14
Marilyn Harding had been crying. That was the first thing Steve Winslow noticed. She had combed her hair and put on makeup and composed her face, but nothing she could do was going to disguise the fact that she was distraught.
Of course, she had every right to be. After all, she’d just discovered that her father had been murdered. A tremendous shock for anyone, let alone a young girl.
But was that all?
They were in the library of the Harding mansion. Steve Winslow had taken a cab out to Glen Cove (“It’s your money, buddy”), bullied his way past the Harding butler (Christ, did butlers really exist outside of British drama?), and been consigned to the library while the butler reluctantly delivered the message.
A few minutes later Marilyn Harding entered the room. She walked slowly, mechanically, and her eyes were dull and glassy. To Steve she looked stunned, as if she’d just been hit over the head with a hammer.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Didn’t the butler tell you?”
“Yes, but I’m somewhat rattled. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“Steve Winslow.”
If the name meant anything to her, she didn’t show it. “I’m Marilyn Harding. What is it you want?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Oh?”
Steve looked closely at her. If she was bluffing, she was damn good. She wasn’t giving anything away.
“I have something to tell you. It’s important, and there isn’t much time. Can you give me a few minutes?”
Marilyn rubbed her head. “Yes, I guess so. I’m just so confused. I’ve had a shock, you see, and-”
“I know. About your father. I hate to put you through it, but I have to have the details.”
“Why?”
“So I can help you. Please.”
She looked at him as if in a fog. Steve got the impression that it was all too much for her, that she wasn’t really reluctant, just overwhelmed.
He was right.
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“Just tell me how it happened.”
Marilyn walked over and settled into a chair. Steve pulled up a chair beside her.
“Well, there’s not that much to tell. It’s all such a shock, and I don’t know anything.”
“Of course.”
“It was a Wednesday. Last month. After lunch my father felt queasy and lay down to rest. No one thought much of it. He’d had stomach trouble for years. Then he got worse. Started complaining of pains in his chest. So I called Dr. Westfield to come at once. By the time he got there, Dad was gone.”
“Dr. Westfield was your father’s regular physician?”
“Yes.”
“And he diagnosed the cause of death as coronary thrombosis?”
“Yes. Dad had a history of heart trouble, and Dr. Westfield was not at all surprised. In fact, that’s why Dad happened to be at home. Dr. Westfield had persuaded him to take a week off from the business to recuperate. He had always warned Dad something would happen if he didn’t take it easy.”
“Who was in the house at the time?”
“Just myself and my father.”
“From lunchtime on?”
“Yes. My stepsister, Phyllis, was here in the morning, but she left just before lunch.”
“No one else in the house.”
“No, except for John. The butler.”
Steve had an absurd flash. The butler did it. Christ, this case was getting to him.
“Who served your father lunch?”
“I did.”
“What did you serve him?”
“Soup, a sandwich, and coffee.”
“Did he take cream and sugar in the coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Did he put it in, or did you?”
“He did. You see, he liked a lot of coffee. I gave him a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, and a pitcher of cream. I put all those on his tray with the soup and sandwich and served it to him out on the terrace.”
“What became of the sugar bowl?”
“I put it back in the kitchen.”
“Have you used it since?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t done any cooking since Dad died.”
“Where is the sugar bowl now?”
“The police have it.”
“When were they here?”
“This afternoon.”
“What did they do?”
“They searched the place from top to bottom.”
“What did they find?”
“Nothing.”
“But they took the sugar bowl?”
“Yes.”
“Was it right where you left it?”
“It must have been.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Well, not really. I was out on the terrace. They brought out the sugar bowl and asked me if it was the one I’d put on the tray for my father.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them it was.”
“Did they ask you questions?”
“Yes.”
“About the same questions I asked?”
“Yes.”
“Who inherits under your father’s will?”
“I don’t know the exact terms of the will. The bulk of the estate goes to me.”
“And your stepsister?”
“A specified sum. I don’t know the exact amount.”
“The police ask you
“Yes.”
“It’s a wonder you’re still here.”
Marilyn just looked at him with a dull stare.
