The Seventh Commandment (12 page)

"Suits me," Trevalyan said.

On New Year's Eve, Dora and Mario walked to their church for a noon service. Afterwards, they went looking for Father Piesecki and found him in the church basement where he and a fat altar boy were gilding a plaster saint. They told him about the open house they were having that night and urged him to stop by.

"I'll try," he said, "but I have four other parties to visit."

"Homemade kielbasa," Mario said.

"I'll be there when the doors open," Father Piesecki promised.

It was a wild and wonderful evening, with friends and family members coming and going. Most of the guests brought a covered dish or a bottle, so there was plenty to eat and drink. Neighbors had been invited to forestall complaints about the noise. Father Piesecki showed up with his accordion and never did get to those four other parties.

No one got too drunk or too obstreperous, and if the Christmas tree was knocked over during a violent polka, it was soon set aright. Even Mike Trevalyan and Mario's trucker friends were reasonably well-behaved, and the worst thing that happened was when Dora's elderly uncle dropped his dentures into the punch bowl.

Mario started serving espresso from his new machine at 1:00 A.M., but it was almost three o'clock in the morning before the last guests went tottering off. It was an hour after that before the remaining food was put away, empty glasses and scraped dishes stacked in the sink, ashtrays wiped clean, and Dora and Mario could have a final Asti Spumante, toast each other, and fall thankfully into bed. They didn't make love until they awoke at eleven o'clock on January 1.

She returned to New York the following day. Manhattan was still digging out from a five-inch snowfall, but that was pleasant; garbage on the sidewalks was covered over, and the snow was not yet despoiled by dog droppings. Streets had been cleared, buses were running, and the blue sky looked as if it had been washed out and hung up to dry.

She called John Wenden from her suite at the Bedling-ton, but it was late in the afternoon before he got back to her.

"Hey, Red," he said, "how was the holiday?"

"Super," she said. "How was yours?"

"No complaints. I drank too much, but so did everyone else. How's your D.O.H.?"

"My what?"

"Your D.O.H. Dear Old Hubby."

"My husband is fine, thank you," she said stiffly, and Wenden laughed.

"Listen, Red," he said, "I finally heard from Records. What they dug up on Father Brian Callaway is pretty much what you told me: real name Sidney Loftus, smalltime scams and swindles but no violent crimes. He's never done a day in the clink-can you believe it? Nothing on either Turner or Helene Pierce. That doesn't mean they're squeaky clean, just that they've never been caught. Let's see, what else… Oh yeah, I had a nose-to-nose talk with the Starrett servants. They finally admitted the eight-inch chefs knife disappeared the evening Lewis Starrett was killed."

"John," she said, "I thought you were convinced Lewis and Solomon Guthrie were murdered by an ex-employee."

"Convinced? Hell no, I wasn't convinced. But when two guys from the same company get iced, it's S.O.P. to check out former employees who might be looking for revenge. It's something that has to be done, but there's no guarantee it's the right way to go."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. So you still think it might have been someone at that cocktail party?"

"It could have been Jack the Ripper for all I know," the detective said. "What's your next move?"

She thought a moment, remembering Trevalyan's warning not to reveal too much. "I don't know," she said. "Just poke around some more, I guess."

"Bullshit," Wenden said. "Unless I miss my guess, you're going to investigate where Callaway was at the time Solomon Guthrie took his final ride in a yellow cab."

"I might do that," she admitted.

"Don't hold out on me, Red," he said, "or I'll bring this beautiful friendship to a screeching halt. Forget about Callaway; I've already checked him out. He was in a hospital the morning Guthrie was offed."

"A hospital? What for?"

"Minor surgery. I'd tell you what it was, but I don't want to make you blush. Let's just say he's now sitting on a big rubber doughnut. Anyway, there's no possibility he could have aced Guthrie. Disappointed?"

"Yes," Dora said, "I am."

"Welcome to the club," John said. "How about lunch tomorrow?"

"Sure," Dora said. "Think you can stand hotel food again?"

"I can stand anything," he said, "as long as it's free. Can you make it early? Noon?"

"Fine."

"It'll be good seeing you again," he said. "I've missed you, Red."

"And I've missed you," she replied, shocked at what she was saying. Then: "John, what's the name of Starrett's attorney?"

"Oh-ho," he said, "the wheels keep turning, do they? His name is Arthur Rushkin. Baker and Rushkin, on Fifth Avenue. That's another one you owe me."

"I'll remember," she promised.

"See that you do," he said, and hung up.

She called Baker amp; Rushkin on Fifth Avenue, explained who she was and what she wanted. She was put on hold for almost five minutes while "Mack the Knife" played softly in the background. Finally Arthur Rushkin came on the phone. Again she identified herself and asked if he could spare her a few minutes of his time.

"I have to be in court tomorrow," he said, "but I should be back in the office by four o'clock. How does that sound?"

"I'll be there, Mr. Rushkin."

Then she dug out a copy of the progress report she had submitted to Trevalyan. She reread it for the umpteenth time, searching for what Mike had said was a logical motive for Callaway killing Lewis Starrett. She still hadn't found it, and thought maybe Trevalyan was putting her on; he was capable of a stupid trick like that.

But this time she saw it and smacked her forehead with her palm, wondering how she could have been so dense.

Turner had warned Helene of Clayton's reaction to Solomon Guthrie's death and had suggested the spin she put on it.

"You'll have no trouble," he predicted. "Most people believe what they must believe, to shield themselves from reality."

"But not you," Helene said.

"Oh no," Turner said airily. "I take reality raw a la sauce diable. Delicious, but it might make you sweat a bit."

Still, it was no easy task to convince Clayton that Guthrie's murder had been a simple mugging gone awry. He admitted that such senseless killings occurred every day on the hard streets of New York, but Helene could see that guilt gnawed; he could not rid himself of the notion that somehow he had contributed to Sol's death, that he was in fact an accessory. That was the word he used: accessory.

Finally she ignored Turner's instructions on how to handle this crybaby and resorted to a more elemental and effective method: She took him to bed. Within minutes sorrow was banished, guilt forgotten, and he was exhibiting the frantic physical ardor of a man who had been brooding too much on mortality.

She understood his passion was death-driven, but no less enjoyable for that. Afterwards, though, she had to listen to his banal maunderings on how fleeting life was; how important it is to "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may"; how no man on his deathbed had ever said, "I should have paid more attention to business"-all hoary cliches Helene had heard dozens of times before, usually from older men.

But this time the peroration was different.

Lying flat on his back, legs together, arms at his sides, staring at the ceiling for all the world like a stripped corpse being fitted for a shroud, Clayton declared:

"I've decided to change my life. Change it completely."

It was said in a challenging tone, as if he expected opposition and was prepared to overcome it.

"Change it how, Clay?" she asked.

"I'm going to leave Eleanor. People are supposed to grow closer together in a marriage; we've grown farther apart. We're strangers. I don't know her anymore, and she doesn't know me. It's not the way I want to spend the rest of my life."

"Have you said anything to her?"

"No, not yet. Before I do, I want to get mother's reaction. And yours."

"Mine?" Helene said, fearing what was coming. "I have nothing to do with it."

He turned his head on the pillow to stare at her. "You do. Because if mother approves-or at least is neutral-and I leave Eleanor, I want to marry you."

She was nothing if not an accomplished actress, and her face and voice displayed all the proper reactions: shock, pleasure, dubiety. "Clay," she started, "I'm not-"

But he held up a palm to stop her. "Wait a minute; let me make my case. First of all, my marriage has become unendurable. That's a given. And I see no possibility of the situation improving. Absolutely not. So no matter what you decide, my life with Eleanor is finished. You mustn't think you're responsible for the breakup. It would have happened even if I had never met you."

"Shall I get us a drink?" she asked.

"No, not yet; I don't need it. Helene, I know I'm twice your age, but surely there are other things more important. We think alike, laugh at the same things, get along beautifully, and we're building up a lot of shared memories, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"I may not be the world's greatest stud, but I'm not a complete dud, am I?"

"It's all I can do to keep up with you," she assured him, and he smiled with pleasure.

"The most important thing is your future," he said earnestly. "Your financial future. And that I can guarantee. I know that if I wasn't helping you out, you'd be depending on your brother's generosity. But how long do you want to do that? And what if he suffers financial reverses-it's always possible-then where are you? What I'm offering you is security, now and for the future. You must think about your future."

"Yes," she said, "I must."

"Marry me, and we can draw up some kind of agreement so that even if I die suddenly or our marriage doesn't work out, you'll be well taken care of. I know how much you enjoy the good life. This is your chance to make certain you can keep enjoying it."

"You're quite a salesman," she said with a tinny laugh. "I think I better have a drink now. May I bring you one?"

"Yes," he said. "All right."

Naked in the kitchen, leaning stiff-armed on the coun-tertop, she wondered how she might finesse this complication. She wished Turner was there to advise her, but then she knew what he'd say: stall, stall, stall. Until they could figure out the permutations and decide where their best interest lay.

She poured vodka over ice, added lime wedges, and carried the two glasses back to the bedroom: a proud, erect young woman with a dancer's body and appetites without end.

She handed Clayton his drink, then sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

"I won't say anything about your leaving your wife," she said. "I've never suggested it, have I? Never even hinted at it. It's really your decision and none of my business. But I don't understand why you feel you must marry me. Why can't we continue just the way we have been? I'm perfectly content."

He shook his head. "First of all, I happen to be a very conventional man. Tradition and all that. If I'm to have a long-term relationship with a woman, it should be legal; that's the way I was brought up. Second, for purely selfish reasons I want you for my wife. I want to be seen with you in public, take you to the theatre and parties, hear you introduced as Mrs. Clayton Starrett. I don't want people smirking and whispering, 'There's Clay with his floozy.' That wouldn't reflect well on Starrett Fine Jewelry. Bad public relations."

"I can see you've given this a lot of serious thought."

"Yes, I have," he said, missing the irony completely, "and I think you should, too. I don't expect an answer this minute, but if you think it over carefully, I know you'll see the advantages, especially security-wise."

"You don't mind if I tell my brother about this, do you?"

"Of course not," he said with a rapscallion grin. "I was counting on it. I know how close you two are, and I'm betting he'll be all for it. He'll tell you it's the smart thing to do: look out for Numero Uno."

She didn't reply.

He finished his drink and climbed out of bed. "Listen, I've got to get back to the office. Things are in a mess since Sol passed. Dick Satterlee has taken over and is doing what he can. But Sol carried a lot in his head, and it's going to take a while to get things straightened out."

After he was dressed, he tugged a small suede pouch from his side pocket and tossed it onto the bed. "Two carats. Pear-shaped. There's a tiny inclusion in the base but you'll never notice it."

"Thank you," she said faintly.

"I hope the next stone I give you will be in a solitaire," he said. "And I promise it'll be larger than two carats."

"Clay," she said, "do you love me?"

He waved a hand. "That goes without saying," he said, and bent down to kiss her.

After he was gone, the door locked, bolted, and chained behind him, she added the new diamond to her hoard and sat staring at the glittering heap. She didn't want to call Turner immediately. She needed time to think, to plan, to figure the best way to look out for Numero Uno.

The snow had melted, but the gutters were awash with garbage and some street corners were small lakes. But having gained almost five pounds during the holiday at home, Dora decided the walk downtown would do her good. This was after lunch with John Wenden during which she virtuously nibbled on a small tuna sandwich and drank nothing but tea.

"Are you sick?" John asked.

"Diet," she explained. "My New Year's resolution."

"I made one, too," he said, swilling his beer. "To cut out the beer."

Strangely, they spoke little of the Starrett case at lunch. Mostly they exchanged memories of Christmases past when they were children and the world was bright with hope and their dreams without limit.