“I’ll just put on the coffee.”
He concentrated on the violins. Their breathing was reminiscent of a full-bosomed girl whose passion had been awaken. He heard the rustle of Francine’s dress as she entered the room.
Softly, her voice asked, “Now what are your questions?” She was sitting, relaxed, in the flowered chair.
“Who told you your brother was dead?”
“Enid. She called me at the office. She was terribly upset. Crying. Incoherent. I called her back an hour later. In fact, we talked most of the night.”
“And you both decided not to go to Switzerland immediately?”
“Actually, we decided that the next morning. When the news first came, we weren’t of any mind to decide anything. By the next morning, when we had both had some rest, Tom had already been dead two days. It would take us another two days to get to Switzerland, what with Enid being in California, and I being in New York, and each of us working. Instead, Enid cabled permission for the cremation.”
“Okay. And then business went on as usual, you counseling Enid daily by phone.”
“Yes.”
“Then, in November, you both went to Switzerland?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
“Yes. Enid stopped over here, a night and a day. We flew over together.”
“What did you do when you got there?”
“Rented a car. Checked into a hotel. Rested. Next day, Enid collected the ashes from the mortuary. It took time for us to arrange a little prayer service, in a chapel. We knew no one. In fact, we did not apply to the Embassy for help—we didn’t think of it. We did have a service, late in the afternoon, Tuesday, I think, in a little chapel not far from the clinic. Just Enid, myself, and the minister. He spoke English. Enid brought the ashes to the service, and the minister had them on a little table, on an altar, throughout.”
“Then you and Enid returned together to New York with the ashes.”
The water pot in the kitchen was whistling.
“Yes,” Francine said. “Enid flew on to California.”
“How come the kids didn’t go to Switzerland with you?”
“Tom and Ta-ta?”
“Yes.”
“At that point, Enid thought they were just beginning to get over the death. She didn’t want to stir up their grief all over again. Remember, this was six months later.” Francine stood up. “Let me get the coffee.”
When she returned to the livingroom, Fletch was sitting up, his elbows on his knees. In her absence he had paced up and down the livingroom. On the low table near the window the mosaic was more nearly finished than he remembered. He looked out the window at the roofs and lights of other buildings before returning to the divan. She placed a cup of coffee in front of him and took her own cup to her chair.
“Francine,” Fletch said, stirring his coffee. “I think your sister-in-law murdered your brother.”
Her cup jumped in her saucer. “God!” she said. “Now what are you saying?”
“I think your dear, incompetent sister-in-law cleverly has walked you through a complete illusion—which you have believed.”
Francine’s breathing was suddenly shallow, her jaw muscles tight. She swallowed twice, rapidly. “Really, Fletch! You are putting me through an awful lot!”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I have some evidence.”
“Of murder?” Her voice was almost a shriek.
“Of murder,” he said softly. “I haven’t been confronting you with this evidence until I knew you, a little bit, and, well, until I was sure …”
“Sure of the evidence, or sure I can take it?”
“Oh, I’m sure of the evidence.”
“All right, Fletcher.” Francine Bradley was sitting straight and stiff in her chair, staring white-faced through the dim light at Fletch. “What’s your evidence?”
“Ashes, represented to be your brother’s, are not.”
“Ashes …” She seemed to be trying to repeat what he had just said. “Not my brother’s ashes?”
“No. They are not your brother’s ashes.”
“How can anyone tell a thing like that?”
“Last Saturday night—early Sunday morning—I went to Enid’s house in Southworth and took a small sample of the ashes from the urn. The previous afternoon, Enid had showed them to me and said they were your brother’s ashes.”
“You broke into my brother’s house?”
“The door was unlocked. I had the ashes analysed.”
“You stole my brother’s ashes?” Her throat muscles were so constricted her voice was barely audible.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Fletch asked. “They weren’t your brother’s ashes. They weren’t anybody’s ashes. They were just ashes.”
“What? How can anybody tell the difference between one person’s ashes and another person’s ashes? You just tell me that! So a mortuary mixed up ashes. Do you have to tell us that?”
“These aren’t human ashes at all, Francine. It isn’t a case of a mortuary mixing up ashes. It’s a case of your sister-in-law saying, These are human ashes, these are Tom’s ashes—when they aren’t.”
“Then what are they the ashes of?”
“Carpet,” said Fletch. “A tightly-woven carpet. Some pine wood. Some sand. A petroleum product, probably kerosene.”
Francine put her coffee cup and saucer on the coffee table so forcefully the saucer shattered and the cup fell over.
“I can’t stand any more of this.”
“Francine, you just told me that when you and Enid arrived in Switzerland last November, Enid collected the ashes from the mortuary. You did not go with her. She arrived back at your hotel carrying ashes she said were Tom’s.”
“Did I say that?”
“Is it the truth?”
“You have me so confused.”
“Enid brought the ashes of her Persian carpet to Switzerland with her.”
In the dim light of the livingroom, Francine’s eye sockets seemed hollow. The violin music from the wall- speakers was grating on Fletch’s ears.
“Listen, Francine.” Fletch sat forward and spoke reasonably, quietly into Francine’s white, slack face. “Enid told you your brother was dead. Her saying so is the only evidence you have that he’s dead. At her suggestion that news of Tom’s death would make the running of Wagnall-Phipps impossible for her, you did not rush off to Switzerland. You waited six months. You did not see your brother’s body. From what you just said about your trip to Switzerland with Enid, you did not talk with Tom’s doctors, or with the undertaker. The United States Embassy in Switzerland says that no American citizen named Thomas Bradley has died in Switzerland in recent years. The ashes on the mantelpiece in your brother’s home in Southworth are not your brother’s ashes.”
Fletch waited a long moment. Francine’s chin looked pinched. Then he took her hand.
“Listen, Francine. It wasn’t a happy marriage. I spoke with a neighbor of theirs, in Southworth. He didn’t seem your typical neighborhood gossip. But he said he and his wife used to hear Enid screaming all night, doors slamming, things breaking. Not just once in a while, but all the time. While this would be going on, the kids used to roar off in their cars in the middle of the night.”
“This is impossible.”
“I don’t know whether your brother was genuinely sick. Maybe you do?”
“He was.”
“Enid might consider herself well off without Tom, especially if she can get you to come run the business.”
“You think Enid killed Tom.” Francine’s statement landed between them like a thrown rock. She withdrew her
