by Barbara Paul
“With reason,” Ivan remarked dryly. “Then the fire broke out?”
Then the fire broke out. At first Millwalker had stayed at the head of the stairs in Strode’s wing of the house. But then he could smell smoke and could hear someone yelling for help—Castleberry, he thought. So Millwalker went and pounded on Strode’s door and yelled for him to stay inside. Strode had yelled back that he would. Millwalker had gone to help put out the fire in the monitoring room near the front entrance. Who was there? Both security guards, the other two bodyguards, and Castleberry.
But the blaze was a stubborn one; not only was the electrical equipment hissing and sparking and burning but the carpeting and furniture of the room had caught fire as well. The security guard had emptied the fire extinguisher, stopping the worst of it; but electrical fires could be tricky. One of the other bodyguards brought in another extinguisher from the kitchen. They had to take turns using it; the smoke was so bad no one could stay in the burning room for more than a few seconds. But then the fire department arrived and quickly had matters under control. One of the men said the fire had been set deliberately and a fire marshal would be there to investigate in the morning.
Millwalker fell silent; he didn’t want to talk about the next part of it. Eventually he said, “I went back up to tell Mr. Strode the fire was out. But when I got to the top of the stairs, I could see the library door was standing open. I thought he’d come out to see about the fire. So I called his name, several times, and then I looked in the library … and there he was. With those three knives in him.” He paused. “It was obscene.”
Marian asked, “Was Castleberry with you the whole time you were fighting the fire?”
“The whole time. He couldn’t have done it—he was still talking to the firefighters when I went back to Mr. Strode’s rooms. Why are you asking about Castleberry? You know who did it. Richard Bruce and the other two, McKinstry and the Gillespie woman. They got their knives back and set the fire as a distraction and then went up and killed Mr. Strode. Three against one,” he finished in disgust.
“We don’t know that yet,” Marian said cautiously.
“Well, you’d damned well better know it,” Millwalker declared indignantly. “Why else three knives?”
“To make us think exactly what you’re thinking—that they were all in it together. The use of three knives muddies the waters. The killer wouldn’t be foolish enough to use just his or her own knife. And he—or she—wouldn’t use just one of the other’s knives to throw suspicion on that person. It’s too obvious, for one thing, and for another maybe the murderer didn’t know where everybody was at the time.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Okay. The pink knife belonged to Jack McKinstry, right? Suppose one of the other two picked that knife to commit the murder with, only to find out later that McKinstry was with somebody else at the time of the killing and therefore had an alibi. By using all three knives, the murderer just increased the odds a little. You see?”
Millwalker shook his head. “They all three did it. Together.”
The two police detectives took the bodyguard back over his story and asked a few questions, but he’d told them all he knew. They said he could leave.
“Do you believe all that stuff you were saying?” Ivan asked when Millwalker was gone. “About there being only one killer?”
“Sure do,” Marian said. “What better way to confuse the issue than by using weapons everyone can identify as belonging to someone else? Besides, there’s a kind of message in using three knives—I want this man really dead, something like that.”
“Yeah, well, if Millwalker got it straight, they all three had reason for wanting him dead. That Strode must have been a real sonuvabitch. Millwalker’s not much of a bodyguard, is he? He doesn’t check to see if the library door is locked and he lets himself be lured away from his post. Anyway, Castleberry’s out of it, looks like.”
“Yes, it has to be one of the three guests.”
“One of them, she says. God, I can’t take this any longer—I’ve gotta have some coffee.”
Marian waited while Ivan went looking for someone to make coffee. Before long he came back grinning and carrying a tray with a coffeepot and cups on it.
“It seems I wasn’t the only one dying of caffeine-deprivation,” he said. “Danielle was already in the kitchen, brewing the stuff as fast as she could.”
“Who’s Danielle?”
“The cook. Sixty years old and two hundred pounds and I’m in love with her.”
The coffee hit the spot. “I think I’m in love with her too,” Marian murmured. “Richard Bruce was the one who let Strode have this stock he coveted so much. Does that make Bruce our number-one suspect or eliminate him?”
Ivan frowned. “Hard to say. If he’s the vengeful type, he might go after Strode just to get even. That’s stretching it, though. I’m thinking the business between those two was finished.”
Marian made a noncommittal noise. “How about the security guard next?”
The security guard came in looking like a skinny Atlas bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Nothing has gone right this weekend,” he complained. “First Mr. Bruce makes me cover up the cameras and then he and Ms Gillespie come back in the house without me seeing them and the security system goes out and Mr. Strode tells me to take the bug out of the conference room and now this. I’m not even supposed to be on duty! One of the regular weekend guys is sick and I’m just filling in for him. I’m supposed to work weeknights.”
“Name, please,” Marian said.
“Frank O’Connell.”
“You say Richard Bruce forced you to cover up the cameras, Mr. O’Connell?”
“The ones in their bedrooms, yes ma’am.” O’Connell explained about that and the other things that had made his job less than unadulterated joy that weekend. He backed up Millwalker’s statement that Castleberry had been in the monitoring room fighting the fire even before the bodyguard had arrived. The gateman had come in to help. O’Connell was definite that all three bodyguards had been there, making a total of six men trying to stop the fire—three bodyguards, two security guards, and Castleberry. None of the house staff had shown up with buckets of water or whatever; O’Connell said they’d probably all retired for the night and didn’t even know there was a fire until it was all over.
“Let’s back up a little,” Marian said. “The fire department is saying arson. How could anyone get into the monitoring room to start the fire? Had you left the room?”
“Yes’m, I’d gone to the bathroom. Sometimes I leave to go check on something—maybe a camera’s not working right, or Mr. Strode would have a special job for me to do. I’m not in there all the time.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Not more’n a few minutes. Whoever set that fire had to move fast.”
Ivan asked, “What did you say earlier about removing a bug from this room? Strode found a bug planted in here?”
“No, sir, it was ours. This room was the only room in the house with a microphone in it. Mr. Strode sometimes wanted his business dealings on tape.”
“Why did he want it removed?”
“Beats me. It wasn’t even working, because we’d had trouble with the security system earlier and not everything had been fixed yet. And even if it was working, I coulda turned it off from the monitoring center. But no, I had to get my toolbox and a stepladder and go in and take out the mike and the camera.”
“Toolbox,” Marian said.
“Right,” Ivan nodded. “Mr. O’Connell, would you go check your toolbox to see if anything’s missing? Where is it?”
O’Connell groaned. “In the room where the fire was. I didn’t even think about it! Damn.”
“Let’s go look for it,” Ivan suggested.
They all went to the burned-out mess that once was the monitoring room. Marian’s sinuses shrieked in protest. Ivan was having trouble with the smell, too, but O’Conn
ell didn’t seem to notice it. They poked around, mostly using their feet, until O’Connell found his toolbox. The metal was still warm, but not too hot to handle.
“A screwdriver’s missing,” he said when he’d gotten the box open. “One of those with the reversible tip—regular on one end and Phillips on the other? Dammit, I just bought that screwdriver a month ago.”
“Whew, somebody sure thought ahead,” Ivan said, leading the way out of the monitoring room. “Let’s get away from this smell.”
O’Connell looked at Marian. “What’s he mean?”
“He means your missing screwdriver was probably what was used to pry open the drawer where the three knives were locked away. The killer waited until you left to go to the bathroom and then stole your screwdriver before setting the fire.”
He worked it out. “So it had to be somebody who saw me bring my toolbox into the conference room—when I removed the camera and the microphone?”
“Right. Unfortunately, that doesn’t narrow it down much.”
O’Connell hesitated. “Look, this might not mean anything …”
“What? Tell us anyway.”
“Well, Mr. McKinstry sure was awful interested in what I was doing. He got up and came over and watched while I took the mike out of the light switch.” O’Connell thought about it a moment. “Naw, he was just being curious. I don’t think it means anything.”
“You never know,” Ivan said ambiguously. “Your screwdriver will turn up, Mr. O’Connell. If you find it before we do, don’t handle it, okay? Fingerprints.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay.”
Marian thanked the security guard for his help and told him he could go.
“Speaking of bathrooms,” Ivan said.
“Me too.”
They found one and took turns. One of the uniformed officers on duty saw Ivan coming out and told them there were four downstairs bathrooms, if they wanted to count the cook’s. They thanked him for the information.
Back in the conference room Ivan moved the side table that had held the knives out from the wall, looking for the screwdriver. “I know, I know,” he said, although his partner hadn’t uttered a word, “there won’t be any prints. But we have to check.”
“Ivan, I’m usually the one who says that. Getting cautious in your old age?”
“I’m always cautious. And painstaking. And neat.”
Marian snorted. “That must be your twin brother.”
Ivan moved the side table back into place; no screwdriver. “Castleberry’s definitely out. Think we ought to talk to him again before we tackle the three primes?”
“Let’s get the rest of these people out of the way first. The gateman and the house staff. Besides, I want to see this woman you’re in love with.”
“Danielle? She’s a doll.”
Danielle the cook didn’t have anything to tell them; she knew even less than the rest of the house staff, which was little enough. All they’d been told was there’d be three weekend guests during Mr. Strode’s absence—
During his absence? both police detectives had interrupted.
Yes, Mr. Strode had been away until this evening. It was clear that something was in the wind; but no one paid any particular attention to that because with Mr. Strode, something was always in the wind. What these three were up to was their own business … and Mr. Strode’s, of course. Mr. McKinstry always left his bathroom in a mess, but other than that there wasn’t anything they could tell them about the three guests.
With one exception. The maid that Richard Bruce had asked to fetch his and Joanna Gillespie’s suitcases volunteered the opinion that where she had to go to get them was kind of strange. They were in the wine cellar.
What were their suitcases doing in the wine cellar?
She was sure she didn’t know. She didn’t ask questions. Mr. Strode didn’t like it.
And when did Mr. Bruce send her for the bags?
Five after eleven on the nose. She knew because she wanted to go to her room and had been watching the clock.
“So no alibi for Richard Bruce,” Marian remarked when the maid had left. “The fire didn’t break out for another fifteen or twenty minutes. If he was in the television room at the time, why didn’t he come out and help fight the fire?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to get his pretty suit dirty,” Ivan sniffed. “Well, who’s left? The gateman?”
The outside security guard did have one interesting thing to tell them. He said he was surprised to learn Ms Gillespie and Mr. Bruce had come back to the house without his knowing about it. They both had left shortly before noon, carrying their bags, and they sure as hell hadn’t come back through his gate. And that gate was the only way in.
The only way?
Except for the electronically controlled service gate in the rear. But why would Mr. Strode’s guests use the service gate? He’d have let them in the front way.
When the guard had left, Marian said, “Didn’t O’Connell say they had trouble with the security system earlier in the day? Bruce and Gillespie could have slipped in through the service gate when the system was down.”
Ivan nodded. “And into the house through the wine cellar? But why?”
“They didn’t want to be seen, obviously. But that means they knew ahead of time they’d be able to get in the back way. Do you suppose that ‘trouble’ with the security system was caused deliberately? Was McKinstry still in the house at the time?”
“We’d better find out.” Ivan perched on the edge of the conference table facing his partner. “Marian, you’ve gotta admit it’s looking more and more like conspiracy. Those three were up to something today, you know damn well they were.”
“They were up to something. It didn’t have to be murder. All this was before Strode pulled that little stunt with the knives, remember … and I don’t think we’ve heard anything like the whole story on that, either. But the murder came after their ‘something’ they were up to failed to end their difficulties with Strode. When their plan didn’t get them the results they wanted, one of them took matters into his own hands—or hers—and put an end to the problem. Exit A. J. Strode.”
Ivan shook his head. “It’s conspiracy. I can smell it.”
“It’s too obvious, Ivan. It’s safety in numbers, that’s all it is.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you’re pigheaded.”
“And you drive too slow.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean, I drive too slow?”
“You drive too slow! You gotta keep up with the flow of traffic.”
“I do keep up with the flow of traffic. I just don’t play musical traffic lanes the way you do.”
“That’s simply aggressive driving. It’s all under control.”
Marian made a noise of exasperation. “What the hell are we arguing about driving for? Are we getting tired?”
Ivan looked at his watch. “It’s almost three. Yes, we’re getting tired.”
“Dammit, we haven’t even scratched the surface yet! We’ve got those three upstairs still to question, and you know they’re going to lie about everything under the sun. They may not even give us their right names.” Her stomach growled. “Sorry. Hungry.”
“So am I, but I was too polite to growl about it. I’ll go see if Danielle’s still up. Don’t go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Marian said tiredly to the closing door, and put her head down on her arms and fell promptly asleep.
Ivan was gone twenty minutes, just long enough for Marian’s catnap to do her some good. He came in bearing a plate of rapidly cooling toast, two Granny Smith apples, and a quart of milk. “Danielle’s gone to bed. I didn’t want to raid their refrigerator without asking, but I didn’t think they’d mind if we had some fruit and bread.”
“You are a good provider, Ivan,” Marian said, pouring milk into their empty coffee cups. The cold toast and the apple were delicious. “Who’s actually in charge in this house now? Castleberry doesn’
t live here.”
“Mrs. Strode, I suppose, when she gets back.”
“I wonder if she’ll live here.”
“She’d be a fool not to.”
“Hmm. But she’d left here, or was made to leave. And her almost ex-husband was murdered here. The place might have too many bad associations.”
“Five bucks she stays.”
Marian thought about it. “You’re on.”
When they’d finished fueling up, Ivan said, “Which one do we start with?”
“Not sure. Do you think Richard Bruce is a sort of spokesman for the group?”
“Because he was waiting here for us? He just wanted to get himself and the violinist out of the house.”
“So he was speaking for two at least. Let’s save him for last.”
“Okay by me. Any preference?”
“No.”
Ivan took out a quarter and flipped it into the air. “Heads, McKinstry. Tails, Gillespie.” It came down heads.
But before they could send an officer to summon Jack McKinstry, there was a quick knock and the door opened. Myron Castleberry stood there, in superficially better shape than earlier. He’d cleaned away most of the smudges left by fighting the fire and donned his suit jacket, but his face looked as if it were collapsing in on itself. “Sergeants,” he said hoarsely, “I must talk to you. Now, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Castleberry, come in.” Marian pointed to a chair across the table from her. “Have a seat. What’s bothering you?”
But once Castleberry had taken his seat, he seemed unable to speak. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists nervously. Whatever it is, it must be a beaut, Marian thought, and glanced at Ivan. Her partner nodded and said, “Were you able to get hold of Mrs. Strode?”
Castleberry took a moment to focus on the question and then said, “Yes, she’ll be arriving here tomorrow afternoon. No … I mean this afternoon—it’s already Monday, isn’t it? She said she’d try to get in today, it all depended on the flight schedule, she didn’t have it memorized after all, but she’d see what she could do and take the first flight she could get on and then let me know so I could meet her at the airport and—” He broke off, as if suddenly realizing he was babbling. He took a deep breath. “Excuse me. The answer to your question is yes, Sergeant Malecki. Mrs. Strode will be returning here as soon as she can make the arrangements.”
