“How could he have come in?”
“Through the kitchen door, through the back door from my lab, through Horace’s door.”
“Horace keeps his door locked. He put a big padlock on it a couple of weeks ago. But you’re right. It wouldn’t be hard to get inside. The hard part would be going through the house without running into someone. It’d be a huge risk, slipping through the back door and traipsing through the antika room with all of us on the porch, wandering in and out.”
“You’re assuming her killer did this thing—put the nicotine in her deodorant—while we were on the porch.”
Paul paused. “You’re right. It could have been done earlier. It probably was done earlier. The killer wouldn’t have known when she would next bathe or change clothes.”
“Unless the killer knew she was going out for dinner.”
“Damn!” Paul said. “You’d be a great detective. The deodorant itself could have already been doctored up if the killer knew what brand she used. He couldn’t have swapped her regular brand for another kind. She’d have noticed.”
Lacy added, “But if he did know, it would’ve been easy. Anyone with a legitimate reason for coming here could make the switch if the coast was clear, or bide his time if it wasn’t.”
Paul took another sip of coffee. “If it wasn’t someone from outside the house, it was someone inside the house. Who?”
“Who do you think?”
“Lanier.”
He said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, Lacy thought she must have misunderstood. “Lanier? Why him?”
“A. He had a fit when he heard you were coming and he heard Susan Donohue was in your group. B. A poison that could be applied to the skin would be his style.”
“Okay. Let’s think about it from another angle. If it was someone inside the house, was it someone in my group or someone who was already here? It was most likely someone who was already here. Why? Because the five of us who came over together lived and worked on the same campus with Susan all the time. If any of us wanted to kill her, we could have done it at home.”
“More easily than here,” Paul added. “At home, the killer could have made plans and waited for an opportunity. Waited weeks—months—if necessary. And of the people already here, there’s me. I didn’t kill her. There’s Roxanne. She and Susan argued a lot, but that’s normal for Egyptologists. Put two Egyptologists in a room and you’ve got an argument.”
Lacy laughed. The round lenses of Paul’s glasses reflected the moonlight. “And Kathleen’s a cranky old bird but I can’t believe she’d murder anyone. It wouldn’t be proper.”
Now Paul laughed.
“But what about last night when I walked into Kathleen’s room by mistake. She was praying at some kind of shrine or other. What’s that about? Is she very religious?”
“I don’t think so, but I know very little about Kathleen. I stay out of her way.”
“Whoever did this knows his chemistry. That would be Graham or me or Lanier.”
“Or someone who knows medicine and has a way of getting nicotine in a pure form. That would be Dave.”
“Who wasn’t here at the time.” Lacy paused, touched her forehead. “As far as we know! Did you actually see him drive up?”
“I think so.”
“But wait! He could have done it any time that day. He could have called her, made a date, watched the house until he saw his chance, and … My imagination is running away with me isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“Dave would have no motive. He only just met her the day Joel died.” She stopped and thought. If Joel’s death wasn’t a natural heart attack, and I believe it wasn’t, you could think of it this way: The only American doctor in the hospital at the time the murdered American was brought in, calls one of the murdered man’s American friends a couple of weeks later and asks her out. Out of the blue. Then that woman gets an overdose of nicotine, and guess who is on the scene to take over until the ambulance arrives? Lacy had never before realized how many suspicious circumstances could pop up when you really looked for them. “We don’t actually know a thing about Dave, do we?”
“If Dave was the killer, he’d hardly have brought Susan’s underarm rash to everyone’s attention.”
“But he wasn’t the first one to say it looked suspicious. Graham was already suspicious.” Paul reminded her about Graham’s almost immediate suspicion of nicotine poisoning. “Is it coincidence that Graham had the lethal dosage of nicotine and the amount delivered by one cigarette on the tip of his tongue? Without having to look anything up?”
* * *
Lacy said goodnight to Paul and continued down the hall to her own room. Just inside she paused, not quite shutting the door, when she heard Graham’s and Shelley’s voices coming from Shelley’s room across the hall.
“You’re wrong, Shelley, I know what it must have looked like, but you’re wrong.”
“I’m not stupid, Graham. You were kissing her. Repeatedly.”
“She was kissing me.”
“You had your arms around her. That’s not how you push someone away.”
“But under the circumstances …”
Their voices faded away and Lacy could hear no more.
After she crawled in bed, she lay staring at the soft rectangle of light her window threw on the ceiling. She knows. Shelley saw Graham and me in the burial chamber. She must have been standing somewhere along the hallway. And Graham is putting all the blame on me. As if I attacked him. Nothing was farther from my mind at the time! I’d been pulled from the jaws of death and I was terrified. Hardly a time when I’d normally try to seduce a guy.
Putting the blame on me. Oh well, that’s what most husbands would probably do if there was no one to contradict them. Fact is, we were kissing each other. It was mutual … Or maybe it was mostly me.
* * *
At ten o’clock the next morning, a car from the American Embassy and a Luxor police car pulled up in front of Whiz Bang. Mark Myerson, a tall man with razor-cut hair and a tropical-weight grey suit, was met at the door by Roxanne and Horace. He introduced himself quickly. Simultaneously, the police chief, Major-General El-Alfi, and two of his men marched down the east wing hall to Shelley Clark’s room and arrested her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Graham followed his sobbing wife to the police car and tried to climb in beside her but was pushed back by one of the uniforms. Shelley reached for his hand, clasped it briefly.
“God Almighty! You stupid fools!” Graham shouted, then turned and looked back toward Paul and Myerson, standing on the porch. He reached out toward El-Alfi as if to grab him, then pulled back. The police chief stepped around him and opened his own car door.
“You leave my wife alone! Do you hear? She’s done nothing!” Graham banged his fist on the trunk of the police car.
“Then she will have nothing to worry about.” El-Alfi kept his eyes on Graham’s hands as he said this.
“If anything happens to her, you’ll answer to me!” He bent down and looked through the back window at Shelley. Red-faced, he turned back to El-Alfi and screamed, “Do you hear me?”
“Should I go over and get him?” Myerson said to Paul. “Do you think he’ll attack the chief?”
“No.” As Paul said it, the police car pulled away leaving Graham in its dust.
Graham bent forward, his hands on his knees, then backward and shouted to no one, “You’re wrong! Dead wrong!” He wobbled like a drunk man to the nearest porch column and slammed it with his fist.
Horace Lanier stepped out and walked toward him as Paul and Myerson looked on. Lanier said, “Let’s talk, Graham. You need to decide what to do next.”
Graham wheeled around, wild-eyed with rage. “It’s for damn sure I can decide without your help, you pathetic old fart!”
“What’s that about?” Paul muttered, growing more confused by the minute.
* * *
A young American woman hurried into the polic
e station and demanded to speak with El-Alfi. She explained that she was a researcher from Chicago House, the Oriental Institute’s local headquarters, and that Mr. Myerson, of the American Embassy, wanted her to sit in on the questioning of Mrs. Clark. El-Alfi hesitated, and then consented, having no desire to be accused of conducting this investigation with anything less than total transparency. He had seen what the international press could make of a bruise, a cut, a baseless accusation. He also knew what some of his own men were capable of, left unsupervised. This was, in his mind, a lose-lose situation. An American woman accused of killing an American woman. In Egypt. He knew of no precedent for this. What pitfalls awaited, and what safeguards must he put in place?
He felt forced to let the American woman sit in. To deny her would be to open his station up to accusations of police brutality from the very start.
“That will be permissible,” he told her. “And you can also be of service by making certain Mrs. Clark understands the questions we ask.”
They found Shelley Clark sitting at a plain wooden table, watched by a black-clad Egyptian woman in a chair against the wall. Shelley’s hands were clamped between her knees, as if to prevent them fluttering off into space.
El-Alfi introduced the American visitor and explained why she was there. The interview began.
“Mrs. Clark, what was the relationship between your husband and Susan Donohue?”
Shelley’s face flushed. “Why, they were colleagues. What do you mean? I was her colleague also.”
“Did you ever suspect it was more than that?”
“Of course not.” She looked at the American observer, her bony shoulders hunched up, and said, “Do I have to answer that? I find his inference insulting.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not a lawyer. I can’t possibly …” she turned to El-Alfi. “Have you told her she has the right to have a lawyer present?”
“Of course. She declined our offer to get her one.” He tapped a pen against the edge of the table. “Is it true, Mrs. Clark, that Dr. Donohue did not want you to be a part of this project?”
“How would I know?” She stiffened, glanced at her American observer who frowned back at her. “As far as I know, she had no objections. If she did, she never told me.”
El-Alfi pulled a plastic bag from the satchel beside his chair. In it was a pink tube of women’s anti-perspirant/deodorant. “Is this yours, Mrs. Clark?”
“It could be.” Her voice came out in a croak. “That’s the kind I use.”
“Did you see yours this morning?”
“Did I see it?”
“When you dressed this morning. Was your … your lady’s product in your room?”
Shelley stammered, “I … I don’t know. I mean … I hadn’t yet showered or dressed this morning when you arrived. I had only thrown on these clothes while I was getting my things together … waiting for the shower, you know. We have only one shower at the house and we sometimes have to wait.”
“So you didn’t notice if it was there this morning or not?”
“No.”
“Would it surprise you to know that we took this item from the room of Susan Donohue yesterday and that we have tested it for fingerprints? The fingerprints on this tube are from only one person, Mrs. Clark. You.”
* * *
Lacy waited for a reasonable Eastern Standard Time calling hour before she dialed Joan Friedman. Joan answered on the fourth ring, tried to talk through the answering machine message, began crying, and dropped the phone. Lacy hung up, waited a minute, and called back but she already knew Joan was drunk. On the second call, Joan insisted she was all right, but when Lacy casually asked her what she’d had for breakfast, she had no answer. Not even a decent lie.
Lacy hung up and called Peter Swain’s home phone, hoping to talk to Peter’s wife, Virginia. Since she asked Virginia to keep an eye on Joan, some two weeks ago, they hadn’t talked again. Joan was too thin, borderline diabetic, and prone to binge drinking. She needed watching. Lacy wished she knew the name of one of Joan’s next door neighbors, someone who could check on her more often than Virginia could. She got no answer at the Swain’s house and didn’t know their cell phone numbers.
Roxanne was standing behind her. “Are you finished? I need to call Susan’s parents again.” She pulled a scrap of paper from her shirt pocket. “Not that I want to,” she added, sliding the receiver under her bushy mop of hair. “I called them a few hours ago and talked to her father. He sounded like he couldn’t care less… . Hello? Mrs. Donohue?”
From the archway leading to the antika room, Lacy eavesdropped on Roxanne’s end of the conversation. Roxanne turned to Lacy and rolled her eyes, then crossed them. Her silent message was, Oh, give me a break!
Given the time zone problems, Lacy decided email would be a better way of communicating with Virginia Swain. Her own laptop and three others were already set up on the house’s computer table. Susan’s computer was missing, probably taken by the police, she thought.
TO: Virginia Swain
FROM: Lacy Glass
SUBJECT: Joan
I called Joan this morning at 10 o’clock your time and found her already a couple of sheets to the wind. Is this what you’re seeing too? Do you think she needs someone to stay with her?
If so, I know she has a sister who lives in Williamsburg. Maybe she could come and stay for a while. Also, there might be neighbors who could check in on her every day. I know it’s hard for you, since you have to drive over there, but if Joan’s about to crash and burn we need to do something.
Thanks,
Lacy
Within a few minutes, she got an answer.
TO: Lacy Glass
FROM: Virginia Swain
SUBJECT: Re: Joan
I share your concern. I’ve gone over to visit four times and Joan, I’m afraid, is sliding into alcoholism. Well, she doesn’t have anyone now, does she?
I just heard about Dr. Donohue. How awful! I didn’t know her myself, but I know she was held in high regard by the members of her department. Are you going to be able to complete your project? What are your plans?
I’ll talk to a couple of our mutual friends and get someone to introduce me to one of Joan’s neighbors. I don’t think it’s a neighborhood where they look after each other like neighbors ought to. And I’ll find out how to call her sister. I don’t know her, myself.
I’ll write you again tomorrow.
Virginia
Oh yes. Marc, the grad student who works in the autoclave room (he talks about you all the time!) says that Otto, the greenhouse cat, has been into something again. (philodendron suspected, but he doesn’t know for sure) He told me about your experience with Otto and the johnsongrass. Anyway, Otto’s gone off his feed for the last few days. Marc says he’d like to take him home where he could watch him, but his apartment doesn’t allow pets.
TO: Virginia Swain
FROM: Lacy Glass
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Joan
Thanks for your help, Virginia. I wish I were home to take care of this myself.
BTW, does the name Jody Myers mean anything to you? If not, ask Peter. It’s a name Joel wrote on his trip folder with no explanation, but it didn’t ring a bell with Joan.
As for Otto, I don’t think he’s destined to survive in the greenhouse setting. He may be a closet vegetarian. Take him to Joan Friedman and tell her I want her to take care of him.
Thanks again,
Lacy
* * *
Lacy went to the porch but stopped short of opening the screen door. Graham and Lanier were already there, Graham standing, facing the door, and Lanier sitting in his favorite rocking chair facing north toward the temple. It was the tone of Graham’s voice that stopped her. He was apologizing to Lanier for his outburst that morning. Paul told her Graham had called Lanier “an old fart.”
“I was upset,” Graham was saying. “They were taking Shelley away in a squad car and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
L
acy couldn’t hear Lanier’s answer. Graham had taken the ferry across to Luxor immediately after the police car left, but he hadn’t been allowed in to see his wife.
Lacy reversed her path and retreated to the lab, wishing she had the purple-streaked swatch. She’d like to have examined it under the video microscope and found whether the purple went deep into the fibers or if it was confined to the surface. That would tell her if the alkaline substance that turned it purple was a liquid or something more solid such as a gel or a cream. Unfortunately, the police had taken it.
She had to adjust her thoughts to include this morning’s arrest of Shelley Clark. A mistake? She recalled the shocked look on Shelley’s face yesterday when Roxanne first mentioned a rash under Susan’s arms. That had definitely rung alarm bells in Shelley’s mind. Shelley hadn’t been very effective at hiding her jealousy of women who got too close to her husband. But Graham’s reaction this morning, his red-faced insistence that they had the wrong person—that Shelley had done nothing wrong—somehow Lacy knew that much was real. It didn’t necessarily mean Shelley wasn’t Susan’s killer—only that Graham truly believed she wasn’t.
She kept coming back to one idea. Paul had immediately fingered Lanier and Paul was, as far as she could tell, the closest thing they had to a disinterested party. What was the case against Lanier? He was the one who discovered Susan on the floor, writhing in pain. What was it they said? Whoever finds the body did the deed? Rubbish. There couldn’t be anything to that.
She sat at her video microscope, staring at the blank monitor. Her heart leaped. What was the stuff Lanier tried to pour down Susan’s throat? She’d totally forgotten until that moment, the coffee mug the old man clutched in his hand as Dave Chovan hovered over Susan’s rigid form. He’d tried to pour whatever it was down Susan’s throat! Horrible idea, given the gurgling sounds she was making. Thankfully, Dave had pushed him away. What was that stuff?
Maria Hudgins - Lacy Glass 01 - Scorpion House Page 15
