Followed by Amy, Fletch ran up two wide staircases.
On the third floor, he opened the door of a room and looked through it. There was no bedsheet tied to the railing.
“Are you crazy?” Amy asked.
Pushing by her in the doorway, Fletch said, “I think it’s your mother.”
Amy followed him down the corridor. “I know she’s crazy.”
The next door to the left was open.
Fletch sprinted through the room onto the balcony.
A bedsheet was tied to the railing.
He looked over the balcony.
Less than four feet below the railing hung Amalie Radliegh. Her black hat and veil were on the ground way below her, but she still wore her long black dress and gloves.
Her face was purple.
Fletch supposed her neck was broken.
Her body hung limp.
Amy peered over the high railing like a child looking off a bridge. “Mother … ?”
“Sorry.” Fletch turned Amy away from the sight.
There was the sound of a loud engine roaring somewhere on the estate.
At first Fletch thought it was the sound of another airplane lifting off.
“Is she dead?” An old woman came onto the balcony from the bedroom.
“Oh, Gran.” Amy tried to put her arms around the old woman but was shrugged off.
“Are you Mrs. Houston?” Fletch asked. “Her mother?”
“Yes. Is she dead?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Houston did not look over the railing. “Once death starts happening, you see…. She did not hang herself.”
“No,” Fletch answered. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I know so. Amalie was miserable because she did not love and did not hate and did not hope and did not despair. She was murdered. Are you going to haul her up?”
The engine noise seemed at a distance but was still deafening.
Looking out over the estate, Amy said, “Duncan …”
“Yes,” Mrs. Houston said. “Duncan is using his racing car to chase the locals off Vindemia. At least, that’s what he thinks he’s doing. His eyes are glazed with some fantasy. The local boys seem to be making sport of him. Which is why I came in.”
Fletch asked, “Did you see your daughter hanging?”
Mrs. Houston began to choke, but stopped. “Yes. She was thrown off the railing, wasn’t she?” The little woman made a pushing gesture with her hands. “Rolled off.”
“I believe so.”
“Amalie never had much fight in her. She never fought for anything she had, or was given her, to keep it, treasure it; not even her life.”
“She’d probably taken some pills,” Amy said. “Sedatives.”
“I’m sure,” Mrs. Houston said, “you are right.”
“I’d better get Lieutenant Corso.” Fletch started for the door to the bedroom.
For the first time he noticed the barbecue fork on the floor of the balcony. There was blood on the tips of the tines.
“No.” Fletch stopped. He stared at the barbecue fork. “Amy, I think we had better go find your children. You both should come with me.”
Then came the great explosion.
The sound of the roaring engine stopped instantly.
Fletch whipped around.
Even in the brilliant midday sunlight the white flames rising from the exploded racing car were visible a mile away.
The accident was in the middle of the road near the gatehouse.
The racing car had smashed into the guardhouse.
Below the flames Fletch saw what looked like pieces of a smashed mirror piled up against the stone wall.
Then great black smoke rose from the mirror fragments, and began to settle over the mess.
Amy said, “Oh, Duncan …”
Mrs. Houston sighed. She said, “And things could have been so nice, for everybody.”
25
“What’s that noise?” Peppy asked.
“Duncan,” Jack answered.
When Jack had returned to his half of the cottage he found his door open.
Peppy was sitting on the sofa bed with a beer can in hand and four empties on the floor.
“I never heard that car make so much noise before, except on the track,” Peppy said. Duncan’s racing track was far from Vindemia’s main buildings. “He’s ridin’ it around the estate roads at full throttle?”
“He’s chasing people in pickup trucks.”
“Chasing them!” Peppy’s expression was wry. “What’s he gonna do if he catches anybody? Cry in his face?”
“I’m making sandwiches for my father and me. How many do you want?”
“He’ll whine at them. Complain about how life isn’t fair. It’s all his father’s fault.”
“How many sandwiches do you want?” Jack repeated. “Seeing you’ve made yourself at home, anyway.”
“What kind of sandwiches?”
“Cheese. It’s all I’ve got. How many?”
“Several.”
“Running out of bread,” Jack said. “This healthy bread comes in small packages.”
“Jack, is your dad anything?”
“Anything like what?”
“Anything important. I mean, he was at that party last night.”
“Journalist,” Jack said.
“You mean, he’s on television?”
“No,” Jack said. “He’s never been on television.”
“Newspaper writer.”
“Something like that.”
“‘Cause I need help.”
“You know Chet has left Vindemia?”
“Yes.” Peppy shifted his booted feet on the floor. “And I’m not goin’ to prison for that son of a bitch.”
Jack was dealing sliced cheese on pieces of bread on the kitchenette counter. “What do you mean?”
“Will your dad be able to help me?”
“He may be able to.”
“Chet got me to do somethin’ I didn’t want to do,” Peppy said. “Somethin’ I didn’t know I was doin’.”
“Sure,” Jack said.
Peppy shrugged. “You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”
“No,” Jack said. “I don’t.”
“You find yourself doin’ some ridiculous things around here.”
“You’ve said that before.”
