As Kay left, Detective Sergeant Price stepped inside. He carried a gallon-size plastic bag zipped shut. Clearly visible was a dark metal handgun. He shut the door behind him, lofted the container in triumph. “Homegrown, Chief. There’s a chip on the lower right edge of the grip. Evelyn Hume said her father brought the gun back from the Pacific in World War Two. Army-issue Colt .45. One bullet left. What are the odds the other five will be retrieved during the autopsies?”
“I’m willing to take that bet. In the affirmative.” Cobb’s eyes gleamed. “Where was the gun kept, when was it last seen, who is responsible for it?”
Price answered in order. “Her father’s upstairs office hasn’t been changed since he died. Kind of a shrine, I guess. I checked out the desk. Huge. Mahogany. Drilling plats unrolled and open. Some drilling logs. Evelyn Hume said the gun was kept in the lower right-hand drawer. When I opened the drawer, no gun. Apparently the desk wasn’t kept locked. The old dame simply gave me a cool stare when I asked if the gun was secured. Nothing, she told me frostily, is kept under lock and key at The Castle. I suppose the implication is that only hoi polloi live in houses where they have to lock up the silver. In fact, they hardly lock up anything here. No alarm system. As for keys, they sprinkle them around like confetti. The plumber has one, ditto repair companies like air-conditioning, heating, handyman. You name it, someone has a key.”
The chief made occasional notes as she described Laverne’s exploitation of Diane’s grief, Jack’s determination to discredit her and Ronald, Shannon’s pursuit of Jack, Jack’s apparent lack of interest, Margo’s hostility to him, Jimmy’s anger with his uncle.
“I mention these facts because the murders of Ronald and Laverne indicate her claim last night that Jack was murdered may be true. I suppose it was a suspicion of murder which drew Kay Clark here. Possibly she had some communication with Jack prior to his death which suggested to her that he might have been in danger.”
The chief nodded. “Please describe the seance.”
Evelyn accurately reported on the performance in the library.
He glanced down at his notes. He quoted: “‘…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass’…Were those phrases directed at you?”
She appeared intrigued and not in the least alarmed. “I’m the only person in The Castle dependent upon a magnifying glass. I suppose the reference may be to the Willard Metcalf painting in the grand hallway outside the ballroom. A glorious burst of red poppies. Many of the best paintings in our collection are hung there. However, I see no reason why that should excite Ronald’s interest. We’ve had that painting”—her brow furrowed in thought —“for at least ten years.”
“Did you see either of the Phillipses after the gathering in the library ended?”
Her expression was sardonic. “Did I shoot them? No. Nor do I know who did. I went directly to my room and I heard nothing during the night. However, I may know one fact of interest to you. A few days after Jack died, I was coming down the upper hallway. I heard a door open. I turned and saw Ronald coming out of Jack’s room. He had no reason—or right—to be there. I asked him what he was doing in my brother’s room.” A dour smile touched her lips. “He claimed he thought he heard the dog scratching on a door and feared Walter might have been trapped inside. An odd coincidence that Walter apparently was trapped behind a door last night. However, I am sure Ronald was lying.”
As soon as Evelyn rose and turned toward the door, I picked up the pen by Chief Cobb’s legal pad.
His eyes fastened on the pen, then he moved his gaze toward the doorway.
I was startled when I felt his hand cup over mine.
In the hallway, Detective Sergeant Price faced the table as he held the door for Diane Hume.
I wrote swiftly, despite the weight of Cobb’s hand above mine. I released the pen.
Cobb grabbed the pen.
Diane sagged into the chair. Her frizzy blond hair was untidy. She wore no makeup and her face looked sickly. She glanced toward the chaise longue and more tears spilled down her cheeks.
Chief Cobb read my sentence.
As Detective Sergeant Price turned to leave, Cobb called out, “In the murder suite, look for a picture of a young guy in a cap and gown.”
The detective sergeant nodded and pulled the door shut behind him.
The interview with Diane, punctuated by her sobs, revealed little. “…someone must have crept into the house last night…poor Laverne…terrible…”
Chief Cobb regarded her with an objective, measuring gaze. “We have discovered that Mr. Phillips directed Mrs. Phillips to float the provocative statements in the seance for the purpose of blackmail.”
Diane’s head jerked up. Her red-rimmed eyes widened in a glare. “That’s not true.” Her voice was shrill and rising. “Laverne heard from James. It’s dreadful”—now she was shaking—“that James had to tell us someone killed Jack.” She pushed back her chair, struggled to her feet, trembling. “I can’t believe this has happened. No one in the family would hurt Jack. But Margo hated Jack. She and Shannon live in a little house on the grounds. She could have put Walter in the workshop. She’d know about that gun in J. J.’s desk. She knows everything in the house.” Diane rushed to the door, yanked it open, and ran into the hall.
Both the chief and I looked after her thoughtfully. Yes, Diane had depended upon Laverne, revered her. Yet if Diane had slipped up behind Jack, a desperate creature driven to violence, and Ronald knew, he might have wanted much more than a nice steady income from Diane. Diane was a very wealthy woman. Or Diane might have feared for her son.
Could indecisive, sweet-natured Diane have shot two people?
