'I am,' she said, crooking a finger at him.
Detectives Helen Venable and Brian Estrella had never worked together before, but they found to their pleased surprise that they made a good team. He thought her a bright, vigorous woman willing to take on her share of the donkeywork. She thought him a bit stodgy, but smart and understanding. Best of all, he didn't pull any of that macho bullshit she was used to from other cops.
She told him everything she had learned about Joan Yesell, and especially the business of Mrs. Blanche Yesell and her Friday night bridge club.
'The old bitch was lying to us,' she said bitterly.
'Maybe and maybe not,' Estrella said.
'?'here was a bad storm that night; the bridge game could have been called off.
In that case she was probably home like she says. What's your take on Joan?'
I can't believe she's the perp. I swear to God, Brian, she wouldn't hurt a fly.'
'But she'll hurt herself. She's suicidal, isn't she?'
'Suicidal, yes; homicidal, no.'
He went through the. slow routine of packing his pipe, tamping down the tobacco, lighting up, puffing.
'Helen, sounds to me like you've already made up your mind about this woman. You like her?'
'Very much. We're even talking about sharing an apartment.'
'Take it easy,' he advised.
'Wait'll we clear her first.'
'Brian, she's such a little mouse. She hasn't got a mean bone in her body.
I tell you she's just incapable of snuffing Ellerbee-or anyone else. She cries when she sees a stray dog.'
'Uh-huh,' he said.
'The meanest killer I ever scragged raised gerbils.'
'You want to talk to Joan and see for yourself?'
'Not yet,' he said.
'You keep up the buddy-buddy routine with her, but don't tell her I'm working with you.'
Without making it obvious, he spent all week double checking Venable's investigation- and couldn't fault it. He talked to doctors at St.
Vincent's, with fellow employees at Yesell's law office, with neighbors, storekeepers, even the postman who delivered mail to the Yesells' brownstone.
Everything he heard substantiated what Helen had told him: Joan Yesell was a timid, withdrawn woman. The only gossip Estrella picked up was that Blanche Yesell was a real battle-ax who treated her daughter like a cretin without the brains or will to make her own decisions.
On Friday night the two detectives were slouched in Venable's Honda parked a few doors down from the Yesells' home.
'With my luck,' Helen said gloomily, 'Mama Blanche will have the bridge club meeting at her apartment tonight.'
'Doesn't make any difference,' Estrella said.
'If she does, you and I will tail two of the women after the game breaks up.
Brace them, get their names and addresses, and we'll take it from there.
But if Mrs. Yesell comes out-' And, while he was talking, she did come out. She turned eastward and crossed the street.
'That's her,' Venable said tensely.
'Okay,' Estrella said, 'you go after her and get the number of the building she goes into. I'm going to make a phone call.
Meet you back here.' elen took off after the scurrying Mrs. Yesell. Brian headed for Eighth Avenue and used a wall phone in an all night deli. He called the Yesells' apartment.
A faint voice, 'Hello?'
'Mrs. Blanche Yesell, please,' Estrella said.
'She's not here right now. Who's calling?' -This is Detective Brian Estrella of the New York Police Department. To whom am I speaking?'
'This is Joan Yesell, Mrs. Blanche Yesell's daughter.'
'Miss Yesell, it is important that I contact your mother tonight.
There's a document wed like her to sign. It's just routine, but we do have to go by the rules and regulations, you know.'
'A document? About Doctor Ellerbee's death?'
'Yes. Just her statement that she was home with you on that night. Could you tell me where I might reach her?'
'She's at her bridge club.'
'Could you give me the phone number so I can contact her?'
'Well, she's at Mrs. Ferguson's tonight.'
'Do you have the phone number?' he persisted.
She hesitated a moment, then gave him the number. Using a ballpoint pen, he jotted it down on the back of his hand.
'Thank you very much, Miss Yesell.'
A few minutes later he was back at the Honda. Helen was waiting for him.
'I got the address,' Venable said.
'And I got the name and phone number. We're in business.' The next morning Delaney felt equally optimistic as he and Monica set out with the Boones for Diane Ellerbee's country home.
'Looks like a splendid day,' Delaney gloated.
And so it was. A blue sky shimmered like a butterfly's wing. The sun was a hot plate and there, to the east, one could see a faint smudge of white moon. The sharp air bit like ether, and the whole world seemed scrubbed and polished.
Traffic was heavy, but they made surprisingly good time, stopping only once at a Brewster gas station to ask directions, use the rest rooms, and buy five gallons of gas in gratitude.
They drove. slowly along a country road, commenting on the mailboxes: a windmill, a miniature house, a model plane.
'Very cutesy,' Delaney said.
'What's the Ellerbees' going to be-a little black leather couch with a red flag?'
But the mailbox marked Elerbee was the plain aluminum variety. It was at the entrance to a narrow side road that curved through a stand of skeleton trees up to the house and outbuildings. The gentle rise was not high enough to be called a hill, but sufficiently elevated to provide a pleasant view of the rolling countryside.
Boone drove onto the groveled apron outside the three-car garage. Parked outside was a dusty Volkswagen and the Ellerbees' Jeep station wagon.
The garage door was up, and they could see Dr. Simon's bottle-green XJ6 Jaguar sedan and Dr. Diane's silver and black 1971 Mercedes-Benz.
'I've got to get a look at that Mercedes,' Delaney said.
'It's a beauty.'
He and Boone went into the garage while their wives slowly strolled up to the main house along a curving pathway of slate flagstones.
Delaney and Boone spent a few minutes admiring the handsome cars in the garage.
'I'll take the Jag,' Boone said, then laughed.
'Can you imagine me driving up to Midtown North in that buggy?
They'd know I was in the bag for sure.'
'Mmm,' Delaney said.
'I wonder why she hasn't sold it.
Who needs a Jaguar and a Mercedes?'
'Maybe she can't find a buyer,' the Sergeant said.
'About all I can afford is that old Beetle parked outside. Who do you suppose owns it?'
