“If we were in England,” said his wife thoughtfully, “I’d plump for Church of England, but there’s really no equivalent here. I like the close-knit East Holloman family network, and I don’t want our children on an outer orbit because their parents failed to agree. I’m the one married into the circle, and the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. But I refuse to convert or go to mass, and I won’t make our children go to mass.”
“Sounds fair,” he said, enormously relieved that there would be no battle. “I only go to mass at Christmas and Easter, though I will go for Tommy Norton. I made a pact with Silvestri.”
“That man is brilliant,” she said, smiling.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Roast loin of pork with crackling.”
“I am putty in your hands, lovely lady.” He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Why didn’t you fight harder? I expected you to. You did insist on a civil wedding.”
“I was pregnant at the time, and in no mood to fiddle with the bride business. I just wanted to be Mrs. Carmine Delmonico as quickly as I could.”
“It doesn’t answer your attitude tonight,” he persisted.
“Very simple,” she said, draining her glass. “I abominate coeducation, and East Holloman’s Catholic schools are not coeducational. The last thing teenaged children need as they suffer the onslaught of hormones is the presence of the opposite sex in a classroom. Oh, most children survive it, but the cost is dearer. Look at Sophia, tarting herself up every day just to go to school. A dose of uniforms would do her good.”
“There are no limits to your surprises,” he said, following her into the kitchen. “Did you wear a uniform?”
“We mostly all do. I went to a Church of England day school and wore a hideous navy blue tunic over a shirt and tie. My hat was held on by elastic under my chin to keep it from blowing off in a wind-hats were expensive. And I think,” she went on reflectively, bending to lift the roasting pan out of the oven, “that of all the indignities a uniform meant, that elastic under the chin was the worst.” Out came the roast onto a board. “Now it has to rest.” She rapped the beautifully bubbled skin. “Ah! Perfect! All-male schooling is very important for Julian,” she went on without pausing.
“Why him in particular?”
“Because he’s going to be tall, dark, and terribly handsome. If there were girls in the classroom and schoolyard, he’d never have any peace. It would also swell his ego. The St. Mary’s girls can worship from afar.”
“The St. Mary’s girls will find a way.”
Desdemona looked curious. “Is that the voice of experience?”
“What else?”
“You mean I married a high school heartthrob?”
“No, you married a man in his forties with arthritis.”
“Peter Norton’s death proves the existence of a mastermind,” Carmine said to the Commissioner, Danny Marciano, Patrick O’Donnell and his own men. Delia, pleading work, had declined to come.
“We now have four cases closed-Jimmy Cartwright, John Denbigh, Bianca Tolano and Peter Norton-with the three shootings a given. Though we suspected the existence of a mastermind, he hadn’t shown his hand directly until Barbara Norton explained why she chose April third to kill her husband. We’ll never get a description out of her, and the name Reuben is a fiction. My guess is that Pauline Denbigh was conned with some highly sophisticated ploy; again, we may never get anywhere by questioning her. She’s aiming for an acquittal. Barbara Norton needed to be reassured that her husband would just go to sleep, whereas Pauline Denbigh didn’t care what her husband suffered as long as she didn’t have to watch. The cyanide evidence ceases with the murder of the Dean-we have the bottle. If there are to be more cyanide deaths, then the salts have already been taken out of the bottle. How much do you think is gone, Patsy?”
“If the bottle was full, about sixty grams-two rounded tablespoons,” Patrick said.
“You were right, Carmine,” Silvestri said. “One killer.”
“An adroit and ingenious killer. He used whatever tools were available to him-usually frustrated people. Barbara Norton and Pauline Denbigh both wanted to be free of domineering men without messy divorces and visualized persecution. Joshua Butler wanted to live his fantasies in the real world, but needed to be shown how.”
“What about the rest, Carmine?” Corey asked.
“More direct, if by ‘rest’ you mean Evan Pugh and Desmond Skeps. We can forget solving Beatrice Egmont, Cathy Cartwright, and the three shootings. An insurance company would call them collateral damage.”
“You don’t think that of Dee-Dee Hall?” Marciano asked.
“No, I think he killed her in person-why, I don’t know.”
“Okay, next phase?” Silvestri asked, parking his ashtray and its cigar under Danny’s nose.
“A general regrouping,” Carmine said, and sighed. “Oh, how I hate Cornucopia! But it’s back into the fray, guys.”
“Erica Davenport?” Corey asked hopefully.
“She’s involved, but she’s not the mastermind. I put her down as-” He broke off, frowning. No, he couldn’t mention Ulysses. “I put her down as a red herring.”
“That wasn’t what you were going to say,” Silvestri said as everyone filed out of his office.
“Well, I couldn’t say it! That’s why I hate Cornucopia-too many secrets.”
Myron was waiting in his office, eyeing it appreciatively.
“You could do with a coat of paint and some new furniture” was his opening remark. “But it sure beats the previous premises.”
His friend was turning into an old man almost overnight; the eyes were red-rimmed, the cheeks sunken, the mouth slack, and his perky, straight-backed posture had sagged.
“No one touches it until I’m on vacation,” Carmine said, seating himself behind his desk. “A mug of cop coffee?”
“No, thanks! I’d like to live to see a lunch menu.”
“What can I do you for, Myron?”
“I’m flying west this afternoon.”
“Not before due time, I would have said in the old days. Now”-Carmine shrugged-“that’s debatable. Does Erica know?”
“Yes.”
“Have you proposed to her yet?”
“No,” Myron said unhappily.
“Why not, if you love her?”
“That’s just it-I do love her! But I don’t think she loves me. At least, not the way Desdemona loves you.”
Carmine sighed. “Myron, you have to remember that Desdemona and I are a special case. We shared a common danger, and that tends to forge a special bond. We started out disliking each other-Jesus, you can’t look at us and wish for the same relationship! That’s sophomoric.”
Myron went scarlet, compressed his lips. “Well, okay, I admit that. But how do I get inside the defenses of a woman I
“I can’t help you,” said Carmine, bewildered. “What makes you think I could?”
“Because when she speaks of you, she has strong feelings! If it weren’t for you, I’d genuinely believe she doesn’t own any.” He waved his hands about wildly. “No, she doesn’t have the hots for you, so don’t start looking for the fire escape! I thought that maybe you had a cop technique…” He trailed off miserably.
“And that wasn’t what you meant,” Carmine comforted. “All you really mean is that something about me gets under her defenses, and you’re hoping I know what it is. But I don’t, Myron. Even if I did, I wouldn’t pass it on. You can pull women effortlessly. You pulled her. And actually you’ve gotten under her defenses enough for her to have confided in you. No one at Cornucopia knows she’s not a cold WASP princess, whereas you do. I’d call that major progress.”
“It’s chickenfeed,” Myron said despondently. “She lets me make love to her-she initiated our first time, I didn’t-but she goes away somewhere, Carmine. ‘Lie on your back and think of England’ might have been written just for her, except it’s not England she thinks of.”
“That’s not you, Myron. That’s her,” said Carmine, dying for the conversation to be over. “If I were you, I’d go talk to Desdemona.”
But Myron shook his head emphatically. “No, it was hard enough talking to you.” He got to his feet. “Give my
