Death of a Cozy Writer

later that I left my children, for the most part, when I left that wretched marriage. But I don’t myself recall a day when they all got along, even as toddlers. Constantly fighting from the day they could wave a spoon about; quite vicious they were. George probably still has a scar from when Albert brained him with a choo-choo.” She sighed, tapping varnished nails against folded arms. “Where to start? I can tell you Sarah, the youngest, was the strangest of the lot. Fey. What the kids today would call a nerd, I imagine. Her school’s headmistress told me once Sarah would sit in chapel every Sunday and take notes on the sermon-didn’t half get on the minister’s nerves. She also tends to weigh every thought until she’s completely paralyzed herself into inaction. Hardly a chip off the old block, mine or Adrian’s.

“Then there’s Albert. Those two at least seemed to get along: he and Sarah. Both of them-all of them-jealous of Ruthven, of course. He was the favorite and no mistake. Dynamic, gifted, charming. Well, charming when he wanted something, but whatever else is the point of charm? Anyway, parents do have favorites, Chief Inspector, although they may try to hide it. Ruthven was mine.”

“I see. And Albert? You say he was jealous of Ruthven?”

“Albert.” Sigh. “He really does have talent, you know, but he seems to spend his life forever snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, in both his career and his private life.”

“You’ve seen him on stage?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “I snuck into several of his plays when he was performing in London.”

“Snuck in?”

“I relinquished my rights to him long ago, so, yes, I snuck in. I just wanted to see how he was doing.”

St. Just, catching a glimpse of the despair in her eyes, thought: Needed to, more like.

“As for George-I haven’t seen George in an age, so I couldn’t tell you. I doubt he’s up to much good.”

Off his look, she said:

“You’re surprised, are you? To hear a mother speak this way about her own brood? Sentimental lies from me won’t help your investigation-but then again, neither will the truth. I’ll tell you what: I don’t think you’ll ever be able to prove who did this. Because they all could have done it, any of them, killed my boy. That includes Adrian, that includes this Violet person, that even includes Lillian, although she must realize Ruthven’s death is the end of all her wild dreams of avarice. Adrian won’t leave her a cent with Ruthven gone.

“But whoever did it, that bastard Adrian was behind it; you mark my word on that. Go on, investigate all you want. But even if you do think you can prove something-if you can’t bring Ruthven back, I don’t much see the point.”

“You speak of Sir Adrian with… dislike. Yet you had four children by him.”

“Four,” she repeated, wonderingly. She might never have stopped to count them before. “Yes. Hard to understand, I imagine, if you weren’t of our generation. Worse if you were raised by nuns, as I was. Raised by wolves would have been better. Took me years to slake off all that nonsense.” She peered into her nearly empty glass-“Years,” she repeated-before drinking off the last inch in one go.

By now most of her lipstick had been washed away, except for a trace around the edges of her mouth. Her lips were trembling- pale, nearly white. She looked as if a child had drawn the outline of her mouth in crayon but forgotten to color inside the lines. He remained quiet, hoping she would continue, that letting her run on would at best tell him more, at least release the pressure she was under. The jangling chimes filled the silence, diverting his attention out the balcony window; he could see storm clouds chugging steadily across a sullen sky.

“God, but that racket drives me crazy,” she said.

She suddenly beelined toward the balcony. Before St. Just could reach her, he heard the sound of tearing wood, the shattering of glass. He caught up with her just in time to see the mangled chimes land in an ornamental pond in the front garden below.

Chloe stood dusting off her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.

14. RUMOR MILL

ST. JUST HAD BEEN reluctant to leave Chloe. He doubted the antiquated dog or housekeeper were much company, even though he had left her in their protective circle. They’d paused in their ministrations only long enough to glare at him (What have you done to her?) on his way out.

He sighed, riffling through the notes Sergeant Fear had provided him. He had Manda Croom to talk with next. She was Ruthven’s girlfriend and corporate comrade-in-arms, as his e-mail account on the laptop had revealed.

St. Just was feeling the sting of urgency on this otherwise quiet Sunday-a full awareness that the clock would not stop while he interviewed suspects at leisure. It didn’t help that there were so many suspects. Something had been unleashed in Waverley Court, and although he had left the place guarded like Buckingham Palace, his policeman’s instinct told him the something was not over yet.

He navigated central London, making a deliberate pass in front of the offices of Ruthven’s company, which were housed in an Orwellian structure of what appeared from a distance to be an enormous ice tray propped against a pyramid, but on approach resolved itself into an intimidating structure of reflective silver glass cut by exposed steel beams. It was on occasions such as this St. Just felt Prince Charles’ anti-growth stance was possibly more than the dilettantish messing about of the underemployed. St. Just pictured himself being hoisted skyward in the outside lift that would carry him to the top floor, where Ruthven had been king of all he surveyed. Inside, St. Just imagined, would be a rat’s maze of cubicles housing hundreds of people toiling in front of computer screens, to what object St. Just could only guess.

He found Manda living nearby this structure in a penthouse flat in Maida Vale, albeit in quite a different part of that community from the one in which Sarah lived. The flat was modern, in that polished-industrial-steel way St. Just particularly disliked. It looked the perfect place for alien medical experiments to be carried out on unsuspecting humanoids.

Manda herself was a surprise, not matching any of the various mental pictures sorted under the general category of “mistress” which he carried in his mind. For such, Ruthven’s treasure trove of a laptop had revealed, she was, or had been.

She wore her thin hair cropped as short as a man’s. On another woman it might have been youthful, pixyish; capping Manda Croom’s somewhat heavy features it looked as if a large black spider clung to her head for dear life. And, why, oh why, did all these modern young women dress as if they were setting out either to sue someone or attend a funeral? Perhaps she was in mourning; as she led him into the flat he could hear an all-news radio broadcast rehashing the sensational news about the murder of the famous mystery writer’s son. But she did not seem unhappy. Her face as she turned to him was composed, her manner businesslike.

She had, he saw, alert, dark-gray eyes behind steel-framed glasses that matched the furnishings. Her pronounced overbite became more pronounced when she pursed her lips with displeasure, which was often during the interview. He was reminded of a rodent listening for the approach of the neighborhood tomcat. What could Ruthven have seen in this pudding-plain woman? Simply a change from Lillian-and St. Just was willing to admit, a change from Lillian seemed perfectly justified-or something more?

But if Manda reminded him of anyone, it was Chloe, albeit a younger, slimmer version. Had not Ruthven noticed the similarities?

“I really don’t see how I can help you, Inspector, and I don’t have much time, anyway,” she said by way of greeting. She walked over and turned off the radio, cutting off the announcer in mid-gasp. “It’s quite a busy time for me. I’ve summoned the staff for a meeting tomorrow morning. To announce redundancies, I’m afraid.”

St. Just thought she didn’t look in the least afraid. The excited blinking behind the glasses, the arch delivery, spoke more of relish than reluctance.

Since he had not been invited to sit down, he did so, fearing immolation as he gingerly lowered himself into the shining arms of the steel-framed leather sofa, but finding it surprisingly comfortable.

“Even in spite of what has happened to Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk?”

“Especially in light of that. Life must go on, Inspector. Ruthven would have wanted me to forge ahead. I would