"Why?" Mom asked. "Do they have that many? And why do you care?"
"I care because murder usually begins at home and I can't seem to nail down who was where during the critical hours. Look . . ." He used his fingers to tick off family members. "Richard worked late in Boston Friday night, he says, and caught the last flight over, rather than drive. That left his Lexus in the garage at home in Boston. Presumably."
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "I want to hear all this, but I am starving. My breakfast was sometime last week and lunch—ah, didn't stay with me. Could we order pizza or something?"
There was a babble of agreement and a gush of suggestions. Cindy finally stood up and went inside to phone in an order before discussions continued through the night.
"Okay," I said. "Now what about the Lexus?"
"Yeah," my brother grunted. "The butler/chauffeur drove Richard to work Friday morning and took the car home. In the summer, there's only the butler and a maid in the Boston house, and they only work Tuesday till Friday noon, because none of the family is there weekends. So, we can't call them, but we assume the car is there."
"Now, over here," he continued, "We have one confirmed activity. Lillian left the house in her Saab around two, to play golf at Hyannis with a girlfriend. The golf club confirms that the two women indeed played golf and had dinner, with the dinner check signed by Lillian and time-stamped eight eleven p.m. That put her back here about nine, some twenty minutes before Richard arrived, by cab from the airport."
"And where was Grace at that time? I'm confused," Mom admitted.
I could tell from various expressions she wasn't alone. I stood up and took a drink order. Cindy came in with me to help, and we managed our first real hug and kiss, and looked at each other with regret. So much for romantic homecomings.
"We don't know for sure where she was." Sonny shrugged. "They didn't see her that night. Both said Grace sometimes went to bed early and watched TV or read. It's a really big house, you know, you don't hear noises much. They assumed that was where she was."
"Lots of assumptions going on." Trish reached unerringly for her Scotch highball on the tray I extended. "Any other facts?"
"Oh, yes, it's a fact that we haven't the slightest idea where Jack—or his car—may be." Sonny favored us all with a sour smile.
Hungry or not, that got my attention. "Do we know where he is supposed to be?"
"More or less," Sonny grumbled. "It seems that early Friday morning Jack was out in the yard barefoot and somehow managed to step on a nail. Lillian says it bothered him all day, but not enough to cancel his weekend plans." He began his fresh beer.
"Which were?" Cindy asked, as she stood and looked down the drive. Surely it was pizza time.
"He was going to pick up a friend in Newport, and the two of them were going to take the ferry across to Montauk, Long Island, and attend a house party at Sag Harbor. By the time Lillian left, he was limping and the foot looked inflamed, so Lillian made him promise to stop in the clinic. He said he would and they confirm that he did. After that, however, we can't seem to place him."
Headlights appeared and Grace Sanhope would no doubt have smiled ironically to know plebian pizza immediately took precedence over the tale of her aristocratic demise. There was a great, semipolite scramble for the food, and our little crowd took on the look of the zoo at feeding time, jaws grinding rhythmically, conversation in abeyance.
Finally, pizza diminished and salad demolished, we started talking again. "Why is Richard a suspect?" Aunt Mae asked. "I thought he was the goody-goody one in the family."
Sonny swallowed manfully. "Well, I hear from Pete Santos that Richard was supposed to become head of the firm on his thirtieth birthday. That didn't happen. His thirty-fourth birthday was last week. It didn't happen then, either, but I understand he and Grace had quite a set-to about it. She won't—wouldn't—give up the reins. Well, she has now."
"So Richard has motive," I mused. "If he wasn't in his office, he could have driven over here Friday afternoon late, killed Grace, driven back to Boston and flown over, leaving his car at home in Boston. But—and this makes no sense—he would have had to go to the clinic right before or right after he killed her, conveniently spotted a laundry cart, stolen it, jammed it in the back of his car, put Grace in the trunk, and driven her to my garage and placed her there in the cart." I stood up to dump my paper plate in the trash. "Is he familiar with the clinic? He certainly isn't familiar with my garage."
"Probably no to both," Trish agreed. "And a look at the Lexus, wherever it is, would show any clothing fibers or blood."
"There wouldn't necessarily be any blood," Sonny disagreed. "And since she used the car frequently, hair and fibers will be in it anyway, and that type of wound doesn't bleed much."
I'd been avoiding that topic, but now I had to ask. "Exactly how was she killed?"
Sonny gave me a dirty look, as if he wished I had waited till we were alone for that explanation. But it was too late now. Every face was turned toward him. He got his pedantic look and spoke as if he were reading from a case notebook.
"The murder weapon was a standard-type kitchen meat thermometer. It was shoved through the victim's left eye, into the brain, and wiggled around." He took another of my cigarettes and slowly lit it, giving his audience more than enough time to assimilate his news. Continuing, he said, "The victim would have been immediately unconscious, although she might have remained technically alive up to several hours."
We were all silent. Then my mother got up and began to clear the remains of our meal with quick, nervous movements. Trish began to help her. Cindy moved over into her chair and took my hand. "Try not to think about it, darling. At least she was unconscious. She didn't know ... all the rest of it."
I nodded, unable to speak. Aunt Mae had reached for a tissue. Sonny glared.
Aunt Mae pulled it together and said, "Sonny, you didn't say why you can't find Jack. You believe he has run away?"
"We don't know. Neither Richard nor Lillian know what friend Jack was picking up, nor who was giving the party in Sag Harbor. At least that's what they say. They are contacting some other people who 'might know.'"
He stood and turned to Trish. "I'm going back over to the Sanhope place and then to the office. I want to see if Lillian has heard from Jack. And I want to talk to the cook and maid again. They were so busy crying Saturday, they couldn't remember their names. And I'm hoping the old station wagon may have been found. Maybe we can figure out if Grace drove somewhere herself—either to meet someone or maybe running an errand. Or maybe the killer used it to transport her body. God, what a screwed up mess!" He turned and shook my shoulder gently. "Take it easy, Alex. I'm sorry you had to find her, but don't worry, we'll sort it out."
"I know you will. It just saddens me to think of her dying so horrifically. I know she was selfish and stubborn and sarcastic, but she was vibrant and smart and brave and humorous, too. And I'll bet in her day, she was sexy as hell." I don't know why I said that. It earned me a bunch of very strange looks.
But Aunt Mae bailed me out. "Indeed she was, my dear. Grace had a good twenty years on me, but I can remember looking at her when I was a young woman and being grass-green with envy."
Sonny yawned and stretched. "Tell me, Aunt Mae, where were you between five and nine o'clock Friday night?"
Chapter 24
Walking into John Frost's reception area at nine sharp on Tuesday, I handed my expense account to his long-time secretary to be typed up in legible form. "Be sure to give that to him when he's had a good lunch," I suggested with a smile.
She looked back at me with a sour grin. "I'll give it to him on his way home, so he can yell at his wife, not me," she said. "He and Trish have been here since eight this morning, and I haven't heard any gales of laughter. And he won't be thrilled to see Fargo. Yesterday some woman's Yorkie peed on his oriental rug."
"Oh, God. Well, into the valley and all that."
I tapped on the door and entered. John
looked up and questioned, "Is Denver housebroken?"
"Good morning, John. Good morning, Trish," I caroled. "How nice to see you both. Yes, I am glad to be home, thank you. And his name is Fargo, and his manners are impeccable." I hoped they were. I had visions of Fargo sniffing where the Yorkie had gone and feeling the necessity to prove his superiority.
"Yeah, yeah," John grunted. "Whatever. Sorry you had such a bad experience yesterday. Trish has been filling me in. Anyway, what the hell is the story on those two birds in Florida? I got a call from a lawyer in Bradenton, said they dropped the sister in a bayou, tied to a tire jack? And now the lawyer and some sheriff over in Louisiana are trying to say they really did nothing wrong and we should have looked the other way and given them the money?" He looked at me wonderingly. "What kind of people did you get mixed up with down there?"
"Different. Nice, but different. I need some coffee. This won't be short."
It wasn't. It was a long and unhappy tale, unhappily received, and I was relieved when it was finished.
I decided to check on the other long, sad tale I was involved in. Fargo and I walked over to the police station, pausing en route while Fargo, gentleman that he was, paused at a handy maple, having bypassed John's carpet.
The station was more heavily manned than usual with people on phones, on computers, on the fax—all too busy to more than nod a greeting. Pete Santos looked up from his desk, his face strained and tired.
"Hiya, Pete. I'm sorry about all your troubles. How's your mom holding up?"
Scowling, he answered, "About like yours would, I imagine, if she'd lost one relative and had another suspected of murder."
"Oh, come on, Pete, have a little faith. Jack may walk in any minute with a logical explanation."
Standing, Pete slammed some papers into his desk drawer and snapped, "Yeah, you really believe that? You were ready enough to nail Jack for rape, why not murder?"
"Pete, I really—"
"How do you know the same person who kidnapped and killed Grace hasn't kidnapped Jack? Maybe killed him, too? Well, I'll tell you one thing, if Jack is alive, he's innocent!"
He walked away, leaving me embarrassed and speechless. I'd been so busy thinking of Jack Sanhope as a suspect, it had never occurred to me he might be a victim. Suppose he and Grace had been kidnapped together. Why hadn't the kidnapper demanded a ransom? No phone call had been received ... at least not after the police got the tap on the wire. What if it had come through earlier, or in the mail? What if the Sanhopes had been trying to deal directly with the kidnapper?
I found Lieutenant Peres behind the door that said I would— feet on desk, coffee mug in hand, squinting at a blackboard across the room. The board had two columns, one headed Long shots, the other Short shots.
Under Long shots, Sonny had listed the caretaker/chauffeur as being at his daughter's wedding in Worcester. The maid and cook were marked as being together downtown for most of the critical time and having paid for their dinner by credit card. Lillian Sanhope carried the notation: "At country club 3 till 8:15 p.m." Finally, Richard Sanhope was noted as being "Barely possible, unlikely. Hired a killer? Unlikely."
Under Short shots, were the names I expected. Topping the list was Jack Sanhope with the succinct statement: missing. Following Jack was a notation of unknown kidnapper and/or robber. Lines three and four were dedicated to Mary Sloan and Maureen Delaney, with no descriptive notes.
A second blackboard, angled off from that one was headed Facts about Grace.
One section headed Friday had several entries.
"Friday approx. 12:30 p.m. lunch w/Lillian, in good mood, no sign of distress."
"Friday approx. 5:15p.m. told cook to leave cold dinner in fridge and then she and maid could have evening off. This was the last time Grace was seen by any household member.
"Saturday approx. 8 a.m. cook and maid came on duty. Grace's dinner plate, etc. in sink. No other sign of disturbance.
"Saturday 11:27 a.m. Call by Richard to Ptown police. Grace missing. Lt. Peres notified. Sgt. Mitchell and two officers conducted search. No clues. Ground slightly disturbed near telescope, but rain late Fri. night and Sat. morning destroyed details, if any.
"Saturday approx. 2 p.m. Phone tap arranged. Officers at house from then till midnight Sun. No unusual calls.
"Monday approx. 2 p.m. Grace's body found by Ms. A. Peres in her garage."
"Nothing new on Jack?" I asked.
"Nothing new on anything." Sonny put his feet down and sat up straight. "No report of the station wagon sighted. We've got a three-state alert out on that. And we're getting photos of the jewelry from their insurance company so we can put an alert out on the jewelry, in case somebody tries to hock it."
"So what's next?" I sipped delicately at the coffee I had poured myself. It was industrial strength.
"Mary and Maureen. I've got to see what they were up to over the weekend. Trish doesn't trust Maureen worth a damn, and, as you know well, Mary attacked Amazin' Grace in broad daylight. It should be a fun day."
Before I could tell him of Maureen's verbal attack on me, his phone rang. Sonny picked it up, listened a second and said, "Put him through." At the same time, he switched the phone to speaker and turned on a tape, and I heard Richard Sanhope's voice.
"Good morning, Sonny. Richard here. I've got some news for you."
"That's good to hear."
"Yes and no." Richard sighed. "Well, first of all, I just spoke to the butler in Boston. The Lexus is there. You can have someone look at it anytime."
"Thank you. I'll take care of that." Sonny made gestures of smoking a cigarette. I took the hint and lit one for him.
"And ... well... the old car has also turned up and so has Jack. Now don't go riding off in all directions, Sonny. It's really all quite simple." Richard was speaking very fast, as if to keep Sonny from interrupting.
"You see, Jack stepped on this nail Friday morning—"
"I know all about that—"
"No, you don't." Richard sounded irritated now. "Let me say this my way." Sonny looked at me and shrugged, as Richard continued. "Okay, he stepped on this nail. He was supposed to pick up a friend in Newport and the two of them would continue to Sag Harbor to some party. As the day went on, the wound bothered him a lot, and Lillian insisted he see a doctor. He agreed and Lillian went on to her golf game."
"Yes, Richard, we have this." Sonny sounded bored.
"Yes, but what you don't have is this. Jack started to leave, planning to stop at the clinic and go on to Newport. His car wouldn't start. The battery was okay, but it wouldn't start. He called the garage and they came out but couldn't start it either. They towed it away. So, figuring nobody would need the old station wagon, Jack took it." He stopped, as if he had explained everything.
Sonny ground out his cigarette and signaled me for coffee. I gave him a dirty look as I complied, Cinderella never being my favorite role.
Sonny's boredom had ceased. "Really! Okay, so he took the wagon, went to the clinic and then what?"
Now Richard was speaking slowly, picking each word as if choosing melons in a market. "Yes, well, at the clinic they dressed the wound and gave him tetanus and antibiotic shots plus antibiotic pills for later. He left and headed off-Cape. By the time he got to Buzzard's Bay he was feeling nauseous and headache-y. He stopped for coffee. It made him worse, and he says he really didn't feel like driving all that way to a party he felt too sick to enjoy. So he called his friend, cancelled and . . . uh . . . went on home and went to bed."
Sonny frowned. "Home, where? What home?"
"Uh, Boston. The house in Boston."
"To Boston." Now Sonny was talking fast. "He went all the way to Boston, to an empty house with no one to feed him, no one to take care of him if he got really ill, no company. He sat all weekend until Tuesday morning in a big empty house all by himself? Come on, Richard, does that sound sensible to you? Why would he do that when he could drive about the same distance back to Ptown where there were p
eople to care for him?"
"Oh, really, Sonny, it's not so strange. He wasn't all that sick. He just felt lousy. And things had been a little tense in Ptown. He just wanted to be alone and think things out, he says. And there's loads of food in the house, and TV and the DVD player and films and books. Oh, there's a pool table and hot tub." Poor Richard sounded as if he were a real estate broker touting a really badly over-priced house.
"Where is he now?" Sonny asked coldly.
"On his way here." Via the car wash, I added silently.
"Well, thanks for calling, Richard. Have Jack phone me when he gets here."
Sonny hung up and looked at me. "So, what are you thinking?"
"First of all, things have been 'tense' at Sanhopeville for weeks, but this is the first time it's been mentioned by anyone but Jack." I put Sonny's coffee on his desk with an ungracious slop. "Second, that busted Mercedes sounds very handy. It gave Jack the perfect excuse to take a car he could carry a corpse in . . . although I suppose the laundry cart was just luckily available. He probably just planned to wrap the body in a blanket."
I held up three fingers. "Third, Jack was not entirely happy with our conversation last week. He would have been a logical person to hide Grace in my garage ..."
"But how did he know you were out of town?" Sonny asked.
I shrugged. "It was no secret. Cassie and Lainey knew. Frost's travel agent knew. The dry cleaners. I think I mentioned it to Nacho and Pete. Joe at the Rat knew. Hell, I don't know . . . anybody, everybody .. . plus whoever Mom and Aunt Mae told. That pretty well covers the eastern seaboard. Jack, however, probably didn't know I'd be back so soon."
"Yeah, I see. Well, I'll be interested to see what Jack has left for forensics to turn up in the station wagon. He had all weekend to vacuum and scrub."
I laughed. "He'll miss something, never fear. Well, we'll get out of your hair. Good luck with Jack, whenever he shows up."
"I hope it's fast and simple. Chief Franks and the prosecutor are getting edgy for an arrest. See you later." He gave Fargo an ear tousle and a tired smile as he turned back to his blackboards.
The Weekend Visitor Page 15
