Seventh Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “How do you feel?” he asked curiously.

  She looked at him, laughter stopped. She pulled him onto the bed with a strength he could not resist.

  “I am the world,” she proclaimed.

  “Of course you are,” he agreed.

  “The stars,” she said. “Planets. Universe. Everything and all.”

  “And all,” he repeated.

  She flopped around and crammed his bare toes into her mouth. He pulled away, and. again he felt her incredible heat and saw how flushed her face had become. He put a hand to her breast, and the heavy, tumultuous heartbeat alarmed him.

  “Are you all right, Felicia?”

  She began to gabble incoherently: unfinished sentences, bits of song, names he didn’t recognize, raw obscenities. The jabber ceased as abruptly as it had started. He left her like that and went into the kitchen for another brandy.

  She was still at it when he returned to the bedroom. But now her face was contorted, ugly, and she was panting. He sat on the edge of the bed and observed her dispassionately, noting the twitching legs, toes curled. She seemed to be winding tighter and tighter, her entire body caught up in a paroxysm.

  Suddenly she shouted, so loudly that he was startled and slopped his brandy. Her body went slack and her eyes slowly opened. She stared at him blankly, not seeing him, and he wondered where she was.

  “Felicia,” he said, “I’m Turner.”

  “Turner,” she repeated, and soft understanding came back into her eyes.

  “You’re in my apartment,” he told her.

  She looked at him with love. “Do you want to kill me?” she asked. “You may, if you like.”

  30

  MRS. OLIVIA STARRETT, WEARING a lacy bed jacket, sat propped upright by pillows, a white wicker tray across her lap. And on the tray, tea service and a small plate of miniature croissants, one half-nibbled away.

  “He was such a dear man,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a square of cambric. “I would be even more desolated than I am if I wasn’t inspired by his teaching. Accept all, he said, and understand that pain and suffering are but a part of the holy oneness. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea, dear?”

  “Thank you, no, Mrs. Starrett,” Dora said. She sat alongside the canopied bed in a flowered armchair. “You have certainly had more than your share of grief lately. You have my deepest sympathy.”

  Olivia reached out to squeeze her hand. “How sweet and understanding you are. The passing of Lewis, Sol Guthrie, and Father Brian were sorrows I thought would destroy me. But then I realized that one cannot mourn forever. Does that sound cruel and heartless?”

  “Of course not.”

  “One must continue to cope with life, the problems of the present, and worries for the future.” She picked up the half-eaten croissant and finished it. “You told me you have no children?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Mrs. Starrett sighed deeply. “They are a blessing and a burden. Have you heard about Clayton? And Eleanor?”

  “Heard about them? No, ma’am, I’ve heard nothing.”

  Olivia, alternately dabbing at her eyes and taking teeny bites of a fresh pastry, told Dora of her son’s impending divorce.

  “Eleanor has already moved out,” she said.

  Then she spoke of Clayton’s plan to marry Helene Pierce.

  “Much too young for him, I feel,” she said. “But I do so want a grandchild. Father Callaway, the last time I saw him, told me I am not being selfish.”

  “He was right,” Dora said. “You’re not.”

  “Still …” Olivia said, and looked about vaguely. “Sometimes it is difficult knowing the right thing to do. Young people are so independent these days. They think because you are old you must necessarily be senile.”

  “You are not old, Mrs. Starrett, and you are certainly not senile.”

  “Thank you, my dear. You are such a comfort. Sit with me a while longer, will you?”

  “Of course. As long as you like.”

  “I could never talk to Lewis. Never. Not about important things. He thought I was just chattering on. And he would grunt. I love Clayton, of course. He is my son. But I can’t talk to him either. Clayton is lacking. There is no depth to him. I love depth in people, but Clayton is not a serious man. He floats through life. He has never been a leader. Sometimes he lacks sense. Eleanor knew that when she married him. Perhaps that’s why she married him.”

  Dora listened to this rambling with shocked fascination. Shocked because she suddenly realized that Mrs. Olivia Starrett was not a flibbertigibbet, not just a soft, garrulous matron. There was a hard spine of shrewdness in her. Despite her religiosity she saw things clearly. She had depth and had been married to a man who grunted.

  “Felicia …” Mrs. Starrett maundered on. “So unlucky with men. A pattern there. She has taste in clothes, music, art. But not in men. There her taste deserts her. All her beaux have been unsatisfactory. Weaklings or cads. I could see it. Everyone could see it. But not Felicia. The poor thing. So eager. Too eager. Now she is running after Turner Pierce. Oh yes, I know. A man much younger than she. It is not seemly.” Her gaze suddenly sharpened. She stared at Dora sternly. “Do you agree?”

  “You’re right,” Dora said hastily. “It’s not seemly.”

  “You are such a bright, levelheaded young lady.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Starrett.”

  “I wish you’d talk to Felicia.”

  Dora was startled. “Talk to her?”

  “About her life, the way she’s wasting it.”

  “But I’m not a close friend.”

  “My daughter has no close friends,” Olivia said sadly. “Not even me. Perhaps she’ll listen to you.”

  “But what could I possibly say to her?”

  “Offer advice. Give her the benefit of your experience. Try to steady her down. Felicia has these wild mood swings. Sometimes she frightens me.”

  “Mrs. Starrett, she may need professional help. A psychotherapist.”

  “It may come to that,” Olivia said somberly, “but not yet, not yet. Oh, she is such a desperate girl. Desperate! But she will not discuss her problems with me. And she refused to talk to Father Callaway. But you are near her age. Perhaps she will confide in you, and you may be able to help her. Will you try?”

  “If you want me to,” Dora said doubtfully, “but she may resent my prying into her personal affairs.”

  “She may, but please try. I know she is unhappy, and this business with Turner Pierce worries me. Felicia has been hurt so many times; I don’t want her to be hurt again.”

  “All right, Mrs. Starrett, I’ll try.”

  “It’s my family,” the older woman said fiercely, “and I must do everything I can to protect them. Even if I think them stupid or wrong, even if they cause me pain, I must protect my children. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Dora said, rising. “Thank you for giving me so much of your time. I wanted to express personally my condolences at Father Callaway’s passing.”

  “It was sweet of you, and I appreciate it.”

  “Mrs. Starrett, did Eleanor leave an address or telephone number where she can be reached?”

  “She’s staying with friends. Charles has the address and phone number. He’ll give them to you.”

  “Thank you. And I’ll try to set up a meeting with Felicia.”

  Mrs. Starrett turned her head away and stared at the thin winter light at the window. “She didn’t come home last night,” she said in a whispery voice.

  No one awaited Dora in the foyer, so she walked back to the kitchen. Charles and Clara Hawkins were seated at an enameled table, drinking coffee and sharing a plate of what appeared to be oatmeal cookies. Houseman and cook looked up when Dora entered.

  “Good afternoon,” Dora said briskly. “Mrs. Starrett said you could give me the telephone number for Mrs. Eleanor Starrett.”

  Charles nodded and stood up slowly. “I’ll fetch it,”
he said, and left the kitchen. Dora figured he was going to get Olivia’s approval before handing over the phone number.

  “How are you today, Clara?” she asked brightly.

  “Surviving,” the woman said, and Dora decided this had to be the most lugubrious couple she had ever met. She wondered if husband and wife ever laughed or even smiled, and she tried to imagine what their sex life must be like. She couldn’t.

  “Clara,” she said, “Detective John Wenden told me you think the eight-inch chef’s knife disappeared during the cocktail party on the night Mr. Lewis Starrett was killed. Do you have any idea who might have taken it?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not asking if you know definitely who took it. I don’t want you to accuse anyone. I’m just curious about who might have taken it.”

  Clara stared up at her, and Dora saw again that discernible mustache and couldn’t understand why in the world this dour woman didn’t do something about it. A daily shave, for instance.

  “I don’t name no names,” the cook said sullenly.

  Dora sighed. “All right,” she said, “I’ll name the names. You just shake your head no or nod your head yes. Okay?”

  Nod.

  “Was it Clayton Starrett?”

  Shake.

  “Eleanor Starrett?”

  Shake.

  “Felicia Starrett?”

  Shake.

  “Helene Pierce?”

  Shake.

  “Turner Pierce?”

  Shake.

  “Father Brian Callaway?”

  Nod.

  Charles came back into the kitchen, carrying a scrap of paper. He looked at his wife accusingly. “You been shooting off your mouth again?” he demanded.

  “She hasn’t said a word,” Dora told him. “I’ve been doing all the talking, about what a great chef my husband is.”

  “She talks too much,” he grumbled, and handed over the slip of paper. “That’s Mrs. Eleanor’s phone number and address. West Side,” he added sniffily.

  “Thank you, Charles,” Dora said. “Now would you get my hat and coat, please; I’m leaving. Nice to see you again, Clara.”

  “Likewise,” Clara said.

  Dora hurried back to her hotel, anxious to get to her notebook and record all the details of that surprising conversation with Olivia. Plus what she had learned from Clara’s dumb show.

  She filled two pages with notes that included all her recollections of what Mrs. Starrett had said and implied about the Clayton-Eleanor-Helene triangle and the Felicia-Turner relationship. If this entire case was a soap opera, Dora reflected grimly, it had a deadly plot. Too many corpses for laughing.

  She went down to the dining room for dinner and ordered a tuna salad, trying to recall if this was her fourth or fifth diet since being assigned to the Starrett claim. Brooding on her futile attempts to lose poundage, she remembered what John Wenden had said about her increasing girth: “More of you to love.” What a nice man!

  She returned to her suite and called him. He wasn’t in but she left a message, hoping he might get back to her before midnight. He didn’t, so she called Mario. He wasn’t home. There was nothing left to do but brush her teeth and go to bed in a grumpy mood, wondering what the hell her men were doing and imagining direful possibilities.

  31

  IT WAS EASY TO fake it, with Clayton or any other man, and Helene Pierce had learned to deliver a great performance. She considered herself a “method” actress and her motivation was that growing hoard of unset diamonds.

  The dialogue came easily:

  “Oh, Clay, you’re too much … you drive me wild … I can’t get enough of you … Where did you learn these things?”

  She left him hyperventilating on the rumpled sheets and went into the kitchen to pour fresh drinks from the bottle of Perrier-Jouët he had brought. The guy had good taste, no doubt about it, and there were no moths in his wallet. Helene wanted to play this one very, very carefully and, for once in her life, sacrifice today’s pleasure for tomorrow’s treasure.

  He was sitting up when she returned to the bedroom with the champagne. He was lighting a cigar, but she was even willing to endure that.

  “Here you are, hon,” she said, handing him the glass.

  She lay beside him, leaning to kiss his hairy shoulder. “You are something,” she said. “One of these days you’ll have to call 911 and have me taken to Intensive Care.”

  He laughed delightedly, sipped his champagne, puffed his cigar, and owned the world. “I can never get enough of you,” he told her. “It’s like I’ve been born again. Oh God, the time I wasted on that bag of bones.”

  “Eleanor?” she said casually. “What’s happening there?”

  “Like I told you, she’s moved out. My attorney, Arthur Rushkin, doesn’t handle divorces but he’s put me in touch with a good man, a real pirate who’s willing to go to the mat for the last nickel. That’s the way things stand now: My guy is talking to her guy. Listen, sweetheart, this is going to take time. Are you willing to wait?”

  “After what we just did,” she said, looking at him with swimming eyes, “I’ll wait forever.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said, patting her knee. “Everything will come up roses, you’ll see.”

  He started talking about the way they’d live once they were married. A duplex on the East Side. Cars for each; maybe a Corniche and a Porsche. Live-in servants.

  “Younger and more attractive than Charles and Clara,” he said.

  They’d probably dine out most evenings. Then the theatre, ballet, opera, a few carefully selected charity benefits. A cruise in the winter, of course, and occasional shopping trips to Paris, London, Milan, via the Concorde. They might consider buying a second home, or even a third. Vermont and St. Croix would be nice. World-class interior decorators, naturally. Architectural Digest stuff.

  As he spun this vision of their future together, Helene listened intently, realizing that everything he described was possible; he wasn’t just blowing smoke. Turner had told her how much Clay was drawing from Starrett Fine Jewelry as salary, annual bonus, dividends, and his share of that deal with Ramon Schnabl.

  And Clayton had a million coming in when that claim on his father’s insurance was approved. And when his mother shuffled off, he’d be a multi multi. So all his plans for the good life were doable, and she’d be a fool, she decided, to reject it for a more limited tomorrow with Turner.

  “How does it sound to you?” Clayton asked, grinning like a little kid who’s just inherited a candy store.

  “It sounds like paradise,” Helene said.

  “It will be,” he assured her. “You know that old chestnut: ‘Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be wearing diamonds.’ In this case it’s true. Which reminds me, I have another chunk of ice for your collection.”

  “You can give it to me later,” she said, taking the cigar from his fingers and putting it aside. “Let’s have an encore first. You just lay back and let me do all the work.”

  When he left her apartment, finally, she had a lovely four-carat trilliant, a D-rated stone that was totally flawless. But before he handed it over, he subjected her to a ten-minute lecture on the four Cs of judging diamonds: color, clarity, cut, and carat weight.

  After he was gone, she sprayed the entire apartment with deodorant, trying to get rid of the rancid stink of his cigar. Then she sat down with her fund of diamonds, just playing with them while she pondered her smartest course of action.

  Turner was the problem, of course. She had a commitment there, and since the Sid Loftus thing, Turner had an edge that could prove troublesome. But she thought she knew how that could be finessed. She worked out a rough game plan, and as her first move, she phoned Felicia Starrett.

  32

  HE INSISTED ON TAKING her to a steak joint on West 46th Street.

  “It’s not a fancy place,” he said. “Mostly cops and actors go there. But the food is good, and the prices are right. We’ll have a rare sirloin with
garlic butter, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, a salad with blue cheese dressing, and maybe some Bass ale to wash it all down. How does that sound?”

  “Oh God,” Dora moaned, “there goes my diet.”

  “Start another one tomorrow,” Wenden advised.

  It was a smoky tunnel, all stained wood, tarnished brass lamps, and mottled mirrors behind the long bar. The walls were plastered with photos of dead boxers and racehorses, and posters of Broadway shows that had closed decades ago. Even the aproned waiters looked left over from a lost age.

  “What have you been up to?” John asked, buttering a heel of pumpernickel.

  “Nothing much,” Dora said. “I went to see Mrs. Olivia Starrett to tell her how sorry I was about Callaway’s death.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  “She was sitting up in bed and looked a little puffy around the gills, but she’s coping. She’s a tough old lady.”

  She told the detective some of what she had learned. Some, but not all. Clayton and Eleanor were getting a divorce, and he wanted to marry Helene Pierce. And Felicia Starrett was playing footsie with Turner Pierce.

  “Interesting,” John said, “but I don’t know what it all means—if anything. Do you?”

  “Not really. Sounds to me like a game of Musical Chairs.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You want to hear about the Sid Loftus homicide now or will it spoil your dinner?”

  “Nothing’s going to spoil my dinner,” she said. “I’m famished. If I never see another tuna salad as long as I live, it’ll be too soon.”

  They finished their martinis hastily when the waiter brought big wooden bowls of salad and poured their ales.

  “The knife that did him in wasn’t like the ones that iced Starrett and Guthrie,” Wenden said, going to work on his salad. “It was maybe a three-or three-and-a-half-inch blade. We figure it was a folding pocket knife, a jackknife. There must be jillions of them in the city. The big blade on this one was razor sharp.”

  “That wasn’t in the papers,” Dora said.