incomprehension, for Mrs. Rennie said quickly, “I’m sorry, I see you don’t know.”
“Know what, Mrs. Rennie?”
“That Patrick is adopted.” Her expression softened. “He was three days old when he came to us. It was all very quietly and discreetly done, none of the fuss of going through a national agency. My husband’s solicitor arranged it all. Of course, we explained it all to Patrick as soon as he was old enough to understand.”
“No, I didn’t know.” Gemma studied the portrait. “The resemblance is quite remarkable.”
“A little divine intervention, perhaps,” Mrs. Rennie answered, and Gemma saw a quirk of humor in her smile.
Gemma looked down into the drive from the toilet window. She’d heard the sound of a car as she dried her hands, and as she watched, a tan estate car disappeared into a carport around the side of the house. She didn’t dare snoop-the old wooden floorboards creaked and she felt sure the progress of every footstep would be audible downstairs.
The voices came clearly to her as she descended the stairs. “Louise, they have no right. It’s completely-” Their heads turned as she reached the last landing. The man was tall and thin, with the small bristly mustache that was almost a badge of the retired military.
“My husband, Major Rennie.” His wife rested her fingers lightly on his arm, a restraining gesture.
“I don’t know how we can help you.” His face had flushed pink-no wonder, thought
“John, I’m sure that’s not necessary-”
“As I told your wife, Mr. Rennie, it’s nothing to be concerned about. These sort of questions are routine in a murder investigation.”
Even softly spoken, the power of the word ‘murder’ silenced them both, and in their faces Gemma read the beginnings of fear.
“I’ve commandeered Cassie Whitlake’s office.” Peter Raskin grinned. “I wouldn’t say it was graciously lent. Pick an inconspicuous spot and make yourself comfortable.” He surveyed the room from the door. “Only one chair this side of the desk.” He turned back into the bar and swept up a barstool with one hand. “This do?”
“Admirably,” answered Kincaid, and settled in a corner of the small office. “Suits my precarious position.” He watched as Raskin tested the swivel of Cassie’s chair and gave it an approving pat. Raskin’s deft fingers shoved and patted the tumbling pyramid of Cassie’s papers until he’d made a neat stack in one corner of her desk. “She won’t be too pleased.” Kincaid nodded toward the desk’s now clear and orderly surface.
“She won’t be the only one. All the guests are present and accounted for now, and I’ve had the P.C. round them up in the sitting room. They’re going to be tired and fretful and wanting their tea, so the sooner we get this over with, the better.
“Let’s have the Hunsingers first and get them out of the way. I understand from Emma Mackenzie that they were in the pool with the children all morning.” Raskin slid around Cassie’s desk and went into the bar, returning a moment later with a very subdued Maureen Hunsinger.
Maureen gave Kincaid a tremulous smile as Raskin offered her the chair. She perched stiff-backed on its edge, her white, crinkled-cotton dress ballooning about her. Kincaid thought she should have looked ridiculous-her hair even more frizzy than usual from her hours in the pool, her face red and puffy from weeping, but he found a certain dignity in her posture and in her obvious grief. A voluptuous and rather erratic madonna, he thought, and suppressed a smile.
“John’s with the children. Will you be wanting him, too?”
“Probably just to sign your statement,” Raskin answered diplomatically.
“It’s been terrible for the children. First Sebastian, now this. What are we to tell them that makes any sense? We thought this morning that if they had fun in the pool they would forget what had happened there, but now-” Maureen sounded near to tears again. “I wish we’d never come here.”
“I understand how you must feel, but I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to stay on a bit longer, at least until we complete the formalities.” Raskin’s voice was gentle and sympathetic, and Kincaid saw Maureen relax a little in her chair. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me what you did this morning?”
“The children woke us. We had breakfast, then after a bit we all went down to the pool. Emma joined us-”
“For how long?”
“Oh, about an hour, I suppose. She said she’d had enough, then not too long afterwards the children began to get hungry again, so we came up ourselves. We were just changing when Janet Lyle came and said something was happening-she didn’t know what.” Maureen leaned forward in entreaty. “Please tell me exactly what’s happened. I know Penny’s… dead, the constable told us. But what happened to her? Is it like… Sebastian?”
Raskin spoke formally, the policeman’s best emotional defense, Kincaid thought wryly. “Miss MacKenzie suffered a severe blow to the back of the head. I’m afraid that’s all we can tell you just now.”
Maureen sank back in her chair, and it seemed to Kincaid that with the confirmation of her worst fears, all the emotional tension drained from her. She took her leave quietly, but when she reached the door she turned and spoke. “I’m going to see about Emma. Someone must. She shouldn’t just be left on her own like this.” The set of her mouth brooked no argument.
They came and went in quick succession, with varying degrees of cooperativeness.
Cassie slid into the visitor’s chair, slipped off her pumps and tucked her feet up under her. It was as deliberate a demonstration of ownership, thought Kincaid, as he’d ever seen. She glared balefully at the neat stack of papers on her desk. “You do realize how long it will take me to put that right again?”
Peter Raskin allowed himself a hint of a smile. “And I thought I’d done you a favor.”
“Where’s Chief Inspector Nash?” Cassie’s eyes went quickly to Kincaid.
“Attending the autopsy,” Raskin said. “Rank hath its privileges. Now, if you wouldn’t mind-”
“I was here all morning. Working.”
“Did-”
“Oh, I used the downstairs loo once or twice, if that’s the sort of thing you want to know. I straightened the sitting room and the bar. Patrick Rennie was working at the sitting room desk. And Eddie Lyle came through for something or other. I saw no one else.”
“Admirably succinct, Miss Whitlake,” said Raskin, unruffled by her assumption of the interview.
“Call me Cassie. Please.” Cassie switched the seductiveness on full power, and Kincaid watched with interest to see how Raskin would respond. She stood suddenly and leaned over her desk, forcing Raskin to move back as she opened the center drawer. “Sorry.” After rummaging for a moment, she produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “Secret vice. Doesn’t impress the customers.” Her hand trembled as she struck the match, and Kincaid thought that for all her aplomb, her nerves betrayed her.
“The Superintendent here,” again that swift glance at Kincaid, “thinks I ought to fess up. And I’d much rather confess to you, Inspector, than Chief Inspector Nash.” Cassie awarded Raskin a floodlit smile.
“Do go on.”
“I said that I spent Sunday night alone in my cottage. Well, it’s not true. I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t in my cottage. I’d met Graham Frazer in the empty suite… oh, around ten, I guess, and we were there until nearly midnight.” Kincaid marveled at her ability to turn a potentially embarrassing revelation into an almost flirtatious challenge.
“Did you do that often?” Raskin asked, then colored slightly as he realized how it sounded. “I mean, the two of you.” Not much better, thought Kincaid, amused to see a crack in the imperturbable Raskin’s composure.
“Well, we’ve had a thing, you might say, for the last year or so.” Cassie drew on her cigarette and leaned forward confidentially. “Graham didn’t want anyone to know. Custody problems. Of course, I would have said something right away if I’d known it would be important. I hope,” her voice became intense, “it won’t have to go any farther.”
Raskin stood and moved toward the door. “I can’t make any promises, of course.” He sounded ingratiatingly smitten. “Thank you for being so cooperative, Miss Whitlake.” Raskin’s emphasis fell on the formal address. He’d had the last word, after all.
“How’d you manage to worm that tidy bit of information out of her?” Raskin asked Kincaid when he had shut the door.
