'John?' he interrupted. 'Oh my, I thought you told me you were happily married.'
'Oh, shut up,' she said, laughing. 'If we're going to pig out on a pizza together, it might as well be John and Dora. What I was going to say is that I mean no disrespect to the NYPD, but I think the official theory of a stranger as the murderer is bunk. And I think you think it's bunk.'
He carefully lifted a pepperoni wedge, folded it lengthwise, began to eat holding a paper napkin over his shirt- front.
He had a craggy face, more interesting than handsome: nose and chin too long, cheekbones high and prominent, eyes dark and deeply set. Dora liked his mouth, when it wasn't smeared with pizza topping, and his hair was black as a gypsy's. The best thing about him, she decided, was his voice: a rich, resonant baritone, musical as a sax.
He wiped his lips and took a gulp of beer. 'Maybe it is bunk,' he said. 'But I've got nothing better. Have you?'
She shook her head. 'Some very weak threads to follow. Father Callaway is one. Clayton Starrett is another.'
'What's with him?'
'Apparently he's cheating on his wife.'
'That's a crime?' Wenden said. 'The world hasn't got enough jails to hold all the married men who play around. What else?'
'You got anything on Charles Hawkins, the butler?'
He smiled. 'You mean the butler did it? Only in books. You ever know a homicide where the butler was actually the perp?'
'No,' she admitted, 'but I worked a case where the gardener did the dirty work. I think I'll take another look at Mr. Hawkins. You going to drive me back to my hotel?'
'Sure,' he said. 'You going to ask me up for a nightcap?'
'Nope,' she said. 'A shared pizza is enough intimacy for one night. Let me get the bill; the Company can afford it.'
'Okay,' he said cheerfully. 'My alimony payment is due next week and I'm running short.'
'Need a few bucks till payday?' she asked.
He stared at her. 'You're a sweetheart, you are,' he said. 'Thanks, but no thanks. I'll get by.'
She paid the check and they dashed through a cold rain to his car, an old Pontiac she figured should be put out to stud. But the heater worked, and so did the radio. They rode uptown listening to a medley of Gershwin tunes and Singing al°n§ with some of them. Wenden's voice might have been a rich resonant baritone, but he had a tin ear.
He pulted up outside the Bedlington and turned to her. 'Thanks for the pizza,' he said.
'Thanks for the company, John,' she said. 'I'm glad I bumped into you'
She started to get out of the car, but he put a hand on her arm.
'If you cnange your mind,' he said, 'I hope I'll be the first to know.'
'Change my mind? About what?'
'You and me. A little of that divine harmony.'
'Good night› Detective Wenden,' she said.
Chapter 8
Clayton Starrett, flushed with too much rich food and good wine, stood patiently, waiting for his wife to finish cheek-kissing and air-kissing with all her cohostesses in the hotel ballroom. Finally she came over to him, smile still in place. Eleanor was a plain woman, rather bony, and her strapless evening gown did nothing to conceal prominent clavicles and washboard chest. But parties always gave her a glow; excitement energized her, made her seem warm and vital.
'I thought it went splendidly,' she said. 'Didn't you?'
'Good party,' he said, nodding.
'And the speeches weren't too long, were they, Clay?'
'Just right,' he said, although he had dozed through most of them. 'Can we go now?'
Most of the limousines had already departed, so theirs was called up almost immediately. On the ride home she chattered animatedly about the food, the wine, the table decorations, who wore what, who drank too much, who made a scene over a waiter's clumsiness.
'And did you see that twit Bob Farber with his new wife?' she asked her husband.
'I saw them.'
'She must be half his age-or less. What a fool the man is.'
'Uh-huh,' Clayton said, remembering the new Mrs. Farber as a luscious creature. No other word for her- luscious!
Charles, clad in a shabby bathrobe, met them at the door. He told them that both Mrs. Olivia and Miss Felicia had retired to their bedrooms. At Eleanor's request, he brought two small brandies to their suite, closed the door, and presumably went about his nightly chores: locking up and turning off the lights.
Clayton loosened his tie, cummerbund, and opened the top button of his trousers. He sprawled in a worn velvet armchair (originally mauve) and watched his wife remove her jewelry. He remembered when he had given her the three-strand pearl choker, the black jade and gold bracelet, the mabe pearl earrings, the dragon brooch with rubies and diamonds set in platinum. Well, why not? She was a jeweler's wife. He reckoned a woman who married a butcher got all the sirloins she could eat.
Eleanor came over to his chair and turned her back. Obediently he reached up and pulled down the long zipper. He saw her pale, bony back.
'Losing too much weight, aren't you, hon?' he said.
'I don't think so,' she said lightly. 'You know the saying: You can never be too rich or too thin.'
She went into the bedroom to undress. He sipped his brandy and thought of Bob Farber's new wife. Luscious!
Eleanor returned pulling on a crimson silk bathrobe.
Before she knotted the sash, he saw how thin she really was. There was a time, before their son died, before Eleanor changed, when to watch her dress and undress in his presence was a joy. He had cherished those moments of warm domesticity. But now all the fervor had disappeared from their intimacy. His joy had dried up, just as Eleanor's body had become juiceless and her passions spent on table settings for charity benefits.
She took one sip of her brandy, then handed him the glass. 'You finish it,' she said. 'I'm going to bed.'
She swooped to kiss his cheek, then went back into the bedroom. He knew she would don a sleep mask and insert ear stopples. He suspected the mask and plugs were intended as armor, to protect herself from unwanted physical overtures. That didn't offend him, though it saddened him; he had no intention of forcing himself upon her. His last attempt, almost two years ago, had been a disaster that ended with tears and hysterical recriminations.
He finished his brandy, put the glass aside, and drank from Eleanor's. He saw the bedroom light go out, and wondered how much longer he could endure this marriage that was all form and no content.
Since meeting Helene Pierce, he had become concerned about age and the passing of time. It seemed to be accelerating. My God, here it was Christmas again! A year almost over, so quickly, gone in a flash. He felt the weight of his years: His mind was sharp as ever, he was convinced, but the body inexorably slowing, gravity claiming paunch and ass, vigor dulled and, worst of all, his capacity for fun dwindling-except when he was with Helene. She restored him: the best medicine a man could want.
Bob Farber had done it, and so had a dozen other friends and acquaintances. It was easy to make crude jokes about old goats and young women, but there was more to it than a toss in the hay and proving your manhood. There was rejuvenation, a rebirth of energy and resolve.
It would be difficult, he acknowledged. He would have to move slowly and carefully. If he could not win his mother's approval, at least he would need her neutrality. As things stood now, she was, in effect, the owner of
