“I don’t see what possible—”
“Oh Mama,” the daughter said, smiling prettily, showing teeth as shiny and small as white peg corn, “why don’t we just answer Chief Delaney’s questions and get it over with?”
Her mother whirled on her furiously.
“You shut your mouth!” she said. Then she turned to the officers. “More lemonade, gentlemen? Please help yourselves.”
Sergeant Boone rose to do the honors, topping off the ladies’ glasses first.
“Thank you, sir,” Emily Maitland said pertly.
During this pause, with the sergeant moving about, Delaney had the opportunity to examine Dora Maitland more closely.
It was a face, he decided, that belonged on a cigar box. The skin was dusty ivory, eyes dark and flashing, lips carmine, and hair pouring in curls of jet black to below her shoulders. It had to be a wig, and yet it suited her exotic appearance so perfectly that Delaney wondered if it might not be her own hair, darkened, oiled, and fashioned into those glossy ringlets by the hairdresser’s art.
He guessed her age at about sixty; face and hair denied it, but the hands were the tip-off. She wore lounging pajamas, not too clean, a bottle-green silk. The blouse was styled like a man’s shirt, with an open collar that showed a magnificent, unwrinkled throat and hinted at shoulders just as luscious. She was fleshy enough, but without her daughter’s corpulence.
Both men were conscious of her musky scent. Even more conscious of the mature voluptuousness of her ungirdled body. Her feet were bare; toenails painted the same red as fingernails and lips. Just below one corner of her mouth was a small black mole, although it could have been a velvet mouche.
She moved infrequently and had the gift of natural repose, not unlike the cat sleeping carelessly on a nearby chair. She exuded a very primitive sensuality, no less impressive because it was partly the product of artifice. Her physical presence was as deliberately mannered as Cleopatra’s on her barge, and just as confident. Such a role, essayed by even a younger woman of less talent and smaller natural gifts, might inspire laughter. Neither officer had any desire to laugh at Dora Maitland; they were convinced.
“Very well, Chief Delaney,” she said. “What is it you wish to know?”
Her voice was low-pitched, throaty, with a tendency to raspiness. She had not lighted a cigarette since they arrived, but Delaney thought hers the voice of a heavy smoker.
He took out his notebook, and Sergeant Boone followed suit. Delaney slid on his heavy reading glasses.
“Mrs. Maitland,” he started, “you have stated that on the day your son was killed, you and your daughter were here, in this house, during the period from ten in the morning until three in the afternoon. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And on that Friday, the housekeeper was not present because it was her day off?”
“That’s correct.”
“The housekeeper is Martha, the lady who let us in?”
“Yes.”
“During that time period, did you have any visitors?”
“No.”
“Did you make or receive any phone calls?”
“I don’t recall. I don’t think so. No, I didn’t make any calls or receive any. Emily, did you?”
“No, Mama.”
“Did you go anywhere in your car?” Delaney asked. “Shopping, perhaps? To visit? Or just for a ride?”
“No, we went nowhere on that Friday. I had a dreadful headache, and I believe I spent most of the day lying down. Isn’t that right, Emily?”
“Yes, Mama. I brought lunch to your room.”
“Now I would like both of you to listen to my next question carefully,” Delaney said solemnly, “and think very carefully before you answer. Do either of you know or suspect anyone who for whatever reason, real or fancied, disliked or hated Victor Maitland enough to murder him?”
The two women looked at each other a moment.
“I’m sure there were people who disliked or even hated my son,” Dora Maitland said finally. “He was a very successful artist in a very competitive field, and there are always those who are jealous of talent. I know something of this, you see. I was on the stage before I married Mr. Maitland, and achieved quite some success and was myself the object of very bitter jealousy, cruel gossip, and all sorts of vile rumors. But one learns to expect this in the creative arts. People without talent become so frustrated that their jealousy sometimes drives them to malicious cruelty. I’m certain my son suffered many such attacks.”
“But do you know of anyone specifically who was capable of killing him, or who threatened him with physical harm?”
“No, I do not. Emily?”
“I don’t know anyone, Mama.”
“Your son never mentioned anyone threatening him?”
“No, he did not,” Dora Maitland said.
“You saw your son frequently?”
There was the barest of pauses before she said, “Not as frequently as I would have wished.”
“And how often did your son visit you, Mrs. Maitland?”
Again a brief pause, then, “As often as he could.”
“How often? Once a week? Once a month? Less often or more often?”
“I really don’t see what this has to do with finding my son’s murderer, Chief Delaney,” she said coldly.
He sighed and leaned toward her, the sincere confidant.
“Mrs. Maitland, I am not trying to cause you pain, or to pry into the relationship between you and your son. After all, it was a normal, loving mother-son relationship. Was it not?”
“Of course it was,” she said.
“Of course it was,” he repeated. “He loved you and you loved him. Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Maitland, would you care to comment?”
“What Mama says is right,” the younger woman said.
“Of course,” Delaney nodded. “So when I ask how often your son visited you, it is not to doubt that relationship; it is only to establish a pattern of his movements. Who he saw, and when. Where he traveled and how often. Did he come up here once a month, Mrs. Maitland?”
“Less,” she said shortly.
“Once a year?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “When he could. He was a very busy, successful artist.”
“Of course,” Delaney said. “Of course.” He took off his glasses, gazed out at the murky river flowing slowly to the sea. “A very successful artist,” he said musingly. “Did you know that your son had sold a single painting for a hundred thousand dollars?”
“I read of it,” she said tonelessly.
“Think of it!” Delaney said. “A hundred thousand for one painting!” Then he turned suddenly to stare at her. “Did he send any of that money to you, Mrs. Maitland?”
“No.”
“Did he ever contribute to your support? Ever make any effort to share his financial success with his mother?”
“He never gave us a cent,” Emily Maitland burst out, and they all turned to look at her. She colored, giggled, took a sip of lemonade. “My land!” she said. “I got all carried away. But it is true—isn’t it, Mama?”
“I never asked him for anything,” Mrs. Maitland said. “I am not without my own resources, Chief Delaney. I’m sure that if I had been in need, Victor would have offered help gladly and generously.”
“I’m sure he would have,” Delaney murmured. “You are well provided for, Mrs. Maitland?”
“Comfortable,” she said. “The late Mr. Maitland …” She let her voice trail away.
“When did your husband die, Mrs. Maitland?” Sergeant Boone asked quietly.
“Oh …” she said. “Quite some time ago.”
“Twenty-six years in November,” Emily Maitland said.
“From illness?” Boone persisted.
“No,” Dora Maitland said.
“My father committed suicide,” Emily said. “Mama, don’t look at me so. My land, they’ll find out anyway. M
y father hanged himself in the barn.”
“Yes,” Dora Maitland said. “In the barn. Which is why we never use it. The doors are nailed shut.”
Delaney busied himself with his notebook, looking down, saying, “Just a few more questions, ladies, and then we’ll be finished. For the time being. Now I am going to mention several names. Please tell me if you know these individuals or ever heard your son speak of them. The first is Jake Dukker. D-u-k-k-e-r. An artist.”
“I never heard of him,” Dora Maitland said. “Emily?”
“No, Mama.”
“Belle Sarazen. S-a-r-a-z-e-n.”
Dora Maitland shook her head.
“I never heard Vic speak of her,” Emily Maitland said, “but I’ve read about her. Isn’t she that beautiful thin blonde lady who gives all the big parties? She sponsors charity bazaars, and she poses naked for artists and photographers.”
“Emily!” Dora Maitland said. “Where did you read such things?”
“Oh Mama, it’s in all the newspapers and magazines. And she’s been on TV talk shows.”
Dora Maitland muttered something that no one could catch.
“Yes, that’s the lady,” Delaney nodded.
“Lady!” Mrs. Maitland said explosively.
“You never heard your son mention her name?”
“No. Never.”
“Nor you, Miss Maitland.”
“No.”
“How about Saul Geltman? G-e-l-t-m-a-n. Your son’s agent, or art dealer. Do you know him, or of him?”
“Saul? Of course I know him,” Dora Maitland said. “A dear, sweet little man. He has been up here to visit us.”
“Oh?” Delaney said. “Frequently?”
“No. Not frequently. On occasion.”
“How frequently?”
“Perhaps two or three times a year. Maybe more often.”
“More often than your son,” Delaney said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Oh Mama,” Emily said with a light, little laugh. “You’ll have the officers thinking Saul Geltman came to visit us.” She turned to him, smiling. “He didn’t, of course. Saul has friends in Tuxedo Park he visits frequently. He drives up from New York and on his way stops by here to say hello. He never stays long.”
“Do you know the names of his friends in Tuxedo Park?” Boone asked casually.
Emily Maitland considered a moment before she answered.
“No, sergeant, I don’t believe he ever did mention their names. Just some nice boys, he said, who gave a lot of parties. I remember once I teased him about why he never asked me to the parties. But he said I’d probably be bored. I expect he was right.”
Delaney nodded and, watching Dora Maitland, said, “The final name on the list is Alma Maitland, your son’s widow. I wondered if you could tell us something about your daughter-in-law, Mrs. Maitland?”
She looked at him with basalt eyes.
“Tell you what?” she asked huskily.
“Well, let’s start with your personal relations with her. Are you friendly?”
“Friendly enough. Hardly what you’d call close. She goes her way, and we go ours.”
“I gather she did not accompany her husband when he visited you here?”
“You gather correctly.” A harsh bark of laughter. “But don’t get the wrong idea, Chief Delaney. There is no argument between Alma and me. No open warfare.”
“More of an armed truce?” he suggested.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Something like that. Hardly an unusual state of affairs between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law.”
“That’s true,” he assented. “Would you mind telling me the cause of your, ah, disagreement?”
“I didn’t think much of the way she was raising Ted, and I told her so. The boy needed discipline and wasn’t getting it. We have spoken very little since.”
“But we always get Christmas cards from her, Mama,” Emily said mischievously, and her mother glared.
“One final question, Mrs. Maitland,” Chief Delaney said. “When your son visited you here, how did he come up? By train or bus? Or did he drive?”
“He drove,” she said.
“Oh?” Delaney said. “I understood he didn’t own a car. Well, perhaps he rented one.”
“No,” she said. “On the few trips he made, he borrowed Saul Geltman’s car.”
“It’s a station wagon, Mama,” Emily said.
“Is it?” her mother said. “I know very little about cars.”
Delaney stood up slowly, tucked notebook and spectacles away, moved to the doorway. Sergeant Boone joined him.
“Mrs. Maitland,” the Chief said with grave courtesy, “Miss Maitland, we thank you both for your hospitality and patience. Your cooperation has been a very great help.”
“I don’t see how,” Dora Maitland said.
Delaney ignored that.
“One final favor …” he said. “If we may impose on you a few moments longer, would you object if we looked about your lovely grounds a bit? It’s not often we got out of the city, and it’s such a pleasure to breathe clean air and see this beautiful, peaceful place. Could we see a little more of it before we go back to the streets?”
He had, unwittingly, ignited her with his reference to “this beautiful, peaceful place.” She came alive, insisted on donning webbed sandals and conducting the officers on a tour. They paired off, Mrs. Maitland with Delaney, Emily with Sergeant Boone, and wandered off onto the grounds. The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, but a radio was blasting country music in one wing of the house.
Dora Maitland showed Chief Delaney the cluttered flower beds of peonies, irises, and lilies; a gnarled oak she claimed to be 150 years old; a broken birdbath half-hidden in the undergrowth; the tangle of wild ground cover on the bank sloping down to the river; a small, sandstone plaque set into the brick foundation of the house on which the legend “T.M. 1898” could be dimly discerned.
“My husband’s father, Timothy Maitland, began building this house that year,” she explained to Delaney. “He died of TB before it was finished. His wife, my mother-in-law, completed the main building, added the wings, and did much of the landscaping herself. My husband and I added the gazebo, installed the driveway, and made many modern improvements inside. Of course it all needs work, as you can see. I had planned to restore everything to its original beauty, but Victor died, and I’m afraid I lost all my ambition. But I feel my strength and resolve coming back more each day, and I intend to go through with it. It’s really a dream, you see. Oh, Chief Delaney, you should have seen this place when I was a young bride carried over the threshold. One of the finest, loveliest homes in this area, with a view that no place in Rockland County could equal. A velvety lawn. Everything spanking clean and neat. The river glittering. The air. The sky. Birds and flowers. Like you, I came, from the city streets, and this place seemed paradise to me. I am determined to make it a paradise once again. Oh yes. Everything is here. I have not sold off an acre of land. You would not believe the taxes! And the house is structurally sound. I intend to make it just as lovely as it was when I first saw it.”
“I’m sure you shall,” he murmured.
She clutched him urgently by the sleeve.
“You will find him, won’t you?” she whispered, desperation in her voice. “The killer, I mean?”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “I promise you that.”
They moved around to the front of the house again. Emily and Sergeant Boone were strolling between the garage and the gazebo. She was talking brightly, although Delaney could not hear what was being said. But the sergeant was stooping slightly, head lowered, listening intently.
Dora Maitland and Delaney waited at the entrance for the other two to come up. Mrs. Maitland clasped her hands to her bosom dramatically, raised her eyes to the pellucid sky.
“What a divine day!” she exclaimed rapturously.
Delaney could believe she had once been on the stage.
Finally, biddi
ng goodbye to the ladies, the two officers went through the handshaking ceremony again, nodding and smiling. They then drove down the graveled driveway.
“Did you see the doors?” Delaney asked.
“Yes, sir,” Boone said. “They’re nailed shut all right.”
“You were correct about Geltman,” Delaney said. “He is a flit.”
“And she’s a lush,” Boone said stolidly.
“You’re sure?”
“It takes one to know one,” Boone said matter-of-factly.
“What were the tip-offs?”
“That huskiness—from whiskey, not from smoking.”
“Her fingers were nicotine-stained,” Delaney noted.
“But she didn’t dare light up; we’d have seen the tremble. And she didn’t move. Like her head was balanced and might roll off. I know the feeling. And she gripped the arms of her chair, again to hide the shakes. Drank two full glasses of lemonade to put out the fire.”
“You think she had a few before we came?”
“No,” Boone said, “or she’d have been looser. She wanted to be absolutely sober, even if it hurt. She didn’t want to risk babbling.”
“She did with me,” Delaney said. “At the end.”
“When she figured the danger was over,” Boone said. “Take my word for it, Chief; she’s on the sauce.”
“She’s what used to be called ‘a fine figure of a woman,’” Delaney said.
“Still is, as far as I’m concerned,” the sergeant said. “A great pair of lungs. Sir, can we stop for some food?”
“God, yes!” Delaney said. “I’m starved. But leave room for dinner tonight, or my wife will make my life miserable. It’s London broil and new potatoes, by the way.”
“I’m sold,” Boone said. “Want me to pick up Rebecca?”
“No need,” Delaney said. “She’s coming over early to help Monica.”
They stopped at the first luncheonette they hit. It was crowded and noisy, but they had lucked onto a gem; their ham-and-scrambled were good. They strolled out to the car replete, Boone sucking on a mint-flavored toothpick. Delaney got behind the wheel.
The Chief drove cautiously until he got the feel of the car. After they were over the bridge, he relaxed, held it slightly below the legal limit, and stayed in the right-hand lane, letting the speed merchants zip by.
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