Too Many Murders (18 page)

“Now tell me about the—er—slugs, Mrs. Skeps.”

She sneered, an expression that didn’t suit her face. “Oh, them! Desmond called them his yes-men, with good reason. Phil Smith
admits it freely—he can’t even be bothered heading up a specific company, which I guess means he’s landed on his feet as usual. He’ll step into Desmond’s shoes, chair the Board, you name it. Hypocrite! Anyone would think he was royalty.”

“What about their past histories? Shady activities? Shady deals? Shady women?”

“Not that I know of, apart from Gus Purvey, who pretends to be a man’s man—and is, in the one respect men’s men don’t aspire to. Namely, that he is a homosexual with a penchant for youths dolled up as women.”

Carmine looked at Anthony Bera. “Anything to add, sir?”

“No. I’m not a part of the Cornucopia world.”

Maybe not, thought Carmine, getting to his feet, but I am going to be investigating your whereabouts on April third, Mister Fat Cat Lawyer. A winterized house in Orleans says your legal practice must pull in a healthy income. You’re in love with Mrs. Skeps, but she doesn’t even see you except as her friend. That’s a very frustrating situation to be in.

He repeated his trick with flashing light and siren on the journey home; from Providence back to Holloman was a well-worn beat. Maybe the visit to Orleans had done his soul some good, but it hadn’t advanced his investigation. Time to get tough. If no copy of the will had appeared at County Services, he had every intention of invading Erica Davenport’s lair and demanding one immediately. But the document was waiting. Accustomed to legalese, he read its many pages swiftly, then sat back, winded. Someone had blabbed that he was seeing Philomena Skeps today, and Erica Davenport had deliberately withheld knowledge of the will from him and Philomena Skeps until the meeting was in the past. No wonder! The fur would have flown like wildcats locked in mortal combat. What a blow for Philomena Skeps and Anthony Bera! What might they have said in the throes of rage?

Desmond Skeps III was indeed the sole heir, but guardianship
belonged to Erica Davenport. Not in a maternal sense: Philomena was still free to house the boy, feed him, dress him, nurture him. Be his mother in his home. But she was stripped of all ability to control his destiny, his fortune, the fate of Cornucopia. When it came to the power and the money, Erica Davenport stood
in loco parentis
. And in the years between now and the boy’s twenty-first birthday, Erica Davenport was the head of Cornucopia. Nor could Carmine see how Anthony Bera had a hope of overturning the will in court. Philomena Skeps had no business experience, nothing to offer a judicial panel. No, the only way Philomena Skeps could win anything was to stay on the right side of Dr. Erica Davenport, chief of Cornucopia. Whom she detested.

Poor Myron! This lightning bolt meant that Erica didn’t need to find a rich husband, if that was what had prompted her assault on the affections of Carmine’s friend. She could set her own salary and perks, with no one to gainsay her—Van Cleef’s, here I come! No, thought Carmine, the gold-digger image felt wrong. This woman was after power, not money, which suggested a side to Myron he hadn’t suspected. Myron had come into Carmine’s life nearly fifteen years ago and been taken at face value as a very wealthy film producer; it hadn’t occurred to Carmine to burrow into the dear man’s commercial affairs. Now, far too late for it to matter, he was beginning to think he should have.

And what of the woman given her marching orders by Desmond Skeps over four months ago? She’d probably interpreted her lover’s action as the beginning of her absolute end. Instead she had succeeded him as ruler of the Cornucopia kingdom. So the big question was: did Erica Davenport know the contents of Desmond Skeps’s will? A colossal motive for murder if she did. But how could she have discovered what lay inside a document held in a vault in New York City guarded by a firm she didn’t know? The only way would have been if Skeps told her, but would he? No, he would not, was Carmine’s instinctive conclusion; Skeps wasn’t that kind of man. Rather, he would have relished tormenting her as the weeks and then the
months went by; beneath the obvious differences, he was not unlike Evan Pugh. I bet they both pulled the wings off butterflies, Carmine thought.

When had the will been made? Carmine looked again, just to make sure he hadn’t mistaken the date. But no, he hadn’t. It was made two months ago, well after Skeps had dispensed with the lady’s services as his mistress. That meant Skeps had coldly considered her merits for the job, and liked them.

He looked at his watch: still time to pay Dr. Davenport a visit before Cornucopia closed its offices for the day. Nor did he call her to make sure she was there; with this new job draped around her shoulders, she’d be there.

Having made a useless trip to Skeps’s offices, he found her upstairs in the penthouse. Which, Abe had discovered, had a small internal staircase hidden inside a guest lavatory. The back wall opened inward when the second in a row of fancy knobs was pressed, revealing a very tight set of iron spiral steps. So Carmine used them, and emerged as if he’d availed himself of the facilities. His appearance didn’t alarm her, just annoyed her.

Today she was wearing dull red, and the eyes she turned on him had gone khaki. Chameleon’s eyes, he thought. They reflect the color around her, but they can’t achieve dull red. The pigment for it isn’t there.

“I must be your prime suspect now,” she said.

“No, if anything you’ve gone down a few notches. Unless he told you what was in his will?”

“Desmond Skeps, so indiscreet? The only thing that ever loosened Desmond’s tongue was alcohol, and by the time I met him, he’d limited his intake severely. One single-malt Scotch a day, that was it, and he never, never deviated. He headed one of the country’s biggest companies, and he knew the damage a loose tongue could wreak. When he first took over the firm, he compromised Cornucopia’s tender for one of the earliest atomic reactors, which enabled a
rival company to undercut him using Cornucopia’s own design. It all but killed him. Grierson was the one pulled him out of the fire—if Des loved anyone, it was Wal Grierson. His board was brand-new then. He should have fired all of them except Grierson, but he decided yes-men had their uses—provided, that is, that the boss didn’t get drunk.”

“Obviously you indulged in pillow talk, Dr. Davenport.”

“Oh, she told you, did she? She would!”

“Did Mr. Skeps like women? Get on with them?”

“Oh, come now, Captain, you know full well he hated women! That’s why his will really staggered me. It never occurred to me that Des valued my business sense. Now look at me! I’m Chairman of the Board and I have complete control of young Des’s shares, interests, money.” She gave a breathy laugh. “I, Erica Davenport, am cock of the walk!”

“So you’re going to rub Mrs. Skeps’s nose in it.”

“Not at all.” The eyes were so earnest they were struggling to be blue. “I have no intention of interfering with Philomena Skeps or with her duties as a mother.”

“I have a different question for you, Dr. Davenport. What would happen if Desmond Skeps the Third died?”

Her skin lost its color. “Don’t! Oh, don’t!”

“You’re a lawyer, the eventuality must have occurred to you. So what happens?”

“There are other members of the Skeps family. I daresay the closest agnate relative would inherit.”

Carmine’s heart sank. “Mr. Philip Smith?”

“No, definitely not. Mr. Smith
claims
blood relationship, but the degree has never been investigated. There is a male nephew and a male first cousin. They would come first, with the first cousin ahead. The nephew is the child of Desmond Skeps’s sister. The first cousin is the child of Desmond Skeps Senior’s younger brother. However, the will was drawn up under New York State law, and I am no expert on that.”

“And it’s irrelevant besides, since Young Des is very much alive. Thank you.” He looked around. “Are you planning to live here?”

“I don’t see why not, though I’ll have to gut the place. Poor Desmond had no taste.”

“You do?”

“I’d rather say that my taste is quite, quite different. I’ll be buying paintings for my pension plan, and hanging them in here. I’ll also be getting rid of that monstrosity.” She flapped a hand at the telescope. “He used to love to play Peeping Tom.”

“So I realized. Did he have a camera attached to it?”

She jumped. “Yes, he did! He did! But it’s not here now.”

“It wasn’t here when his body was still on his massage couch,” said Carmine grimly. “Well, at least I know what Ted Kelly removed.”

“Or perhaps the murderer removed it,” she said.

“Possibly.”

He moved toward the elevator.

“Captain? Will you and your family be at Myron’s party tomorrow?”

“If we’ve been invited, yes.”

“Good! I’m anxious to meet your wife.”

“Why, in particular?”

“She’s brave. Myron told me. It’s not a quality usually associated with women.”

“Hogwash!” Carmine snapped, goaded. “Women are incredibly brave, every day of their lives. To a cop like me, they’re prey. There’s always someone out there watching, stalking, snooping, and no one knows which woman will be a target. Though that’s not what I was driving at, ma’am. Women are brave because they bear the babies and hold the home together—and, man, that can be hard!”

“You’re a romantic!” she said, clinically surprised.

“No, I’m a realist. Good night, Dr. Davenport.”

And what would you know about
real
women, you attenuated society princess living in an executive washroom world? He seethed, thinking of the thousands of women he had met in the course of his
work, tiny memories flashing in and out of his rage, understanding himself no more than a witness to their troubles, pain, hideous predicaments. Cooling, he began to think of the upside, and was able to go home with the worst memories returned to his subconscious.

“You are so too a romantic,” said Desdemona, handing him his bourbon and soda.

He had actually made it in time to receive a wide-awake Julian, who jigged up and down on Daddy’s lap because he wasn’t old enough yet to do much else. Opened, his eyes were revealed as a pale topaz color with a thin outer ring of jet; their lashes were thick, black, and so long they curled, and he had a thatch of black curls atop his big head that would have done credit to any girl. In spite of which no one mistook his sex; there was too much Carmine about him, determined, dogged.

His genesis was a source of perpetual wonder to Carmine, who had never imagined himself fathering a son, and couldn’t think of enough ways to show Desdemona what a gift she had given him so far into his life.

“Squeeze Daddy’s hand,” he commanded.

Julian squeezed; Carmine went through a histrionic performance of ow’s and flinches that had the baby squealing with delight. After that father and son indulged in an orgy of kisses that ended only when Desdemona swooped on the child and bore him off.

“He never tries to fight it,” Carmine said when she returned and sat down to sip her gin and tonic. “I always expect him to try on a power play, or at least start bawling. We were having real fun, then—wham! Mommy cut it short.”

“He’s clever enough to know already that there’s no escaping the fell hour of bedtime. Julian saves his energies for more attainable objectives,” she said, smiling and lifting her glass in a toast.

“Where’s Sophia?”

“Having dinner at the Cleveland with Myron and his Erica.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. Myron took her to lunch and gave her the set of peridots, though of course he wouldn’t be Myron if he didn’t exceed orders. She got a very pretty set of garnets too.”

“I presume the breach was healed?”

“Oh, yes. Then the little minx smarmed up to Myron until he agreed to this dinner with Erica. I let her go because if she takes against the woman, it’s better that she should do so in private, not in front of a million people at this wretched bash Myron’s throwing tomorrow night. I’ve accepted on our behalf, of course.” She glanced at her watch. “I imagine she’d have come home by now if things weren’t going well.”

“Erica Davenport is a puzzle, Desdemona.”

“And a murderer?”

“I don’t think so, though Skeps’s death has given her great power. According to his will, she’s the head honcho.”

“My goodness! A signal victory for women,” Desdemona said, gazing at Carmine through the eyes of total love. It was fine to be an independent woman answering to no one; she had been one of those well into her thirties, and perhaps it was better to get the independence urge out of the system early. But there could be no doubt that life with Carmine, at the very center of a large Italian-American family, was infinitely preferable.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, secretly craving Italian.

“Spaghetti and meatballs a la Emilia Delmonico.”

What a night! He’d gotten to cuddle a wakeful Julian, his dinner wish had been granted—maybe later on he and Desdemona would make a brother or a sister for their son. Though he felt it was too soon, Desdemona didn’t.

He drained his glass. “Then let’s eat,” he said. “Tomorrow night we’ll have to eat all the things that give us indigestion—lobster, softshell crab, Iranian caviar, raw this and raw that. Myron’s importing the chef, I hear.”

* * *

Carmine may not have been looking forward to Myron’s party, but he seemed to be the only one. After Erica’s promotion it had changed from lounge suit to black tie, whether at Myron’s whim or Erica’s no one knew, and sent the female guests into conniption fits—
what to wear?

Much to her father’s relief, Sophia decided not to go. No reason was tendered, but Desdemona suspected the girl was thoroughly intimidated by Myron’s new girlfriend. After her dinner with them she had come home enthusiastic, all “Erica this” and “Erica that,” but it rang hollow. So much patrician beauty, sophistication, intelligence and aloofness were just too formidable when met in the same person. Sophia had understood herself checkmated.

Since at her size Desdemona couldn’t buy off the rack, Carmine was spared the what-to-wear dilemma; though it wasn’t vast, his wife had a wardrobe for every emergency. Privately he thought she looked stunning in an ice-blue gown she had embroidered herself in the manner of a dress Audrey Hepburn had worn in a film called
Sabrina
. In the days when she had managed the Hug, Desdemona had earned large fees for her embroidery, so skilled that she had made vestments for Roman Catholic priests. And, Carmine was delighted to see, she hadn’t minimized her height. Her size thirteen silver sandals (
so
handy to have drag queens in New York City!) sported three-inch heels.