The Seventh Commandment (6 page)

They stared at each other for a thoughtful moment.

"Tell you what," Dora said finally, "I'll ask my boss to run Callaway through our computer. But our data base only includes people who have been involved in insurance scams."

"Do it," the detective urged. "Just for the fun of it."

Their giant pizza was served, and they dug in, plucking paper napkins from the dispenser.

"How you coming with the Starrett family?" Wenden asked her.

"All right, I guess. So far everyone's been very cooperative. The net result is zilch. Why do I have a feeling I'm not asking the right questions?"

"Like what?" he said. "Like 'Did you kill your husband?' or 'Did you murder your father?' "

"Nothing as gross as that," she said. "But I'm convinced that family has secrets."

"All families have secrets."

"But the Starretts' secrets may have something to do with the homicide. I tell you, John-"

"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.

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 Star-rett Fine Jewelry, and he could not risk her displeasure.

As for Helene, he could not see her rejecting him even if he was old enough to be her father. In addition to her physical attractions, she had a sharp mind, a real bottom-line mentality. He knew of no other lovers she had, and while he was no Adonis, he offered enough in the way of financial security to convince her to disregard his age. And, of course, Turner Pierce was dependent on Starrett Jewelry for a large hunk of his income. He could count on Turner's endorsement.

Eleanor would be saddened. Naturally. But there were many women in Manhattan, in their circle, who had endured the same experience. There was nothing like a generous cash settlement to cushion the shock.

Clayton finished the brandy, rose and stretched. The matter would demand heavy deliberation and prudent judgment. But he thought it was doable and needed only a clever game plan to make it a reality.

He went to bed, thought more of his decision and how it might be implemented. And never once, in all his speculation, did he put a name to what he planned. Just as, not too long ago, people spoke of cancer as the Big C, because naming the tragedy was too shocking. So Clayton Starrett never said, even to himself, "Divorce." Or even the Big D.

The Company's Hartford office opened officially at 9:00 A.M., but Dora knew Mike Trevalyan arrived every morning at eight to get his day's work organized. She called him early on his private line and grinned to hear his surly growl.

"Tough night, Mike?" she asked.

"No tougher than usual. I had to go to a testimonial dinner for a cop who's retiring. A very wet party. What's up?"

She told him what she wanted: Run Brian Callaway through the computer and see if there was anything on him. And get her some inside poop on Starrett Fine Jewelry: who owned it, their assets, revenues, profits, and so forth.

"Callaway will be easy," Trevalyan said. "I should have an answer for you later today. Starrett will take some time. It's a privately held company, so there won't be much public disclosure. But I have some contacts in the jewelry trade, and I'll see what I can dig up."

"Thanks, Mike," Dora said. One of the things she liked about her boss was that he never asked unnecessary questions, like, "What do you need this stuff for?" She couldn't have answered that.

She had an appointment at noon with Helene and Turner Pierce. It gave her enough time to have a leisurely New York breakfast (lox and cream cheese on bagel) and then wander about the selling floors of Starrett's store on Park Avenue. Miniature Christmas trees were everywhere, decorated with gold tinsel, and muted carols were coming from concealed speakers. There were few customers, but not a single clerk came forward to ask, "May I help you?"

Dora spent almost an hour inspecting jewelry in showcases and silver, crystal, and china on open display. All price tags were turned facedown or tucked discreetly beneath the items. But Dora knew she could never afford the things she liked-except, perhaps, a sterling silver barrette in the shape of a dolphin.

She arrived at Helene Pierce's apartment house a little before noon. It was a shiny new high-rise on Second Avenue, all glass and rosy brick with a gourmet food shop and a designer's boutique on the street level. The doorman wore a plumed shako and military cape of crimson wool. Inside, the concierge behind a marble counter wore a swallowtail of white silk. Dora was impressed and wondered what kind of rent Helene Pierce was paying. Even if the apartments were co-ops or condos, she figured the maintenance would be stiff; plumed shakos and silk swallowtails cost. And so do elevators lined with ebony panels and antiqued mirrors.

The woman who opened the door of the 16th-floor apartment looked to be ten years younger than Dora, six inches taller, and thirty pounds lighter. She had the masklike features of a high-fashion model, her smile distant. She was wearing a cognac-colored jumpsuit belted with what seemed to be a silver bicycle chain. Her long feet were bare.

"Dora Conti?" she asked, voice flat and drawly.

"Yes, Miss Pierce. Thank you for seeing me. I promise not to take too much of your time."

"Come on in. My brother should be along any minute."

The apartment was not as lavish as Dora expected. The rugs and furnishings were attractive, but hardly luxurious. The living room had a curiously unlived-in look, as if it might be a model room in a department store. Dora got the feeling of impermanence, the occupant a transient just passing through.

They sat at opposite ends of a couch covered with beige linen and both half-turned to face each other.

"What a lovely building," Dora said. "The lobby is quite unusual."

Helene's smile was mocking. "A little garish," she said. "I would have preferred something a bit more subdued, a bit more elegant. But apparently people like it; all the apartments have been sold."

"It's a co-op?"

"That's correct."

"How long have you lived here, Miss Pierce?"

"Oh… let me see… It's been a little over a year now."

"I hope you don't mind my saying, but you don't talk like a New Yorker. The Midwest, I'd guess."

Helene stared at her, then reached for a pack of cigarettes on the end table. "Would you like one?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

Dora watched her light up slowly, wondering if this lovely, self-possessed young woman was stalling.