The Chalk Girl

she reappeared at Mallory’s side, knife in hand – a long knife – and so sharp. The attorneys took one step back in the unison of a startled Girl Scout troop. The detectives were more blase about a potential stabbing.

Grace Driscol-Bledsoe smiled. ‘You don’t think I’m dangerous? I can assure you . . . I am.’ She kicked off her stiletto heels, climbed up on the toilet seat and cut out Humphrey’s head. After handing it down to Riker, she carved out her husband’s head and gave him that piece, too. ‘Shame to break up the set.’

Mallory’s eyes remained on the ruined canvas, the portrait of headless father and son. ‘So Humphrey was your husband’s favorite?’

‘Oh, yes. John had visions of building a dynasty, and Humphrey was his heir apparent.’ She climbed down and turned back to admire her handiwork with the knife. ‘I think I like it better this way. My husband gave me a diamond necklace when I delivered a son. For Phoebe I got nothing. And when the bastard died, he didn’t leave one dime to his daughter.’

When they had all reconvened beneath the crystal chandelier of the larger room, Mallory moved on to her favorite subject. ‘Let’s talk money. The income from your family trust fund has no cost-of-living increase. It wouldn’t support you in a shoebox apartment.’

‘My family has always been dedicated to public service. We are not about money.’

‘And then there’s your token salary,’ said Mallory. ‘As director of the Institute’s board of trustees, you don’t make enough to buy your clothes.’ The detective clicked through a gallery of pictures on her cell phone. The small screen displayed an archive of society pages that featured this diva of the New York charity scene. ‘I’m looking at designer originals. Not one outfit off the rack. And the shoes you’re wearing now are a thousand dollars . . . apiece.’

‘I’ve never had to pay for my wardrobe, Detective. I’m sure you can understand why. I could charge the designers to advertise their wares on my back, but I settle for clothes, handbags . . . and shoes.’

‘Internal Revenue might have a problem with the gift tax,’ said Riker.

A lawyer stepped forward. ‘The clothing is regarded as a donation to the Driscol Institute. It’s worn to charitable events, then recycled at auctions to benefit worthy causes.’

This man could now be identified as the tax attorney in the gang of suits. Mallory turned from one man to the other. ‘Who can tell me how many politicians the lady has in her pocket? What do they cost on average, and how do you recycle them? Another auction? Influence to the highest bidder?’ By their looks of surprise, by their lack of howling, she confirmed that there was not one criminal lawyer in the pack.

The detective turned her attention back to Grace Driscol-Bledsoe. ‘You directed the Institute to fund charities in the names of city council members. They must love that. Good deeds get them votes. Five of them sit on the Contracts Committee. That gives you a majority voting block. How many of your friends benefit from city contracts?’ Before the first lawyer could raise an objection, she looked down at her cell-phone screen. ‘Oh, here’s one.’ She held up the phone to display the society-page photograph. ‘The guy with his arm around your shoulder?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Riker, squinting at the small image. ‘He was awarded a bridge-maintenance contract. Big bucks. And doesn’t he look happy?’

‘If I follow the money,’ said Mallory, ‘and I do – you haven’t deposited your kickbacks in any personal bank accounts. Every large transfer of funds sets off federal alarms . . . So they had to be cash payoffs.’

Riker leaned into the conversation with his punch line. ‘Do you mind if we search your house for a safe?’

All three lawyers were talking, then shouting to be heard over one another’s threats. The words warrant and slander figured in all their comments until their client silenced them by raising one hand. Addressing Mallory, she said, ‘The Driscol Institute always has glowing reports from the auditors. In this world, it’s not what you know, my dear. It’s what you can prove.’

In sidelong vision, Mallory saw the woman’s companion hovering near the entryway. ‘Your personal income might support a cleaning lady, but not a full-time employee like Hoffman, not if you like to eat regular meals.’ The detective bent down to make a show of examining a silver pendant resting on the socialite’s bosom. The engraving was fine work, but the jeweler had not been able to disguise the function of the tricked-out button at its center. The older woman’s hand quickly covered it.

This was the soft spot.

‘It’s a medical-alert medallion, right? You press that button and an ambulance shows up?’ Without waiting for an answer, Mallory glanced at the companion standing on the other side of the room, still carrying her small Gladstone bag. ‘Hoffman’s a nurse? That would make her a very expensive employee.’

Riker cleared his throat. ‘I think you get the point, ma’am. You don’t want us to prove anything. That’s the last thing you want.’ He turned to the lineup of suits. ‘Right, guys?’ This time, the suits were quiet, and they seemed a little tense. ‘Relax,’ said the smiling detective. ‘We only want access to Phoebe.’

‘That’s out of the question,’ said Grace Driscol-Bledsoe.

‘Because she’s guilty,’ said Riker, ‘or because she can hang you?’

‘Phoebe doesn’t make a dime off of Humphrey’s death,’ said Mallory. ‘No motive. That’s all on you.’

The doorbell rang. Hoffman had disappeared, and one of the lawyers volunteered to play butler, leaving the room to answer the door. He returned a moment later. ‘Miss Wilhelmina Fallon is here. Should I show her in?’

‘I’d rather you gutted her on the doorstep,’ said Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe. ‘But that’s not in your job description, is it?’ She leaned toward Mallory. ‘Dear, may I borrow your gun?’

‘What’s the tie between Humphrey and Willy Fallon?’

‘And Agatha Sutton,’ said Riker. ‘What’s her connection?’

‘And we’re still wondering,’ said Mallory, ‘how crazy Phoebe figures in.’

‘For the last time, Detectives – my daughter is not insane – not delusional. When she was a child, a therapist had her personalize – humanize – her anxiety. You could say she’s listening to her inner critic.’

‘Right,’ said Mallory. ‘Can you prove that?’

‘I can.’ Willy Fallon sat in a wheelchair beneath the arched entryway. A brown paper bag was clutched in her hands like a vagrant’s idea of a purse. Behind her stood a woman in a nurse’s cap and white uniform. The nurse guided the chair across the floor toward the gathering by the fireplace. And as she rolled, Willy said, ‘We had the same psychiatrist when we were kids. Phoebe was a moron for going along with his crap.’ She held up one hand to stay the nurse and then sharply turned the wheels of her chair to face Mallory. ‘I could sue you for what you did to me.’

Grace Driscol-Bledsoe took a long look at the wheelchair, the only visible evidence of injury, and then turned to Mallory. ‘I’m guessing you broke her legs? My dear, you have my deepest respect and admiration.’

Willy turned her head to sneer at her escort, the woman in the nurse’s uniform. ‘Did I hear you giggle, you stupid cow?’

The nurse removed her hands from the chair and addressed Mallory, correctly identifying the center of power in this room. ‘There’s an ambulette parked outside. When you’re done with Miss Fallon, just kick her to the curb. They’ll take her away.’ Willy’s escort left the room. Moments later came the distant slam of the front door.

Mallory smiled, happy in the way a cat is happy to see its living lunch, this meal on wheels. She walked up to Willy Fallon and leaned down to grasp the arms of the chair and slowly roll it back and forth. ‘So what’s the connection between you and Phoebe – apart from the psychiatrist? Was she a good friend of yours?’

‘That dweeb? No way. We went to the same school. That’s it.’

‘The Driscol School? How long ago was that? Maybe fifteen years?’

Hoffman had reappeared to stand at Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe’s side. Following whispered instructions from her employer, she took command of Willy’s chair and steered it toward the entry hall.

While Riker and Hoffman negotiated the wheelchair down the stone stairs to the sidewalk, Mallory handed the ambulette driver a twenty-dollar bill for his goodwill and affection.

When the patient had been loaded into a vehicle slightly larger than a station wagon, Hoffman retreated out of earshot, and the driver answered the detective’s question. ‘No, ma’am, she doesn’t need the chair. She walks just fine.’ According to his boss, the owner of the private service, Miss Fallon had only wanted to avoid the paparazzi.

‘Since when?’ Riker stepped into the end of this conversation. ‘Back in her party-girl days, she loved those