Within the past few minutes the earlier sunshine had given way to darkening clouds, and now rain seemed likely. Ainslie hurried back inside and instructed Officer Navarro to cordon off the rear of the house and have another uniform officer guard the area.
“As soon as the ID crew gets here,” he told Jorge, “have them photograph those footprints before the rain washes them out, and get plaster casts of the ones in the soil. Looks as if someone broke in,” Ainslie continued. “In which case it would be before the victim came to this room.”
Jorge considered. “Even so, Maddox-Davanal would have seen an intruder—remember, he has a contact wound, so they’d be close. Judging by those exercise gizmos, the guy must have been fit, so you’d expect him to put up a fight, but there’s no sign of one.”
“He could have been taken by surprise. Whoever fired the shot could have hidden, then come up behind him.”
“Hidden where?”
Together they looked around the spacious room. It was Jorge who pointed to a pair of green velvet curtains on either side of the French doors. The curtain on the right was held back by a looped sash, but on the left side the sash was hanging downward and the curtain was loose. Ainslie crossed to the left curtain, drew it toward him carefully, and looked behind it. On the rug were traces of mud.
“I’ll get ID onto that, too,” Jorge said. “What we need now are some times. Of death, of discovery of the body …”
The butler, Holdsworth, appeared and addressed Ainslie. “Mrs. Maddox-Davanal will see you now. Please follow me.”
Ainslie hesitated. In a Homicide inquiry it was the investigating detective who sent for those to be questioned, not the other way around. Yet it was not unreasonable, he thought, that a wife would prefer to stay away from the room where her husband’s dead body still lay. Ainslie had the right, if he chose, to take anyone, including Davanal family members and staff, to Police Headquarters for questioning, but what, at this point, would that gain?
“All right, lead on,” he told Holdsworth, and to Jorge: “I’ll come back with some answers about times.”
The drawing room to which Malcolm Ainslie was escorted matched the rest of the house in spaciousness, style, and signs of obvious wealth. Felicia Maddox-Davanal sat on a large wing chair, upholstered in a handsome silk brocade. She was a beautiful woman of about forty, with a classic aristocratic face, straight nose, high cheekbones, smooth brow and jaw—the last hinting at an early face-lift. Her light brown hair, thick and shining, with blond highlights, fell loosely to her shoulders. She wore a short cream-colored skirt that showed her well-shaped legs, and a matching silk blouse with a wide, gold-trimmed belt. She was perfectly groomed in every way—face, hair, nails, and clothes—and knew it, Ainslie thought.
Without speaking, she motioned him to an armless French antique chair facing her—a somewhat rickety gem and decidedly uncomfortable, he noted with amusement. If it was an attempt to make him feel servile, it wouldn’t happen.
As he usually did in circumstances of bereavement, Ainslie began, “I’d like to say I’m sorry about your husband’s death—”
“That is not required.” Davanal’s voice was firmly composed. “I will deal myself with personal matters. Let us confine ourselves to official business. You are a sergeant, I believe.”
“Detective-Sergeant Ainslie.” He was on the point of adding “ma’am” but didn’t. Two could play the dominance game.
“Well, before anything else, I wish to know why a crew from my own television station—entirely Davanal-owned—has been prevented from coming to this house, which is also Davanal property.”
“Mrs. Maddox-Davanal,” Ainslie said quietly but firmly, “as a courtesy I will answer that question, even though I think you already know the answer. But when I have finished I will take over this interview.” He was conscious, as he spoke, of the woman’s cool gray eyes focused unwaveringly on him. He met her gaze with equal aplomb.
“About the TV crew,” he said. “A so-far unexplained death has occurred here, and for the time being, no matter who owns this house, the police are in charge. And not allowing the media—any media person—into a homicide investigation is standard and lawful police procedure. Now, having dealt with that, I would like to hear, please, all that you know about your husband’s death.”
“Just a moment!” An elegant forefinger was pointed toward him. “Who is your superior officer?”
“Detective-Lieutenant Leo Newbold.”
“Only a lieutenant? In light of your attitude, Sergeant, and before going any further, I shall speak to the chief of police.”
Unexpectedly and out of nowhere, Ainslie realized, a confrontation had occurred. Still, it was not unprecedented; sudden stress, especially a violent death, sometimes had that effect on people. Then he remembered Officer Navarro’s comment: The lady’s used to being in control … she doesn’t like things any other way.
“Madam,” Ainslie said, “I will accompany you to a telephone right now, where you may, by all means, call Chief Ketledge.” He let his voice become steely. “But while you are talking, inform him that when your conversation is over, I am taking you into custody—and that means restrained in handcuffs—to Homicide headquarters because of your refusal to cooperate in the investigation of your husband’s shooting death.”
They faced each other, Davanal breathing heavily, her lips tightly set, her eyes reflecting hatred. At length she looked away, then, turning back, said in a lowered voice, “Ask your questions.”
Ainslie took no pleasure in his dialectical victory, and in a normal tone he asked, “When and how did you first learn of your husband’s death?”
“Shortly before seven-thirty this morning. I went to my husband’s bedroom, which is on the same floor as mine, wanting to ask him a question. When I saw he wasn’t there, I went to his study on this floor—he often gets up early and goes there. I found his body as you saw it. Immediately I called the police.”
“What was the question you wanted to ask your husband?”
“What?” Davanal appeared startled by Ainslie’s unexpected query, and he repeated it.
“It was …” She seemed at a loss for words. “I really don’t remember.”
“Is there a connecting door between your bedroom and your husband’s?”
“Well … no.” An awkward pause. “These are strange questions.”
Not so strange, Ainslie thought. First, there was no ready explanation for Davanal going to her husband. Second, the absence of a connecting bedroom door said something about the pair’s relationship. “Your husband appears to have received a gunshot wound. Did you hear a shot being fired, or any other noise that could have been a shot?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then it’s possible your husband could have been killed quite some time before you found him?”
“I suppose so.”
“Did your husband have any great problems or enemies? Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”
“No.” Mrs. Maddox-Davanal had recovered her composure, and went on, “You will learn this sooner or later, so I may as well say it now. In certain ways my husband and I were not close; he had his interests, I have mine, they did not overlap.”
“Had this arrangement been going on a long time?”
“For about six years; we were married for nine.”
“Did you argue a lot?”
“No.” She corrected herself. “Well, we quarreled occasionally about trivial things, but in important ways, hardly at all.”
“Were either of you considering a divorce?”
“No. The arrangement we had suited us both. For me there were certain advantages in being married; in a way, it provided a kind of freedom. As for Byron, the plain fact is, he was on to a pretty good thing.”
“Will you explain that?”
“When we were married, Byron was a very attractive and popular man, but he didn’t have much money and no great job prospects. After our marriage, both
of those things were taken care of.”
“Could you be specific?”
“He was given two important management posts—first in Davanal’s department stores, then at WBEQ.”
“Was he still doing either of those jobs?” Ainslie asked.
“No.” Felicia hesitated, then went on, “The truth is, Byron didn’t measure up. He was lazy and lacked ability. In the end we had to remove him from our business scene entirely.”
“And after that?”
“The family simply gave Byron an allowance. That’s why I said he was on to a pretty good thing.”
“Would you be willing to say how much the allowance was?”
“Is that essential?”
“Probably not. Though I think before this inquiry’s over it will come out anyway.”
There were several seconds of silence, then Felicia said, “It was two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year. Byron lived here for free as well, and all that exercise equipment he loved so much was paid for.”
A quarter of a million dollars annually, Ainslie reflected, and for doing nothing. The Davanal family, by not having to pay that anymore, would benefit from Byron Maddox-Davanal’s death.
“If you’re thinking what I think you are,” Mrs. Maddox-Davanal said, “forget it!” Then, as Ainslie made no answer, she went on, “Look, I won’t waste time or words—for this family, that kind of money’s petty cash.” She paused. “The real point is that while I didn’t love Byron, hadn’t for a long time, I still liked having him around. You might even say I’ll miss him.”
The last observation was made thoughtfully, as if in confidence. Somehow, since their exchange began, her antagonism had evaporated; it was almost, Ainslie thought, as if having been defeated in a showdown, she had surrendered and become a friendly ally. He did not believe, though, everything Felicia Maddox-Davanal had told him—particularly about discovering her husband’s body. At the same time his instincts suggested she had not killed her husband, though she possibly knew or guessed who had. In any event, she was hiding something.
“I’m a bit confused,” Ainslie said. “You’ve told me you still liked your husband despite your separate lives. Yet, just after discovering his death, his body even in the same room, you were more concerned about getting your TV crew in. It seems—”
Davanal cut in. “All right, all right! I know what you’re suggesting—that I’m cold-blooded; well, maybe I am in part. But what’s more important, I’m pragmatic.” She stopped.
Ainslie told her, “I’m still listening.”
“Well, I realized immediately that Byron was dead, and I had no idea who killed him. It was a fact; nothing I could do would change it. But what I could do was make sure that WBEQ—my TV station, which I run personally—broke the news ahead of every competitor, and that’s what I did. I sent for one of my crews, then when they weren’t allowed in, I got on the phone and gave our newsroom everything I knew. By now it’s all over Florida, probably much wider, but we were first, which, in a competitive market, matters.”
“With all your experience,” Ainslie said, “you really did know that your TV people wouldn’t be allowed in, didn’t you?”
Davanal grimaced. “Oh sure. But I was … What’s that macho phrase about pushing?”
“Pushing the envelope?”
“Yeah. Been doing it all my life. It’s second nature.”
“Nothing wrong with that, normally. Not a good idea, though, in a homicide investigation.”
They faced each other, then she said, “You’re an unusual kind of policeman. There’s something about you, I’m not sure what, that makes you different … and makes me curious.” The closing words were accompanied by her first smile and a hint of sensuality.
“If you don’t mind,” he responded matter-of-factly, “I still have more questions.”
She sighed. “If you must, all right.”
“At seven-thirty this morning—the time you said you found your husband’s body—and during last night, who else was in this house?”
“Let me think.” As she answered and they continued, more facts emerged.
Felicia’s parents, Theodore and Eugenia Davanal, lived in the house but were currently in Italy. Theodore was, in effect, the reigning Davanal, though he delegated much responsibility to Felicia. A valet and lady’s maid worked for Felicia’s parents and lived in, but they, too, were in Italy.
The oldest living Davanal was Wilhelm. Aged ninety-seven and the family patriarch, he had a suite of rooms high up in the house, where a manservant and his wife, a nurse, took care of him. “Grandfather is in this house now, and so are Mr. and Mrs. Vazquez,” Felicia explained, “though we see very little of any of them.”
According to Felicia, Wilhelm Davanal was senile, with moments of lucidity, “though they are becoming fewer.”
The butler, Humphrey Holdsworth, lived in with his wife, who was a cook. Two gardeners and a chauffeur, all with families, lived in separate accommodations on the grounds outside.
All of those people, Ainslie knew, must be questioned about any activity they might have seen or heard the previous night.
“Coming back to the discovery of your husband’s body,” he said to Felicia. “I believe that when the police—Officer Navarro—arrived, you were in the study.”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Well, after I first found Byron, I ran out and called nine-one-one from a phone in the hallway. Then … I can’t really explain this … but I was drawn back. I suppose I was partly in shock. It was all so sudden and horrible.”
“That’s understandable.” Ainslie was sympathetic. “My question is, during those two occasions when you were alone with your husband’s body, did you touch anything, or change or move anything, anywhere in that room?”
“Absolutely not.” Felicia shook her head. “I suppose my instincts were that I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t, simply couldn’t, bear to go even close to Byron or that desk …” Her voice trailed off.
“Thank you,” Ainslie said. “For now, I have no more questions.”
Felicia Maddox-Davanal stood as their session together ended, her composure once more regained.
“I regret we got off to a bad start,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll learn to like each other better as time goes by.” Unexpectedly, she reached out and touched Ainslie’s right hand lightly, letting the tips of her fingers linger for a second or two. Then she turned and a moment later was gone.
While still alone in the drawing room, Ainslie made two calls on his police radio. Then he returned to Byron Maddox-Davanal’s exercise room and study, now bustling with activity. The ID crew had arrived and was working, and the ME, Sandra Sanchez, was closely studying the corpse. The assistant state attorney, Curzon Knowles, who had worked on the Elroy Doil serial killings, was observing, questioning, and making notes.
Outside it was raining, Ainslie saw, but Rodriguez assured him, “We got pictures of those prints in time, good plaster casts, too.” Now photos were being taken of the muddy earth behind the curtain with the unfastened sash, after which the mud would be removed and a sample preserved. Elsewhere, fingerprints were being sought.
“Let’s talk,” Ainslie said. Taking Jorge aside, he described his interview with Felicia Maddox-Davanal, then dictated the names of all others to be questioned. “I’ve called in Pop Garcia,” he told Jorge. “He’ll work with you, help out with interviews and anything else you need. I’m leaving now.”
“Already?” Jorge regarded him curiously.
“There’s someone I want to see,” Ainslie said. “A person who knows a lot about old families, including this one. Who maybe can advise me.”
8
Her name was legendary. In her time she had been considered the most outstanding crime reporter in the country, her reputation far wider than her Florida readership and regular newsbeat of Miami. Her knowledge about events and people was encyclopedic—not only people in crime, but in politics, business, and the social milieu, remembering that crime
and those other groups often overlapped. She was now semi-retired, meaning that when she felt like it she wrote a book, which publishers eagerly printed and readers grabbed, though recently she had felt less like writing and more like sitting with her memories and dogs—she owned three Pekingese named Able, Baker, and Charlie. Her intellect and memory, though, were sharp as ever.
Her name was Beth Embry, and while she kept her age a secret, even in Who’s Who in America, she was believed to be well past seventy. She lived in the Oakmont Tower Apartments in Miami Beach, with an ocean view, and Malcolm Ainslie was one of her many friends.
The second phone call Ainslie had made from the Davanal house was to Beth, asking if he could pay her a visit. Now she greeted him at her apartment doorway. “I know why you’re here; I saw you on the morning news, arriving at the Davanals’. As usual, you were shafting a reporter.”
He protested, “I never shafted you.”
“That’s because you were scared of me.”
“Damn right,” he told her. “Still am.” They laughed, then he kissed her on the cheek while Able, Baker, and Charlie bounded and barked around them.
Although Beth Embry had never been conventionally beautiful, she had a bright vitality that was evident in every body movement and facial expression. She was tall and lean, still athletic despite her age, and invariably wore jeans and colorful cotton shirts—today’s was a yellow and white check.
The two of them had met ten years ago when, as a newspaper reporter, Beth began showing up early at the homicides Ainslie was investigating and asking for him personally. At first he was wary, then discovered he often got as much from her in background and ideas as he gave out in information. As time went by, a mutual trust grew, prompting Ainslie to direct a few “scoops” Beth’s way, knowing she would conceal their source. Then, once in a while, Ainslie would go to Beth for information and advice, as he was doing now.
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