Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

  "Then he waited until she had opened and closed the safe before he attacked her," Duvivier said. "Your wife was wearing no jewelry, so the pieces you mentioned were taken by the intruder."

  "Oh," Sandy said, "she always wore her wedding and engagement rings. They were platinum and diamonds, and the engagement ring had a fine, emerald-cut diamond of about five carats."

  "fa there anything special about these pieces that would make them easy to identify?" Duvivier asked.

  "The rings had her initials, J.A.B.K., engraved inside, but I suppose the diamond could be extracted and sold. The watch had her name engraved on the back. But the necklace and bracelet have been photographed. They both belonged to the late Duchess of Windsor; Joan bought them at auction at Sotheby's some years ago. Both pieces appeared in the catalogue."

  "That will be helpful," Duvivier said.

  "Also, we gave the insurance company photographs of some pieces years ago, and I think the rings and the watch may have been among them."

  Duvivier turned and faced Sandy. "Mr. Kinsolving, did you have anything to do with your wife's death?"

  Sandy looked directly at the detective and all expression left his face. "Certainly not," he said firmly.

  The two detectives got into their car and drove toward the precinct.

  "Okay, Al, what do you think?" Leary asked.

  "We still have to talk to the chauffeur and the brother-in-law and the custodian and the wife's lover and all the relatives," Duvivier said.

  "Come on, Al," Leary laughed, "You got a famous nose. What does your nose tell you?"

  Duvivier shrugged. "Kinsolving did it, but we won't be able to prove it."

  "No shit?"

  "Pas de merde."

  CHAPTER 8

  Sandy sat and looked at his son and his brother-in-law. The three of them of them sat in the study, half-empty glasses of Bailley's Single Malt Scotch Whisky in their hands.

  "I still can't believe it," Angus said.

  "Neither can I," said Laddie.

  "I know how you both feel," Sandy replied.

  "What do you think are the chances of the cops catching the guy, Dad?" Angus asked.

  "I don't know, really; the police didn't say anything about that. When he tries to sell the jewelry, though, that could get him caught."

  Laddie shook his head. "He won't do that, if he has any sense; he'll break up the pieces and sell the stones separately."

  "I suppose so," Sandy replied.

  "God, as if one death in the family wasn't enough," Laddie said.

  "Laddie," Sandy said, "since you've already been through making Jock's arrangements, I'd be very grateful if you'd do the same for Joan."

  "Of course, Sandy. Do you have any preferences?"

  Angus spoke up. "Why not just do the same as for Grandad? I'll volunteer to take the ashes to Scotland and bury them together."

  "I think Joan would approve of that," Sandy said. "Thank you, son."

  "I'll see to it," Laddie said, then made as if to get up. "I'd better get home and break the news to Betty."

  "Before you go, Laddie, there's something I have to say to both of you." Sandy took a deep breath; he had been dreading this. "It's bound to become public knowledge, and I think it's better if you hear it from me."

  Both men looked at Sandy expectantly.

  "After our lunch of earlier this week, Joan told me that she intended to divorce me."

  "What?" Angus blurted out.

  "I know, it came as something of a surprise to me, too," Sandy said. "I think we had fallen into the usual ruts that so many long-married couples do, and that made Joan vulnerable."

  "Vulnerable to what?" Angus asked.

  "Another relationship. Joan told me that she had been seeing Terrell duBois, and my impression was that, after some interval, she planned to marry him."

  "Is that the guy you compete with in the wine business?" Angus asked.

  "Yes, that's the one." Sandy noted that Laddie had said nothing, had expressed no surprise. What he had to say next might make a dent. "The police asked me if I had anything to do with Joan's death. I suppose they had to do that in the normal course of events."

  A longer silence than Sandy would have liked ensued before Laddie spoke up. "But you were on the telephone with me," he said. "You couldn't have done it."

  "I think that, after hearing of Joan's intentions, they thought that I, perhaps, had hired someone to do her in."

  "That's ridiculous," Angus said immediately.

  "Preposterous," Laddie agreed, after only a short pause.

  "Thank you both for that, but I think you had better be prepared to see the possibility aired in the media. I'm assuming that they'll hear the details of the investigation; they seem to hear of everything these days."

  "Well," Laddie said, "whatever has passed between you and Joan, I want you to know that no one who knows you at all could ever believe for a moment that you caused her death, and if I'm asked by anyone, I'll certainly say that."

  "I appreciate your support, Laddie," Sandy said.

  The three sat in silence for a moment, then Sandy spoke again. "Angus, you look all in; why don't you stay here tonight? Your room is always made up."

  Angus rose. "Thanks, Dad, I'll take you up on that. All this has had the effect of exhausting me." He shook hands with his uncle, hugged his father, and went off to bed.

  Laddie rose. "I'd better be off."

  "Laddie," Sandy said, rising with him, "I expect Joan told you of some of this."

  Laddie shrugged. "I was shocked, of course, but I didn't think I should say anything to you until she had spoken."

  "She said the two of you wanted to buy me out."

  "She said something about it to me, but I had by no means agreed; I would have talked with you first. I had planned to raise the subject on Monday."

  "I think she would have asked you to sell the wine division to Terrell duBois."

  Laddie looked guilty for a moment. "And undercut you? I'd never have done that."

  Sandy didn't believe him for a moment. "Thank you, Laddie. I'll come in on Monday, and we'll talk."

  "Of course, Sandy, but don't feel pressured to come in. I won't make any changes without consulting you."

  The two men shook hands, and Laddie took his leave.

  Sandy went to his desk and dug in the bottom drawer for copies of his and Joan's wills; the police had taken the originals from the safe. He sat down and read through Joan's document. It was the same one she had signed some five years before. He hoped to God that some lawyer would not come out of the woods with a newly executed document. That would make things very complicated indeed.

  Then something else occurred to him, made his heart lurch. The pictures. Joan had said that she had pictures of him in the London flat with two women. He certainly did not want the police to have those. He went next door to Joan's study and tried the drawers of her desk. Locked. He thought of trying to pick the lock with a letter opener, but reconsidered; he didn't want scratches on the lock.

  Worried now, he went to Joan's dressing room and began searching; the keys turned up in the box where she kept inexpensive jewelry. He went to the desk and unlocked it; immediately he recognized the brown envelope, the kind used in every office in

  Britain. He listened carefully to be sure Angus was not still about, then he shook out the photographs onto the desk. The first thing he saw was a closeup of his ass, the motion frozen. There were others, too, with the woman on top, with her head buried in his lap and a rather ecstatic look on his face, and there were, as Joan had said, two women. One was a countess, no less, the wife of his sometime dinner host, an earl-the sort of thing that divorce courts and the British tabloids would have loved. He looked into the envelope and found the negatives, and he was pitifully grateful to see them. There was also a slip of paper on which had been printed, "With the Compliments of the J. Morris Agency."

  It took him a moment to figure out from where the shots had been taken, then
he realized that, on at least two occasions, someone, probably Mr. J. Morris, himself, had been in the bedroom closet that Joan used when she was in London. The perfect vantage point; Sandy never opened that door.

  He thought for a moment of the best way to dispose of these snapshots, someplace where the police would never find even a scrap of them. Not any of the fireplaces or trash baskets. He went into the kitchen, found a match and burned the pictures over the sink, turning on the garbage disposal to grind and flush away the ashes. He was tempted to keep one photograph-a lovely shot of the countess with his erect penis clasped in both her little hands- but, regretfully, he burned it with the rest.

  He fell into bed, willing his mind to exclude any thought of what had happened that evening. He needed some time before he thought of that again.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sandy slept solidly, dreamlessly until after nine in the morning, and when he awoke he felt the disorientation that he often knew in strange places, but never in his own bedroom. Then, before he could lift his head, the previous evening flooded back, and this time, he let it come. Best to face it, put it in perspective. He couldn't be blamed for what had happened to Joan, could he? After all, he had done everything in his power to stop it. Not exactly. He had started everything with the meeting in the park with Peter Martindale. But, of course, Joan, herself, bore some responsibility for what had happened to her, because of her treatment of him, didn't she. He considered that for a moment, then, with some effort, absolved himself of all guilt. It didn't work.

  He found Angus in the kitchen eating cereal.

  "Morning, Dad, how are you feeling?"

  "All right, I think. Amazingly enough, I slept well."

  Angus nodded. "So did I. It's a phenomenon called 'self-anesthetization,' I think; a defense of the mind."

  "It really happened, didn't it?" Sandy asked.

  "It did, I'm afraid. By the way, a Detective Duvivier called, asked that you phone him back. The number's on the pad by the phone."

  "I'll call him in a little while," Sandy said, pouring himself some orange juice.

  "Pretty fancy name for a cop, isn't it? Duvivier?"

  "He's Haitian; a rather elegant fellow."

  "Is he the one who thinks you had Mom killed?"

  "I don't know if he really thinks that, or if he just had to ask."

  "Don't worry, if he really suspected you, he'd have read you your rights first. If he didn't do that, he can't use anything you said against you."

  "Why doesn't that make me feel better, I wonder?"

  "About Duvivier?"

  "Yes. I mean, although I had nothing to do with Joan's death, it's bad enough that a policeman might think I did."

  "Never mind what he thinks," Angus said. "It's enough that you know you're innocent. If you didn't do it, he can't prove you did it, right?"

  "How do you know all this police stuff, Angus? We didn't send you to law school, did we?"

  "I never miss 'NYPD Blue'; it's an education."

  Sandy nodded. "Are you on duty today?"

  "I was, but I called in. Strangely enough, I think I could have worked, but I thought it might look funny if I came in only a few hours after my mother died."

  "I appreciate your offer to go to Scotland; I don't think I would have wanted to make the trip."

  "I was going to take a couple of weeks off after I'm certified, so I may as well start in Aberdeen."

  Sandy finished his orange juice, went to the phone and called Duvivier.

  "Good morning, Mr. Kinsolving," the detective said. "I hope you're feeling better."

  "Thank you, yes; still a lot of disbelief, but I'm all right."

  "I wanted to let you know that the medical examiner will release your wife's body on Tuesday morning. He will have finished his work by that time."

  "Thank you. What do we do then?"

  "Contact a funeral director; he'll know what to do."

  "Detective, I spoke last evening with my son and my wife's brother; is there any reason why we should not have my wife's body cremated? We had planned to take her father's ashes to Scotland for burial in the family plot, and it occurred to us that Joan might have wanted her remains to be there, too."

  "No reason whatever; once the ME has completed his examination, there are no restrictions on what you may do." He paused. "Mr. Kinsolving, I wanted to let you know ahead of time that I will be speaking with all sorts of people you know about this case. I didn't want you to find out from them."

  "I understand. Speak with whomever you like; it's all right with me."

  "Thank you, sir. Do you travel very much on business?"

  "Yes, I'm in London about one week a month; I also visit the Napa and Sonoma Valleys from time to time, and I'm in France two or three times a year."

  "When did you last travel, sir?"

  "I returned from London last Monday, on hearing of my father-in-law's illness."

  "And when do you plan to travel again?"

  "Well, I had planned a trip to the West Coast this week, but under the circumstances that will be postponed until my wife's affairs are settled and some decisions have been made about the operation of the company without my father-in-law."

  "So you plan to be in New York for at least another week?"

  "At least. Detective, are you telling me not to leave town?"

  "Oh, no, sir; I just wanted to know if you would be available if I should need to talk with you again."

  "Of course. You can contact me at my office during the week, or at home at night. I hope very much to hear from you that you have caught the person responsible for this."

  "I hope so, too, sir. Tell me, do you have any other telephone numbers at home-other than the one we're talking on?"

  "Yes, we have two other lines, consecutive numbers; the third is for a fax machine."

  "Thank you, Mr. Kinsolving; I won't keep you longer. Goodbye."

  Sandy hung up the phone.

  "He wanted to know all your phone numbers?" Angus asked.

  "Yes."

  "He probably wants to tap them."

  "Tap my phones? Isn't that illegal?"

  "Not if he gets a court order."

  "Angus, you watch too much television." He was glad of it, though; he'd have to be careful on the phone.

  • • •

  After breakfast Sandy took Angus for a long walk in Central Park. He reflected that, although he lived only across the street from the park, he rarely went there. He resolved to take more walks. "How are you feeling about your mother?" Sandy asked.

  "I guess the way I've always felt about her," Angus replied. "Removed. You and I were always closer than Mom and I."

  "Did you resent being sent away to Exeter at fourteen?"

  "No, not really. It seemed like the thing to do, I guess; so many other guys I knew were going off somewhere to school. Isn't it a little late to be asking me?"

  Sandy shrugged. "From the moment you were born, Joan wanted you to go to Exeter. I'm not quite sure how she settled so firmly on that school. Over the years she would talk about it, and it became a done thing without any argument."

  "I remember her talking about it. It's so strange; I'm not exactly sad about her death. I mean, I'm sorry that she had to go through that, but I'm surprised at how little effect it's had on me."

  Sandy felt exactly the same way, but he didn't say so. "You may feel differently after a little time has passed; or, on the other hand, you may go right on feeling the same."

  Angus nodded. "What are you going to do now?"

  "Well, Joan's death changes quite a lot in my life. Or rather, it keeps my life from being changed the way it would have, if she'd lived. I'll see Laddie tomorrow, and we'll come to some sort of accommodation. Laddie has never liked confrontation, and he'll want to settle everything as quickly and as amicably as possible."

  "I always felt kind of sorry for Uncle Laddie," Angus said.

  "Why?"

  "Well, he seemed so much under Granddad's thumb."


  "Believe me, Angus, we were all under Jock's thumb. To tell you the truth, I never minded that much. I had a rather weak father myself, and having a man of such authority over me was something I didn't dislike. In fact, I think it made me better at my work. If I had an idea I wanted to try out, I thought about it very carefully before I broached the subject to Jock. I knew I'd have to be ready to defend it on all sorts of grounds, and it made me do my homework and not go off half-cocked." He stopped and looked at his son. "You never needed second guessing, you know."

  "I didn't?"

  "Not from somebody like Jock. You always knew exactly what you wanted to do. You resisted the idea of joining the company long before Jock or anybody else had even raised the subject. You wanted medicine, and all of us knew that it would do no good to try and persuade you to do anything else."

  "I guess that's true."

  "Fortunately, the idea of your being a doctor appealed to Joan. I can't tell you what hell she could have put us both through if she'd had her heart set on your doing something else."

  "I can believe that," Angus said. "Well, I guess we'll lay her to rest in Scotland and try to get on with our lives."

  "I guess we will," Sandy replied. And the two strolled on through the spring morning.

  CHAPTER 10

  The calls began on Monday morning and continued throughout the day. How awful! So sorry to hear it! Anything we can do? Sandy accepted them politely, but by noon he was weary of them. The Monday morning Times had the story and was clinical with the details. God knew what the Daily News had to say about it, and Sandy didn't want to know. Late on Sunday afternoon he and Angus had visited Albert at Lenox Hill and had found the old man sitting up in bed, watching a movie on television. Sandy felt grateful that Jock's driver had not been seriously hurt.

  In the early afternoon, Sandy asked Angus to man the phone, and he went to the office-not his own office over the shop on Madison Avenue, but the company's headquarters in the Seagram Building. He kept a small room there. He got off the elevator and headed toward his desk, and he nearly ran head on into Laddie, who was coming out of his own office.