this solution does not answer the question as to why Ellis Kenilworth does not want his mother, brother, and sister to profit from his coin collection.”
Claire slowly opened her eyes and smiled at him. I gave the world a spin. The doorbell rang.
“Excuse me.” Boulton retreated from the room to answer the door.
I watched the continents whirl by in a blur of greens, yellows, browns, and a lot of blue.
Boulton returned and announced to Claire, “Detective Neil Brock would like to see you.”
Claire slipped the photo into her pocket. “Send him in.”
Before I could stop, my hand went to my hair.
He came in with his hands in his pockets, his tie pulled loose. The dark eyes took me in, then worked on Claire. He was smiling. He took one hand out of his pocket. A badge was in it. He gave her a look at it, then had the audacity to give me a look at it. “Just to let you know I’m here on business,” he said.
“How can I help you?” Claire asked.
“I’ve got this dead lawyer on my hands. Name is Roger Valcovich. I can’t figure out why he’s dead—other than the fact that somebody named Edith Wharton blew his throat away and then puked in the wastebasket. At least that’s what some of the guys on this case think. You forget what division I’m in, Maggie?”
“Aren’t you a little out of your division now?” I asked.
“Out of my division. Out of my league. Out of my class. But hell, that’s never stopped me before. See, this young peace marcher gave me a description of this man and woman standing in the hallway outside this dead lawyer’s office. It was last night around six thirty.”
He took out a pad and began leafing through it. “Ah, here it is. The man was described as being in his late thirties. About six three. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Had on a funny dark suit and white shirt. Looked to this kid like this man was a bouncer.”
Boulton’s eyebrow arched.
Neil smiled. “What do peace marchers know from butlers? He said the woman was in her late thirties.”
My eyebrows arched.
“Dark, shortish hair. Nice mouth. She was kinda sexy, so this young kid says. She even winked at him. He said they both looked like they were just waiting around for something to happen. It was hard to know if the kid meant they were waiting around for something to happen between the two of them or in this Valcovich’s office.” He looked at me. “Valcovich…I’m not too good with these long foreign names. Am I pronouncing it right, Maggie?”
It was good try.
He slipped the pad back in his pocket and continued. “I have to admit I didn’t make any connection. Why should I? But then Charlie, our token faggot, is looking at Valcovich’s appointment book, and he almost loses it—his voice gets real high and his wrist bends and he squeals, ‘Edith Wharton!’ Later he tells me the only Edith Wharton he ever heard of was a writer.”
“What’s your purpose, Detective Brock?” Claire asked.
Neil’s smile went back to being secretive. The eyes turned hard. “My purpose? To tell you I don’t like me or the guys being fucked around.”
Boulton took a step toward him. Claire put her hand up and he stopped.
Neil smiled at him. “She’s got you well trained. Hand commands.”
Boulton was back to being the discreet butler. Not a muscle twitched.
“Where was I? Oh, yeah. We have this basket of puke tested and what do you think forensic finds? Watercress. Some of us didn’t even know what that was. And bread. No crust. And a hint of cucumbers. Charlie said it sounded like high tea.”
“What would you do without your faggot to give you a little sense of civilization and literature?” I said.
We looked at one another and all the old battles and all the old passions were there connecting us.
“You still don’t look very good, Maggie.” He took my hands. “Cat scratch your arms?”
I tried to pull away. His grip tightened.
“Charlie got me thinking about a fight you and I had once. Over your books. Remember?”
“Like a good fascist you tried to destroy them.”
The smile stopped. Anger flushed his cheeks. He released his grip, and slowly the lips curled back into their smug place.
“I just threw them on the floor. I didn’t really understand why you had to pay so much attention to them and not to…well, that’s another story.”
“If this is going to turn into a domestic catharsis, I’m leaving the room,” Claire announced.
The bastard turned to Claire. “No. This concerns you…Miss Conrad. You see, I felt bad about this argument Maggie and I had. I decided it would be nice of me if I put her books back. I got to looking at them, reading the titles, and the authors’ names. I came across this woman writer called Edith Wharton. She wrote this book called Eddie Frome.”
“Ethan,” I corrected.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I might try to read it. Get on Maggie’s good side. Couldn’t you just see me sitting down to high tea with her, and discussing Edith Wharton? But I never got around to it. Funny that Charlie should make me remember all this.”
“I’m sorry your attempt at the classics was so halfhearted. Is that all you have to say?”
“I don’t like being fucked around, lady. I don’t like the thought of a bunch of hardworking guys out there looking for some woman named Edith Wharton, who they think spilled her high tea in the basket after she blew Valcovich away. They’re also looking for his secretary. They think the two women might be connected.” He turned o
n me. “And I don’t like to think that this was some clever literary joke to be played out on what you think are a bunch of assholes in uniform.”
“I never thought that!” I scrambled to my feet.
“You’ve always thought it. You think it of me!”
Claire rapped her walking stick on the floor. “Please! Both of you sit down!”
I sat. Neil started, then thought better of it. He put his hands in his pockets and looked casual.
“Detective Brock, I assume before you came here you checked me out.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“The guys in the three-piece suits tolerate you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s easy when you don’t have to play within the rules.”
“I always play within the rules. I suggest you do the same. Ask your questions directly, and if I can, I will answer them.”
“Besides maybe murdering Valcovich, what were you doing at his office?”
“We had an appointment to see him. I discovered him dead. Just exactly as you found him. We were the ones who phoned the police.”
“After you thoroughly went through everything. What did you want with a guy like Valcovich?”
“That involves client privilege.”
“Who’s the client?”
“Miss Hill.”
“Client privilege is bullshit. I found Valcovich’s address book. It had Ellis Kenilworth’s number in it. Didn’t you work for him, Maggie?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah. He blew his head off. Made you very upset.” The dark, assessing eyes took me in. “Remember?”
“I remember.”
“Detective Brock, we know you’ve talked to the Kenilworth family. Why do you persist in making this more difficult than it has to be?” Claire sighed.
“They say they met Valcovich once. He was in their brother’s office having a meeting with Maggie. Did you tell them it was about a car accident?”
“Yes. But…”
He turned away from me and looked at Claire. “The next thing the Kenilworths know is that you’re with Maggie and accusing them of stealing an amendment to their brother’s will. Something about a four-million-dollar coin collection. They say it doesn’t exist, and they make a very good case for their point of view.”
“So they do. But I choose to believe Miss Hill.”
“Where does Bobby Alt fit into all this?”
“I don’t know if he fits anywhere. He may just be a young man who enjoys being used.”
“Where is he now?”
“We took advantage of your resources. I suggest you do the same.”
The smile turned cruel. “We’re on this. I can’t stop you from interfering. But I want you to stay out of my way.” He faced Boulton. “What kind of gun do you carry?”
“It depends on the occasion and my attire.”
“Last night. What were you carrying?”
“Forty-five.”
“Let’s see your license.”
“You have no search warrant!” Claire rapped her walking stick against the floor. “But if you wish, Boulton, you may show it to him,” she added politely.
Boulton took out his wallet and flipped it open. Neil didn’t bother to look.
“Valcovich was shot with a Derringer. I bet you have a couple of those sweet little babies for your vest pockets.”
“Show him out, Boulton,” Claire snapped.
“I want Maggie to show me out.”
“That’s up to her.”
I stood and walked toward the hallway.
“Edith Wharton died fifty years ago,” Claire called after him.
“Nineteen thirty-seven. I looked it up. She died in August in France. Supposed to be real hot then in France.”
He turned and followed me to the front door. In silence we walked up the steps to the street and stood by his car. As usual, if the conversation was going to be personal, I had to start it.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?”
“That’s what the champagne was for. I thought you’d get a big joke out of it. Celebrating my marriage. Getting rid of me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Is this the same girl you had the affair with when we were married?”
“Yeah.”
“Why let me go to bed with you?”
“I thought you needed me…or at least needed the kind of sex we have—had—together. Hell, I’d go to bed with you any time you asked, Maggie.”
“Wonderful. What about her?!”
“This Friday. Ten o’clock. Little Brown Church. Coldwater Canyon. Wanna come?”
“You son of a bitch!”
“That’s right, Maggie. And what are you? Why didn’t you tell me to get the fuck out the other night? You’ve done it before—why didn’t you do it then?!”
“I needed…I needed…”
“What? What? I hope you know what you need now, Maggie, ’cause you’re in trouble all the way up to the top of your ears.”
We looked at each other. The dark eyes were no longer assessing, just tired and sad. He got in his car and drove away.
14
IT WAS THE CIVILIZED hour. Claire and I stood outside the Kenilworths’ house waiting for someone to open the door. My stomach was doing battle with Gerta’s stuffed cabbage. The rest of me was doing battle with a bout of melancholy. So I had on my pink-and-black with the big shoulders for protection.
Sutton let us in. His hand trembled when he smoothed his blond hair.
A brass chandelier spilled pools of light onto the marble floor. A silk-shaded lamp in the library spread golden shadows on the damask sofa. I expected to see Ellis Kenilworth appear at any moment and gesture, in his mannerly way, for me to enter his office.
Sutton took my hand. “Remember how I used to escort you to the office, Maggie?”
“Yes.”
“A meaningless gesture, but I miss it. Mother is waiting. Do you mind coming up to her sitting room?”
“Not at all,” Claire replied as we moved toward the stairs.
“Mother will do the talking,” Sutton said stiffly. “I’m afraid the police being here has…well, she will do the talking.”
He led us down the hallway and tapped gently on Eleanor’s door.
“Mother?” He opened the door.
The room still had the heavy, sweet smell of a wealthy old woman’s expensive debris. Four crystal-based lamps, wearing pale green shades, shimmered light. The fire licked and leaped behind the hearth screen. Eleanor was on her chaise lounge. A pale green bed jacket and a matching throw covered her. The aquamarine eyes glistened alertly from her skeletal-white face.
“Sit down.” She gestured toward two chairs, covered in tapestry, which had been pulled close to her for the occasion. Sutton moved behind his mother and rested his hand on her shoulder. She stroked his hand. The circle of diamonds twisted and twinkled. The eyes focused on Claire.
“I want to make something clear. You are only in my house because a man has been murdered and I must protect my children, who, as usual, have acted stupidly. But their stupidity does not make them murderers. Judith will talk first. I must have your word that what she says will not go beyond this room.”
“As you know, the police are already involved,” Claire said.
“There are ways of answering their questions.”
“True. But I can’t make you any guarantees before hearing what Judith has to say.”
Eleanor studied Claire for a moment, then turned to Sutton. “Go and get her.”
Sutton left the room. Eleanor leaned toward the fire and held her hands up to its flames.
“Ugly, aren’t they? Knotted with arthritis. Shriveling with osteoporosis. Yet when I look at them, I see my greatgrandmother’s hands. Pioneer hands. It was her land my husband built the hotel on. I inherited it. My late husband made it work. And my pitiful sons lost it. One silly mistake after another. Slowly bleeding the family dr
y. It’s one thing to be a leech on somebody else. It’s another to be a leech on yourself. You should never have to sell land. All that pioneer strength. That good lineage. Shrinking. What happens to families?” The aquamarine eyes glowed with spite.
There was a soft tap on the door.
“Enter.”
The door opened. Judith, clutching her gray cardigan to her shoulders, quietly crossed the room and stood at the foot of her mother’s chaise lounge. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Her mouth remained a thin, strict line. Sutton took his position behind Eleanor.
“Tell them,” she commanded her daughter.
Judith pressed her lips together as if to keep her words from spilling out. Slowly, the lips moved. “I took the codicil from your purse, Maggie.”
Truth. Just like that. So easy. I adjusted my shoulder pads. Not looking at Judith, Claire pushed back her chair, stretched out her legs, and stared into the fire.
“How? When?” I asked.
“Start from the beginning,” Eleanor hissed.
Sutton stroked his mother’s hair. Judith kept her head down.
“I believed you at first, Maggie. That Valcovich was really your lawyer. But Miss Conrad was right. When I left that morning I looked at your car. There was no sign of an accident, and I began to wonder. Sutton and I drove all the way to Century City trying to figure out why you would lie. Wondering who this lawyer really was. I sat through one of Brian’s symposiums remembering how terribly Ellis had treated me that morning, thinking that Ellis hadn’t been himself lately. He had been threatening to sell the coin collection. If he did…we’d have no way of paying…” She looked quickly at her mother.
“Anyway, he’d been talking strangely. I told Sutton how I felt, and we left the conference and drove back to the house. We didn’t know what we were going to do. Confront Ellis. Tell Mother about the strange lawyer. Talk to you, Maggie. We didn’t know. We slipped in through the hedge.”
“And Valcovich was looking out the window and saw you. He thought you’d made him a very lucky man,” Claire said.
Judith’s pale cheeks turned crimson. “We ran through the garden and up the servants’ stairs,” she continued.
“Weren’t you afraid of being seen by the help?” Claire tapped her stick on the white marble hearth. Judith looked flustered.
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