She shrugged. “It’s going to be worse for Sunny. She and Norm still loved each other.”
“Oh, Tina,” Joyce protested. “You and Carlyle—”
“—were headed for a divorce court as soon as Trish graduated from high school,” Tina Ledwig said flatly, taking another swallow of her drink, which, from the smell and look of it, was scotch on the rocks.
She leaned back with both thin arms carelessly lying along the top of the colorful cushion that supported her shoulders, one hand dangling empty, the fingertips of the other lightly holding her old-fashioned glass by the rim. Any less tension and the glass would surely smash to the hardwood floor. She wasn’t drunk or slurring her speech, but she’d certainly had enough to speak candidly.
“It’s no big secret, Joyce. You and I both know some of our friends at the club couldn’t decide whether to send wreaths or bouquets. I’m sorry he was killed like that before he and Carla could make up, but he could be a holier- than-thou pompous prick at times and I’d be a hypocrite to start shedding crocodile tears. Hell, before it’s over, I’ll probably wind up spending as much on shrinks for my daughters as you’ve spent on yours.”
I risked a glance at Joyce, whose lips had tightened. Psychiatrists for her daughters?
“At least there’ll be enough cash that’s not tied up in real estate,” said Tina Ledwig, swirling the amber liquid around the ice cubes in her drink. “Thank God for partnership insurance! Did y’all have one in place for Norm, too? Or will you and Bobby have to cough up the buyout?”
Joyce was clearly annoyed with Tina’s indiscreet speech and turned back to me. “George Underwood says you noticed last night that one of my candlesticks is missing?”
I nodded.
“So that’s why they’re still out there,” Tina said, as if finally connecting the dots. “I wondered what they were looking for.”
I followed Joyce over to the end of the ledge near the windows. One of the French doors was ajar and Bobby Ashe pushed it open for the others.
“Judge,” Lucius Burke said formally as he entered. “Did my secretary get you that deposition you wanted?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.”
His face was just as handsome as yesterday, his eyes were meltingly green, yet I still felt oddly immune. No time to wonder why, though, with the others crowding in.
“Hey, Deborah,” Bobby said in a sober drawl. “Hell of a note, idn’t it?”
I agreed.
“Get anybody anything?” he asked, heading for the well-stocked armoire. “Deborah? Sheriff? Burke?”
We all shook our heads.
Tina Ledwig held her now-empty glass out to him as he passed.
Since everyone else seemed to assume we’d already met, Sheriff Horton introduced himself to me. “Captain Underwood says you think Mr. Osborne was hit with one of these candlesticks, Judge Knott?”
“Only that it’s a possibility,” I said. “We all spread out to search the house last night, and when I came down here and walked over toward the terrace doors, I saw where some had been knocked over. This group here on the end.”
With my hand, I circled the air above a cluster of the heavy iron candleholders.
“I thought someone had been careless, so I set them up, and when I put the candles back where I thought they went, I noticed that this one”—I pointed to where it stood against the stone wall—“was left over, so I stuck it there.”
“Mrs. Ashe?” Underwood asked.
Joyce looked from the fat solitary candle back to the ironware grouped together at the end of the oak slab. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to decide ever since you told me what Deborah noticed, but I honestly don’t remember. There are so many. If it held that candle, though, then it would probably look like this one or maybe that one down there.”
As she spoke, she touched a couple of heavy holders. One was short and squat and looked like a black iron saucer welded to a cylinder that was the size and shape of a three-pound shortening can, not the easiest thing in the world to pick up.
Certainly wouldn’t have been my choice of weapon.
The other was taller. Vaguely shaped like an abstract hourglass, it flared at the base and again at the top, but narrowed in the middle until it was about the diameter of a baseball bat handle.
Joyce appealed to her husband, who had rejoined us. “Honey, didn’t we have five of these to start with?”
Bobby Ashe stroked his big brown walrus mustache and his brow wrinkled as he tried to visualize the way this candle-laden slab must have looked before the party started. “Them the ones we got at that forge up in Pennsylvania?”
“No, these came from that blacksmith over near Hillsborough.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I believe we did buy five. He said he’d give us a better price break if we took all six, but you didn’t want an even number, remember?”
We were all counting with our eyes. Only four of that particular style remained on the ledge, and Joyce was becoming more positive that the evening had begun with five.
“If the men don’t find it out there, could we maybe borrow one of these to show the ME?” asked Underwood.
“Sure,” Joyce and Bobby said together.
