Seventh Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Sometimes honest men do foolish things,” Turner said. “You know the old saying: No good deed goes unpunished. I hope Mr. Guthrie knows it.”

  He waved a hand at them and left. Helene rose to bolt the door and put on the chain. “Another party tonight?” she asked Clayton.

  He nodded. “The third this week. My wife is co-hostess of this one. At the Pierre.”

  “For which charity?”

  He shrugged. “Who the hell knows—or cares. For unwed mothers or to spay stray cats or something.”

  “So you have to go home to dress?”

  He smiled at her. “Not for an hour,” he said.

  “Time enough,” she said. “We can go around the world in an hour.”

  If she seemed languid, almost enervated, when dressed and in the company of others, she displayed a totally different persona when naked and alone with him. Her strength was astonishing, her vigor daunting. Indifference vanished; now she was vital and determined. She gave Clayton credit for this transformation. “You make me a pagan,” she told him.

  He could scarcely believe his good fortune. This lovely, intense young woman seemed to have no wish but to give him pleasure. There was nothing he asked that she would not do, and their lovemaking became a new world for him. He was a sexual despot, and she his willing slave, eager to serve.

  He thought he had never known an ecstasy to equal this, and only later did he begin to plot how he might change his life to insure that his happiness would endure forever.

  7

  DORA CONTI HAD BEEN trying for almost a week to pin down a meeting with Felicia Starrett. Two appointments had been made, but Felicia called at the last minute to cancel both, offering excuses that seemed trivial to Dora: she had to have her hands waxed, and Bloomies was having a panty hose sale.

  Finally she agreed, positively, to meet Dora for a drink at the Bedlington cocktail lounge at 4:30 on Friday. She was only twenty minutes late.

  She came sailing into the bar wearing a mink Eisenhower jacket that Dora would have killed for. Under the jacket she wore a white turtleneck sweater, and below was a skirt of black calfskin, short and tight. Her only jewelry was a solitaire, a marquise-cut diamond in a Tiffany setting. Five carats at least, Dora guessed.

  Felicia shook hands, took off her mink and tossed it onto an empty chair. “Chivas neat,” she yelled at the bartender. “Perrier on the side.” She sat down across the table from Dora, looked around the cocktail lounge. “Ratty dump,” she said.

  “Isn’t it,” Dora said pleasantly. “Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time, Miss Starrett. I appreciate it.”

  “I hope it’s only a few minutes. I have an appointment for a trim and rinse at five-thirty, and if I’m late Adolph will probably scalp me. Who does your hair?”

  “I do,” Dora said. “Doesn’t it look like it?”

  “It’s okay,” Felicia said. “Like you don’t give a damn how it looks. I like that. May I have one of your cigarettes?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “I’m trying to stop smoking so I don’t buy any. I’m still smoking but I’m saving a lot of money. Your name is Dora Conti?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Italian?”

  “My husband is.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Six years.”

  “Children?”

  “No.”

  “That’s smart,” Felicia said. “Who the hell wants to bring kids into this rotten world. This is about the insurance?”

  “Just a few questions,” Dora said. “Your mother has already told me most of what I wanted to know. She said you were in the apartment having cocktails the evening your father was killed. But you left early.”

  “That’s right. I had a dinner-date downtown. A new restaurant on Spring Street. It turned out to be a bummer. I told the cops all this. I’m sure they checked it out.”

  “I’m sure they did,” Dora said. “Miss Starrett, do you know of any enemies your father had? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”

  Felicia had been smoking with short, rapid puffs. Now tears came to her eyes, and she stubbed out the cigarette.

  “Damn!” she said. “I thought I was finished with the weeping and wailing.”

  “I’m sorry I upset you.”

  “Not your fault. But every time I think of him lying there on the sidewalk, all alone, it gets to me. My father was a sonofabitch but I loved him. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no matter what a stinker he was, no one should die like that. It’s just not right.”

  “No,” Dora said, “it isn’t.”

  “Sure, I guess he had enemies. You can’t be a world-class bastard all your life without getting people sore at you. But no, I don’t know of anyone who hated him enough to murder him.”

  “I met Father Callaway when I questioned your mother. He seems to agree with the police theory that your father was killed by a stranger.”

  “Father Callaway!” Felicia cried. “He’s as much a Father as I am an astronaut. Don’t pay any attention to what he says or thinks. The man’s a phony.”

  “Oh?” Dora said. “How do you mean?”

  “He’s got this rinky-dink church in an empty store, and he cons money from a lot of innocent people like my mother who fall for his smarmy smile and bullshit about one world of love and harmony.”

  “Surely he does some good,” Dora suggested. “He said his church runs a soup kitchen for the homeless.”

  “So he hands out a few cheese sandwiches while he’s dining at the homes of his suckers on beef Wellington. My father had his number. Every time he saw Callaway in his preacher’s outfit, he’d ask him, ‘How’s white-collar crime today?’”

  Dora laughed. “But your father allowed him in your home.”

  “For mother’s sake,” Felicia said wearily. “She’s a true believer in Callaway and his cockamamy church.”

  “Is anyone else in your family a true believer? Your sister-in-law, for instance.”

  “Eleanor? All she believes in are the society columns. If she doesn’t see her name in print, she doesn’t exist. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this; it’s got nothing to do with the insurance.”

  “You never know,” Dora said, and watched the other woman light another cigarette with fingers that trembled slightly.

  She figured Felicia had already endured the big four-oh. She was a tall, angular woman, tightly wound, with a Nefertiti profile and hands made for scratching.

  “I’ll tell you something about Eleanor,” she said broodingly. “We used to be as close as this …” She displayed two crossed fingers. “Then she and Clay had a kid, a boy, a beautiful child. Lived eighteen months and died horribly of meningitis. It broke Eleanor; she became a different woman. She told everyone: ‘No more kids.’ That was all right; it was her decision to make. But—and this is my own idea—I think it also turned her off sex. After a while my brother started playing around. I know that for a fact. One-night stands, nothing serious. But who could blame him; he wasn’t getting any at home. And then Eleanor got on the charity-party circuit, and that’s been her whole life ever since. Sad, sad, sad. Life sucks—you know that?”

  Dora didn’t reply.

  “Well, enough soap opera for one day,” Felicia said, and rose abruptly. “I’ve got to dash. Thanks for the drink. If you need anything else, give me a buzz.”

  “Thank you, Miss Starrett.”

  She tugged on her mink jacket, stood a moment looking down at Dora.

  “Six years, huh?” she said. “I’ve never been married. I’m an old maid.”

  “Don’t say that,” Dora said.

  “Why not?” Felicia said, forcing a laugh. “It’s true, isn’t it? But don’t feel sorry for me; I get my jollies—one way or another. Keep in touch, kiddo.”

  And with a wave of a hand she was gone. Dora sat alone, feeling she needed something stronger than beer. So she moved
to the bar and ordered a straight Chivas, Perrier on the side. She had never before had such a drink, but Felicia Starrett had ordered it, and Dora wanted to honor her. Go figure it, she told herself.

  She had the one drink, then went upstairs to the corporate suite and worked on notes that would be source material for her report to Mike Trevalyan. Then she took a nap that worked wonders because she awoke in a sportive mood. She showered and phoned Mario while she was still naked. It seemed more intimate that way. Mario said he missed her, and she said she missed him. She made kissing sounds on the phone.

  “Disgusting!” he said, laughing, and hung up.

  She dressed, pulled on her parka, and sallied forth. It was a nippy night, the smell of snow in the air, and when she asked the Bedlington doorman to get her a cab, he said, “Forget it!”

  So she walked over to Fifth Avenue and then south, pausing to admire holiday displays in store windows. She saw the glittering tree at Rockefeller Center and stopped awhile to listen to a group of carolers who were singing “Heilige Nacht” and taking up a collection for victims of AIDS.

  She wandered on down Fifth Avenue, crisscrossing several times to inspect shop windows, searching for something unusual to give Mario for Christmas. The stone lions in front of the Library had wreaths around their necks, which she thought was a nice touch. A throng stood on line to view Lord & Taylor’s animated windows, so she decided to see them another time.

  She was at 34th Street before she knew it, and walked over to Herald Square to gawk at Macy’s windows. It was then almost 7:30 and, having come this far, she suddenly decided to walk farther and visit Father Callaway’s Church of the Holy Oneness.

  It was colder now, a fine mist haloing the streetlights. She plodded on, hands deep in parka pockets, remembering what Detective Wenden had said about the stupidity of walking the city at night. She knew how to use a handgun but had never carried one, believing herself incapable of actually shooting someone. And if you couldn’t do that, what was the point?

  But she arrived at East 20th Street without incident, except for having to shoo away several panhandlers who accepted their rejection docilely enough. Stiffing them did not demonstrate the Christmas spirit, she admitted, but she had no desire to stop, open her shoulder bag, fumble for her wallet. Wenden didn’t have to warn her about the danger of being fearless. She wasn’t.

  As Felicia Starrett had said, Callaway’s church was located in a former store. It apparently had been a fast-food luncheonette because the legend TAKE OUT ORDERS was still lettered in one corner of the plate glass window. A wide Venetian blind, closed, concealed the interior from passersby, but a sign over the doorway read CHURCH OF THE HOLY ONENESS, ALL WELCOME in a cursive script.

  Dora paused before entering and suddenly felt a hard object pressing into her back. “Your money or your life,” a harsh voice grated. She whirled to see Detective John Wenden grinning and digging a knuckle into her ribs.

  “You louse!” she gasped. “You really scared me.”

  “Serves you right,” he said. “What the hell are you doing down here by yourself?”

  “Curiosity,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I had some time to kill,” he said casually, “and figured I’d catch the preacher’s act. Let’s go in.”

  “Let’s sit in the back,” she suggested. “Mrs. Starrett may be here, and I’d just as soon she didn’t see me.”

  “Suits me,” he said. “I hope the place is heated.”

  It was overheated. About fifty folding chairs were set up in a long, narrow room, facing a low stage with a lectern and upright piano. The majority of the chairs were occupied, mostly by well-dressed matrons. But there were a few young couples, a scatter of single men and women, and a couple of derelicts who had obviously come in to warm up. They were sleeping.

  A plump, baldish man was seated at the piano playing and singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” in a surprisingly clarion tenor. The audience seemed to be listening attentively. Conti and Wenden took off their coats and slid into chairs in the back row. Dora craned and spotted Mrs. Olivia Starrett seated up front.

  The hymn ended, the pianist rose and left the stage, exiting through a rear doorway. The audience stirred, then settled down and waited expectantly. A few moments later Father Brian Callaway entered, striding purposefully across the stage. He stood erect behind the lectern, smiling at his audience.

  He was wearing a long cassock of white satin, the sleeves unusually wide and billowing. The front was edged with purple piping, cuffs and hem decorated with gold embroidery. A diamond ring sparkled on the forefinger of his right hand.

  “Father Gotrocks,” Wenden whispered to Dora.

  “Shh,” she said.

  “Good evening, brothers and sisters,” Callaway began in a warm, conversational tone. “Welcome to the Church of the Holy Oneness. After the service, coffee and cake will be served, and you will be asked to contribute voluntarily to the work of the Church which, as many of you know, includes daily distribution of food to those unfortunates who, often through no fault of their own, are without means to provide for themselves.

  “Tonight I want to talk to you about the environment. Not acid rain, the pollution of our air and water, the destruction of our forests and coastline, but personal environment, the pollution of our souls and the need to seek what I call the Divine Harmony, in which we are one with nature, with each other, and with God.”

  He developed this theme in more detail during the following thirty minutes. He likened greed, envy, lust, and other sins to lethal chemicals that poisoned the soil and foods grown from it. He said that the earth could not endure such contamination indefinitely, and similarly the human soul could not withstand the corrosion of moral offenses that weakened, debilitated, and would eventually destroy the individual and inevitably all of society.

  The solution, he stated in a calm, reasonable manner, was to recognize that just as the physical environment was one, interdependent, and sacred, so the moral environment was one, and it demanded care, sacrifice, and, above all, love if we were to find a Divine Harmony with nature, people, and with God: a Holy Oneness that encompassed all joys and all sorrows.

  He was still speaking of the Holy Oneness when Wenden tugged at Dora’s sleeve.

  “Let’s split,” he said in a low voice.

  She nodded, and they gathered up their coats and slipped away. Apparently neither the pastor nor anyone in that rapt audience noticed their departure. Outside, the mist had thickened to a freezing drizzle.

  “I’ve got a car,” the detective said, “but there’s a pizza joint just around the corner on Third. We won’t get too wet.”

  “Let’s go,” Dora said. She took his arm, and they scurried.

  A few minutes later they were snugly settled in a booth, breathing garlicky air, sipping cold beers, and waiting for their Mammoth Supreme, half-anchovy, half-pepperoni.

  “The guy surprised me,” Wenden said. “I thought he’d be a religious windbag, one of those ‘Come to Jesus!’ shouters. But I have to admit he sounded sincere, like he really believes in that snake oil he’s peddling.”

  “Maybe he does,” Dora said. “I thought he was impressive. Very low-key, very persuasive. Tell me the truth: How come you found time to catch him in action?”

  Wenden shrugged. “I really don’t know. Maybe because he’s so smooth and has too many teeth. How’s that for scientific crime detection?”

  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 b
een 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 shirtfront.

  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?”