Hills, never failed to include Beverly Drive between Santa Monica Boulevard and Sunset Boulevard. This stretch of about a mile of glamorous homes had once housed some of the most glittering film stars of another age. The stars had died or moved away, but the houses remained, and the Crombie house was by no means the grandest among them. Architecturally, it would have been called a modified French chateau, and since it was large enough for six or seven bedrooms, Masuto was somewhat surprised that the woman who opened the door for him stated that she was Mrs. Laura Crombie.
She was a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties, with a lean body, a well-defined face, light-brown hair swept back from her brow, and little makeup. She wore slacks and a blouse, and regarded Masuto curiously from behind the chain which held the door half open.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police,” he said, showing her his badge. “I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes-yes, of course. Is it about Ana, poor child? I called the hospital, and they told me.” She unhooked the chain. “Forgive me, but I’m alone in the house. I’ve had no one to replace Ana.” She stood aside for him to enter, closing the door behind him. “You’re Japanese. Forgive me. I don’t usually make personal remarks. I think it’s fine that we have a Japanese policeman here.”
“I’m a Nisei, Mrs. Crombie, which means that I was born here. However, you may think of me as Japanese if you wish. I am not entirely Westernized.”
“You’re very nice, and that’s a very nice way to forgive my rudeness. Come in and sit down. Can I offer you anything, a cold drink, perhaps?”
“No thank you, nothing.”
She led the way through a living room furnished with overstuffed pieces covered in bright printed linen into a library, bookshelves and brown leather chairs and couch. All in good taste, Masuto reflected, a huge and enormously expensive Kirman rug on the floor of the living room and three lovely Degas pastels on the wall of the library. She sat down in one of the leather chairs, and he sat facing her.
“I will have to ask you a good many questions,” he told her. “I hope you will not mind and I hope you can give me the time.”
“No-I don’t mind and I do have the time. But why?” she wondered, frowning. “I think Ana’s death is a terrible thing-she was so young and alive and bright. But food poisoning happens, and I’ve begged her not to eat those wretched tacos.”
“She didn’t die from eating tacos or any other Mexican food, Mrs. Crombie. She was poisoned by the eclairs you gave her to take home.”
There was a long silence. Then Mrs. Crombie whispered, “Oh, my God, no. No!”
“I’m afraid so.”
The woman sitting across from Masuto shook her head woefully. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I know how you must feel,” he said gently.
“Of course it was my fault. I gave her the pastry.”
“There was no way you could have known what you were giving her. Did you eat any of the pastry or did you give her all of it?”
Laura Crombie shook her head, tried to speak, then closed her eyes.
“Can I get you something?” Masuto asked her.
“No-give me a minute. I’ll be all right.” A moment later, she appeared to have recovered. “Go on, Sergeant.”
“The important thing is to know where you bought the pastry.”
“I didn’t buy it.”
“You didn’t buy it? Was it a gift? Did someone bring it?”
“It was delivered.”
“But who sent it? Who bought it?”
She shook her head. “You must think me a totally empty-headed fool. I’ll try to explain. I am divorced, and I live alone in this huge, ridiculous barn of a place. I don’t know why. Inertia, and also some good memories as well as some bad ones. Ana took care of the place. I don’t entertain very much. I don’t go out much and I dislike travel intensely. I have all the money I could possibly need and I find myself bored to distraction. Years ago, I used to play bridge. Last month, I decided to try to put a bridge game together, which would take care of at least one afternoon a week. I had two friends who were interested, and then we found a third. The day before yesterday was the third afternoon we met. I always serve something-tea, sandwiches, fruit, sometimes salad. But all four of us watch our weight fanatically. That’s the Beverly Hills syndrome, you know. Well, just before my friends arrived-that was about noon-the pastry was delivered. I was sure it was from one of them, but they all denied it. You know-big joke, conversation piece, let’s forget about calories for once in our lives and take the plunge-how much can you gain from one eclair? Then it turned into a sort of contest of will power, and in the end, not one of us touched the stuff. Then when Ana, poor child, was ready to leave, she saw me start to throw the pastry into the garbage pail. She said, I think, ‘Oh, no, please, not those beautiful eclairs!’ So I gave her the eclairs. How could I refuse her?”
“No, you couldn’t,” Masuto agreed. “That was all-three eclairs?”
“Oh, no. There were eight pieces, if I remember right. Three eclairs, three strawberry tarts, and two feuilletes a la creme.”
Masuto had his notebook out. “Feuilletes a la creme? What are those?”
“Pastry horns with a cream or custard filling.”
“And the strawberry tarts would also have some sort of custard base?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do with the rest of the pastry?”
“As I said, I threw it away-into the garbage. I adore such pastry. I put it beyond temptation.”
“And the garbage? Is it still here?”
“It was picked up yesterday.”
“What about the box in which the pastry came? Did Ana take the box with her?”
“No. We wrapped her three eclairs in aluminum foil.”
“Then you have the box?” Masuto said eagerly.
“I’m afraid not. When I threw the pastry away, it was box and all. If I had only known. You don’t think that whatever bakery it was is just spreading this food poisoning all over the place?”
“No, I doubt that. But about the box-tell me about it. Was there any printing on it, the name of the bakery perhaps?”
“No, it was just one of those plain cardboard boxes that bakeries put their pastry in.”
“This feuillete stuff-is it common? Could you find it in many bakeries?”
“I wouldn’t think so. There are really only four good pastry shops in this whole area. I should think it would have to come from one of those four.”
“Could you give me the names?”
At that moment, the doorbell sounded.
“That may be Detective Beckman,” Masuto told her. “I asked him to meet me here.” He followed her to the front door. Beckman, oversized, slope-shouldered, stood there shaking his head.
“Nothing, Masao.”
“Wait here a moment, Sy.”
She was standing behind him, watching intently. Not a foolish woman by any means. The tendency to regard any wealthy divorced woman as an empty-headed fool was something Masuto did not share. “I want to write down the names of those four bakeries,” he said to her. “Could I have a few minutes alone with Detective Beckman? Then if I can impose on you a little more?”
“Yes, of course.”
She opened the door wider and asked Beckman to step in. Then she gave Masuto the names of the bakeries. “I’ll be in the study,” she said to him.
“Thank you.”
They stood inside the door, Beckman looking around the place curiously. “Eight-and-a-half bucks for a pound of candy,” he said reflectively.
“And you got nothing?”
