The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery (9 page)

“Where shall we take her, Sarge?”

“Take her to the morgue at All Saints,” Masuto said. “We don't need an autopsy. Tell them to hold the body until we inform the family.”

Wainwright stood there in silence, his face glum and unhappy. From somewhere inside the house, Beckman remembered to switch on the driveway lights. The sudden blaze of illumination made the scene even more grotesque.

“It's over now,” the fire captain told Masuto. “Do you want us to call the tow truck?”

“No, just leave it there. I've called the L.A. bomb squad.”

The rescue people wrapped Alice Greene's body in a rubber sheet, put it on a stretcher and into the ambulance. The firemen climbed into their truck and drove off. By now, most of the curious had been ushered back into their houses or on their way. The uniformed cops stood around uncertainly, and Beckman came out of the house.

Still, Wainwright had not said a word.

“How are they?” Masuto asked Beckman.

“They got it under control. They were pretty hysterical at first, and I don't blame them. But we talked.”

“No more booze?”

“I was hard about that,” Beckman said.

“Go back and stay with them,” Masuto told him. “Until I come in. Tell them I must talk to them tonight.”

“How long?”

Masuto shrugged, and Beckman went back into the house.

“All right,” Wainwright finally said, “tell me about it.”

“I was talking to the women and she wouldn't have any of it.”

“Who? I don't even know who.”

“Alice Greene.”

“The one who got the poisoned candy? The dog?”

“That's right. She had a few drinks and she said she was going home. I couldn't stop her.”

“Did you try?” Wainwright asked.

“Short of using force. I didn't want her on the street and I didn't want her in her house. I told Beckman to follow her, and the moment she did anything that could be called a violation to pull her in for drunk driving. If I had dreamed that the car was wired—”

“We don't dream those things. What then?”

“She turned the key in the ignition, and the car blew.”

“No chance to get her out?”

“In two seconds, the car was a ball of flame.”

“Yes.” Wainwright nodded at the Seville and the Porsche.

“Nancy Legett and Mitzie Fuller.”

“They could be wired too.”

“I thought of that. The men from the bomb squad can look at them. I don't know what's in her garage. That could be wired too. This murderous bastard we're dealing with doesn't do anything by halves. He's thorough.”

“I want him, Masao,” Wainwright said, “and I want him quick. We're a small town, and we can't have this. If the media start putting two and two together, they're going to tie this whole package in to Beverly Hills. We got four murders now. You say the other three women are inside?”

“That's right.”

“I don't want anything to happen to them, Masao. If anything does, I am going to be one angry son of a bitch. I got enough to explain. They're going to come down on me like a ton of bricks over what happened here tonight.”

“I'll do my best.”

“You talk those women into spending the night here. I'm going to leave two men here, one in front and one in back, and when the bomb squad people come, I want them to go through the basement of the house as well as the cars and the garage. God only knows what that lunatic is up to.”

A few minutes after Wainwright left, the bomb squad arrived, their big armored truck grinding into the driveway. Kelp, the head of the squad, looked at the remains of the Mercedes and shook his head. “You hate to see it with a car like that.” He had worked with Masuto before. “Anyone in it?” he asked.

“A lady.”

“God help her.”

“Those two cars might also be wired,” Masuto said, pointing to the Seville and the Porsche.

“They're classy cars. Do you have the keys?”

“I'll get them for you.”

“Do you want us to be careful of prints? Are you going to dust the cars?” Kelp asked.

Masuto shook his head. “Not with this one. He doesn't leave prints. What do you think it is?” nodding at the burned Mercedes.

“Just a guess. Dynamite and a detonator. She turned the ignition key and it blew, is that it?”

“That's it.”

His men were already working on the burned car. “Dynamite,” one of them called out.

“Does a job like that take skill?” Masuto asked.

“Nothing to it if you know something about cars. The explosive end of it is very primitive. Tie a few sticks of dynamite together and attach a detonator. Funny thing about dynamite. Blow a stick here on the driveway and it wouldn't even put a hole in it. Go off like a big firecracker. But confine it properly and it's a demon. The connection with the ignition is a little more complicated, but nothing I couldn't teach you in fifteen minutes.”

“So it doesn't require an expert?”

“Not at all. But don't misunderstand me. There are experts in this business. Did she lock her car?”

“Not the doors.”

“That makes it easier, because the hood release is usually inside. We'll go over the cars, Masao, but you'd better get me the keys.”

“I'll do that. I also want you to look at the car in the garage and then check the basement.”

“What in hell have you got going here?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Well, it ain't the Beverly Hills I read about. We'll check out the place, Masao.”

Then Masuto went into the house for the keys.

The Women

It was eleven o'clock. The bomb squad had done its work and departed, discovering no other lethal contraptions. The car in Laura Crombie's garage and the two cars in the driveway were clean. The burned wreckage had been towed away, and a uniformed policeman was stationed in front of the house, with another at the back of the house. Masuto had left orders that the press and the television people, who were on the scene no more than twenty minutes after the incident occurred, should be told nothing, and they were barred from the house by the policeman on guard.

“Still,” Beckman said to Masuto, “sooner or later you got to talk to them.”

“I don't. Let Wainwright talk to them.”

They were in the kitchen of the Crombie house, seated around the big kitchen table—Beckman, Masuto, Mitzie Fuller, Nancy Legett, and Laura Crombie. Laura Crombie had put up a large pot of coffee and sliced ham for sandwiches. Masuto and Beckman were both hungry. Mitzie Fuller, who said she couldn't even think of food, had two sandwiches. Only Nancy Legett did not eat. She was still struggling for composure, and every few minutes she would begin to weep silently. Laura was self-contained and practical. She had things to do. It was her house and these were her guests.

“Violence is new to you,” Masuto said to them. “I hate violence as much as you do and I fear it too, but I live with it. My wife is made miserable by it, but she accepts it because it is my life. Tonight you must accept it, because if we are ever to find out who is doing this, we must talk calmly. I must ask you questions, and you must answer them sensibly.”

“It's crazy,” said Laura. “What kind of a person am I? Instead of weeping for Alice, I keep thinking of all that glass in my driveway.”

“That's understandable. It's less frightening, less awful. Your mind avoids the horror. Sy,” he said to Beckman, “get a broom and sweep up that glass.”

“Oh, no. No. I'll do it tomorrow,” she protested.

“Glad to. Gives me something to do,” Beckman said, relieved to be released from this well of emotion.

“Now all of you listen to me,” Masuto said to the women. “We're in this together. He tried to kill me too.” He touched the Band-Aid on his chin. “A long shot that missed.”

“Oh, no!” Nancy Legett exclaimed.

“This crazy monster—what does he want?” Mitzie Fuller asked.

“That's what we're trying to find out, and perhaps we can right here. Let me spell out the sequence of events, so they'll be clear in your minds. Try to think clearly and objectively. I know how hard that is and I know what a disturbing day you've all had, but I want you to put that aside. You are thinking that it is impossible. It is not impossible. Mrs. Greene will not be helped by our indulgence, but she may be avenged by our objectivity.”

“I'll try,” Nancy said. “I know you mean me. I'll try.”

“I mean all of you. Now let me trace what happened. A package of poisoned pastry was sent here. The man who sent it—”

“How do you know it was a man?” Mitzie interrupted.

“I know. Leave it at that. The man who sent it was intent upon killing one of you—not all of you—but one of you. Yes, it was to his benefit if more than one of you died, even if all of you died.”

“I don't understand,” said Laura.

“A very simple conclusion. Since all of you might have eaten the pastry, he was ready to accept all four murders. Or some of the four, since some of you might not have eaten. It was a scattershot thing. Even the death of one of you might have satisfied him.”

“But why?”

Beckman returned to the room. “Quiet?” Masuto asked him. Beckman nodded. “Go through the house,” Masuto said, “doors, windows—”

Beckman nodded and left the room.

“Why?” Masuto said. “Well, for one thing, he's insane. But perhaps all murderers are. And for another—well, let me reserve that for the time being.”

“You don't think there's anyone—anyone hiding here?” Nancy asked.

“No, but it never hurts to be thorough. Let me go on. Ana Fortez ate the pastry and died. The Chicano boy who bought the pastry and who probably delivered it here was murdered on the same day. The chemist who prepared the poisonous toxin was murdered today.” The fear in the eyes of the three women increased. “I don't like to tell you this,” Masuto said, “but I must. You must know what kind of a man we are dealing with.”

“Why must we know?” Nancy asked tremulously.

“Because I'm sure you know him. We'll hold that for awhile. I want to ask you who killed Alice Greene.”

They shook their heads in bewilderment.

“Guess,” he urged them. “The most likely candidate. Who hated her enough to kill her?”

“No one.”

“She's dead. Who hated her enough to kill her?”

“Her husband,” Laura Crombie said softly.

“Is that what you mean by ‘know him?” Nancy Legett asked plaintively. “Do you mean that this monster is someone we know, someone we have spoken to?”

“Didn't you hear him?” Mitzie Fuller said shrilly, a note of hysteria in her voice. “He thinks Alice's husband is the killer.”

“Her ex. Not her husband, her ex,” Laura corrected her.

“No, I do not!” Masuto said sharply. “Will you all please pay attention to what I am saying? Including Mrs. Greene, you are four divorced women. You have that in common. You are friends. You are attacked as a group. I must find a reason, a motive. I must know who has the need to destroy you. Mrs. Greene was killed. This does not mean her husband killed her. It also does not mean that he is innocent. We deal with him as a person under suspicion.”

At that moment, the telephone rang, an explosive sound that startled all three women. There was a wall extension in the kitchen, and Laura Crombie picked it up.

“Alan,” she said. Pause. “Yes, it's true. It's terrible—too terrible to believe.” Pause. “No, we don't know why. The whole thing is like a nightmare.” Pause. “I tell you I don't know any more than that. She turned the ignition key, and the whole car went up in flames. It was awful. She never had a chance.” Pause. “Yes, the police were here. I believe Sergeant Masuto is in charge of the case.” She looked at Masuto.

“I'll talk to him,” Masuto said.

“He's here, if you wish to talk with him.” She handed Masuto the telephone.

The voice was crisp and businesslike, yet Masuto felt he could detect an undercurrent of emotion and uncertainty. “This is Alan Greene. I was married to Mrs. Greene.”

“This is Sergeant Masuto. I'm in charge of the case.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“No more than Mrs. Crombie told you.”

“There's a damn sight more than that.”

“All right. Suppose you come over to headquarters tomorrow at ten
A.M.”

Hesitation, then, “Okay, I'll be there. Meanwhile, where have they taken Alice's body?”

“To the morgue at All Saints Hospital. Could you notify her next of kin?”

“The only kin I know about is a brother in New Orleans. They haven't seen each other in years. I don't think the son of a bitch would lift his ass unless he's in her will. I'll take care of the funeral arrangements.”