The Man Who Loved His Wife (21 page)

Later, when Elaine had gone back to her room, Don reread an item copied from the diary:

When it is over and I am gone she will say she loved me and wanted me to live. She might even believe this is true because I
have noticed that most people believe what they need to believe. Especially when desperate and trying to hide from the killer side of our souls. Believing is convenient when it helps us forget that our minds are like beasts in the jungle.

In the locked desk drawer Don had also found lists of properties, stock holdings, bonds, and investments. Although not yet a member of the bar there, he knew that in California, as in most states, a person convicted of murder cannot inherit the victim's property.

He returned to the bedroom quietly. Cindy heard him, turned toward the wall, and pretended to be asleep. She had been restless too, had got up twice, first to take a crumpled plastic bag from a hiding place behind the luggage in the closet, to fold it and place in her hatbox; then to remove it, shake it out, and place it over the beige organza dress she had worn to the party.

10

“SORRY,” SAID CINDY, POKING HER HEAD IN, “but Don told me to wake you up. Those detectives are here again and a new man. He'll want to talk to you. Don's been with him for ages.” She came into the room, watching herself in the mirror, arranging a lock of hair, smoothing her lip rouge with a caressing finger. She was correctly dressed for mourning, but wore too much eye makeup.

Elaine noted the time with horror. It was after eleven. “I didn't get to sleep until after five.” She pushed herself up in the bed. “More detectives?”

“Sticking their noses into everything. People in mourning ought to be allowed some privacy.” In the mirror Cindy saw drama. “Don's made breakfast for you. Everything's ready but the toast. Who do you think killed Daddy?”

She could not have asked more blandly about a yard of silk or a recipe for salad dressing.

“Cindy!”

“Well somebody did.”

“That's ridiculous. We all know it was suicide.”

“I never thought so. And the detectives don't either.”

“I don't believe it.”

Cindy came to the bed and bent over Elaine triumphantly. Superior because the police agreed with her, that it had not been suicide, she whispered, “I heard him tell Don, that new detective, he's from the Homicide Department, more important than those two from yesterday, and cute, too.”

“What did he tell Don?”

“That it wasn't sleeping pills that killed him.”

“Are you sure he said that?”

“I happened to be in the hall and I heard it with my own ears.”

Elaine slid to the far side of the bed. She did not like the heat of Cindy's breath upon her face. “Did he have any idea what it was?”

“He'll talk to us when he's through with Don. Was that another car?” Cindy darted to the window. More men were coming toward the house. One carried a camera, the other a metal box. Off Cindy whirled to learn the newest developments.

Elaine chose a black dress for her interview with the detectives. Her mirror showed a wan face with deeply ringed eyes and skin as sallow as old soap. In the mirror she found another face behind her own.

The detective, Juarez, called through the screen, “Sorry, Mrs. Strode. We're just looking around. I hope I didn't frighten you.”

Elaine was shaken. Her house had become possessed by strangers. Juarez retreated to the shed where the gardener kept his tools, seedlings, fertilizers, and insecticides. Defiant, Elaine clattered down the hall, tapping high heels firmly upon the floor as she passed the living room. A man who had been talking to Cindy sprang to greet her. “Good morning, Mrs. Strode. I deeply regret that I'm forced to intrude myself at this sad time, but I'm afraid it's necessary. We must get to know each other. I'm Curtis Knight.”

“How do you do?”

“I'm having a chat with your charming stepdaughter. You won't mind if I finish with her first?” he asked archly, like a
child's nurse withholding a treat. “Why don't you have a bite of breakfast before we talk?”

“Thank you.”

She clattered on down the hall, Sergeant Curtis Knight popped back to Cindy. He had barely seated himself when the girl began looking about, frantically as always, for a cigarette. “May I?” Knight sprang up with an unopened pack from which he deftly tore the cellophane.

He was not at all like a detective. Agile movements, gallant manners, winning tones were exaggerated almost to a point of absurdity. The miming was deliberate. It diverted the attention of those he questioned so that, while playing cavalier, he watched and listened scrupulously. His admirers were disarmed by his tricks, his subordinates irritated, while those subjected to his interrogation became self-conscious. No one enjoyed his theatrics so much as Knight himself. He was thirty-eight years old, a bachelor, devoted to his mother, and said to have extraordinary ambitions.

Cindy was impressed. Despite protests against the presence of the detectives in a house of mourning, she respected an officer of the law and hoped her answers pleased him. Movies and TV had given her an exaggerated idea of intelligence and deductive powers of such men. With an air of girlish restraint and few well-timed tears, she hid her fear of certain questions. Everything she has said to Redding yesterday was said again.

Knight noted every inflection and gesture. “And what did you do when you went in the bedroom and saw you father lying there?”

Involuntarily Cindy's hand reached out. “I . . . I . . .”

The hand was pulled back.

“Felt to see if he was alive?”

She nodded gratefully. “I was scared. I began to shake. I forgot the phone call and everything.”

“And then?”

“I called Elaine and told her.”

“How did she take it?”

“Cold as ice. And not too terribly shocked.” Lest the detective
think her prejudiced, Cindy went on, “Of course she's a lot older and has terrific self-control. And she did expect him”—her voice took on an uncalculated note of harshness—“to take his own life, she says.”

Knight did not subject her to any more questions about the discovery of her father's body. He was more interested in the events of the evening before the tragedy, particularly the scene at the dinner table. “Daddy wasn't in a good mood at all,” Cindy did not think it necessary to add that she had contributed to her father's ill humor, “and when Elaine admired
my
husband,” this with a wife's emphasis, “Daddy was terribly, terribly angry.”

“Why? Was he jealous of your husband?”

All earnestness and inflection, “He has no
real
reason to be,” Cindy said. “Don hasn't the slightest interest in a woman of her age, but when a girl like Elaine, married to a man
years
older than herself, and a
young
man as attractive as
my husband
is staying in the house, it's
obvious,
isn't it?” Riding high on a tandem of prejudice and conviction she prattled on. This had not been the
only
time her father had
exploded
in jealous rage, insulted his wife, made life
unbearabl
e for Elaine. There had been dozens of things, incidents too trivial to remember, like the time Daddy threw the chocolate mousse at Elaine's new dress. “And you know what she did? Oh, she took things meekly, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth when Daddy was around, but,” Cindy drew a breath of anticipation, “she broke all the lunch dishes. Haviland. Daddy teased her about it later but,” gravely Cindy stated, “still waters run deep you know. She tried to show us how brave and patient she was, but after all, with a sick husband. I mean . . . she'd made her bed, she had to lie on it.”

“You said that she, Mrs. Strode, expected your father to,” Knight chose his words with care, “take his own life. Did she ever mention this to you?”

“Not to me directly. I heard her say it afterward. Yesterday when those detectives were here. But she'd told Don before. If she expected poor Daddy to kill himself, why didn't she do something? She told Don last week.”

Malice was not calculated. Abrasive self-interest had not rubbed away with finishing school varnish. The girl had not only to uphold family honor, but she had to protect herself. There were areas of inquiry she hoped the detective would not try to explore. But why should anyone suspect anything about a plastic bag hanging innocently over a party dress?

BUTTERY YELLOW SUNSHINE lay thick upon the breakfast table. Don had gone out to the garden to pick an October rose for the one-blossom silver vase Fletcher had given Elaine, with a spray of white cymbidium, on Valentine's Day. The coffee was strong, the toast was crisp. Don served her with the skill of a devoted butler.

“What a pleasant place to have breakfast. May I join you? I don't think you'd be accused of suborning an officer if you were to offer me a cup of coffee.” Sergeant Knight praised the coffee, asked the brand and method of brewing, admired the house, commented favorably upon Mrs. Strode's talents as a decorator. The flattery was not insincere, the sergeant not the usual police detective. Although he had little use for women, he enjoyed their homage. In a jovial way he remarked that Mrs. Strode was indeed fortunate in having a lawyer in the house. “Mr. Hustings will be here while I question you. And, of course, you know you may refuse to answer if you wish.”

“You don't mind? I want to help you as much as possible,” Don said.

She shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.”

“You see, Sergeant, we're going to make it all very easy for you.” Don passed around his cigarette case. The intense yellow of the sunshine falling obliquely upon them gave the scene a theatrical air as if setting and light had been designed for a comedy of manners.

The scene began with explanation and apology. Knight was sure Mrs. Strode would not mind having her home searched; a mere matter of routine, quite ordinary in the circumstances.

“What circumstances?”

“The case of your husband's death has not been ascertained.”

“Then it wasn't the sleeping pills?” Elaine had already got a hint of this from Cindy, but if she had betrayed the knowledge she would have cheated herself of a full explanation.

“Not according to the tests, Mrs. Strode. The level of barbiturates in the blood was not sufficient to cause death.”

Elaine shook her head. “It's hard to believe. Especially since he had secret stores of pills hidden all over the place.”

“The laboratory's going on with tests, and they're looking around the house for some other clue to the cause,” Don said.

“Then why,” asked Elaine, “did Dr. Julian say it was sleeping pill suicide?”

“Did he, Mrs. Strode? Or were you the one who suggested it?”

The telephone had been ringing. Cindy came in to say that Dr. Julian wanted to speak to Elaine. “Go right ahead,” Knight said as if she had asked permission. In the hall she met a detective who had been looking in the linen closet. He jerked a bow.

Ralph wanted to know how she felt. He had called earlier and been told she was asleep. “No one mentioned it to me,” Elaine said. Raising her voice in defense of anyone who might be listening on the extension, she said, “The house is crawling with detectives. They're looking for some mysterious clue. Do you know that it wasn't the sleeping pills?”

The Coroner's office had given Ralph this information earlier. He could not talk now, he said, because he had not finished his hospital rounds. Elaine felt that he was being cautious. She had hoped he would not be too busy to see her later that day.

“Nice talk?” asked Knight when she came back. He started at once to question her about the sleeping pills. She found the repetition irritating. “I told this to all the other detectives yesterday. Must we go over it again?”

“I'm sorry if it distressed you, Mrs. Strode.” Solicitude was a bit too showy. “But I want to hear it again, and precisely from your own lips.” Above the smile the eyes were shrewd. Knight asked many questions about the events that had preceded Fletcher's death, repeated what she had already told him, and popped from one subject to another so unexpectedly that
sometimes Elaine answered too quickly and without sufficient thought. Many details seemed irrelevant, but Knight gave every trifle the utmost attention.

“I understand, Mrs. Strode, that you were in the habit of going to your husband's room at night while he was asleep.”

“Yes.”

“Every night?”

“Almost. Perhaps not every night.” She did not recall having talked about this to any of the detectives, but thought it wiser not to ask how Knight had found it out.

“Do you mind if I ask the reason you did this?”

She answered softly and Knight, apologizing because he hadn't heard, said, “Speak a little louder, please.” There was another pause. Elaine offered a conciliatory smile before she told him, her tone scarcely above a lover's whisper, that she has gone to her husband's room to make sure he was breathing properly. “He'd been so terribly sick, you know.”