“But the love story doesn’t end there, like in a fairy tale. Roz may have loved him dearly, but she was bored with him. She began to have affairs, most of them trifling. But then, there was Gryder. The affair with him was serious enough that she almost left Ben. But that one ended, too. Or so we thought. It wasn’t really over, as Ben found out. Roz and Gryder went on seeing each other off and on for years—it never ended for them.
“You know all about the reason they came tip here to rest. That trip to Europe was terrible for everybody. They were supposed to lay low here and play music. Then the visitors started arriving. And then one day Gryder himself shows up.
“Roz hurt Gryder terribly when she went back to her husband. After all, that piano player was an egomaniac. He thought he was the best pianist in the world. And the best lover. And the best writer—or whatever. But as much as I detested him, I know he loved Roz, too. He was obsessed with getting her back full-time, so he decided to write a book about the quartet and use it as a kind of blackmail on Ben.
“He began to hint to Roz that he’d found out a lot of strange things about everyone connected to the quartet. She reported it to Ben. Ben got more and more worried, afraid Gryder knew that he, Ben, had been a procurer. Ben knew that if Roz ever found out about his past, she’d leave him immediately. Can you imagine being married to the man who had orchestrated your own degradation, placed you in that kind of horror? No, of course not.
“Finally, Gryder came out and told Ben he was going to write this terrible book that told everything. Ben tried to talk him out of it. He tried everything—offering money, bankrolling tours and recordings for Will, anything. But Gryder refused. He wanted Roz or nothing.
“And finally that terrible night came when Ben stopped begging, stopped trying. And killed him. I saw him—afterward. He told me what had happened, and said he tried the best he could to make it look like a robbery gone sour. He gave me all Gryder’s possessions to destroy. And I did—except for that ring.”
“Did Ben arrange that car accident?” I asked.
“Yes. He told me he paid a kid from town to rig something up with a rope and a stuffed animal—I don’t know who. He wanted to make it look as if the person who killed Gryder was out to get him, too. He was desperate. He even cooked up a story about me seeing Will beat up on him. He thought that if worse came to worse and he was charged with the killing, that might show that Will had been violent with him. It might point to self-defense.”
Mrs. Wallace dropped the empty coffee container to the floor and stared down at it. “But he couldn’t find the manuscript for the book,” she muttered. “He searched and searched but he couldn’t find it. And neither could I—not then, and not tonight.”
“Roz has been in Seattle for days now playing with a group there. I was there looking after Ben in the apartment when the mail arrived the other day. We figured someone else was going to blackmail him. The card seemed to say that the manuscript was still here in the house. So we decided I should be the one to come up and look.”
Donaldson spoke for the first time since we’d come inside: “Why does this man Polikoff have such a hold on you? Why did you go on helping him?”
She began to cry again, but soon she caught herself and wiped back the tears with her cap. “I’ve told you what Ben was once—a pimp. But I didn’t tell you that I was once also in the life. Yes, I was a whore. I was no longer young and I wanted out. Ben had a sick father at the time. He hired me to take care of the old man. He gave me a place to live, money, food, sent me to school, everything. And when the old man wanted to marry me, Ben gave us his blessings. No, it wasn’t much of a marriage—his father was old and frail. But he actually loved me. Ben Polikoff gave me the chance to know what that can be like—to have someone truly love you. I’d do anything for him. And why not? He’s paid his dues for the things he did when he was younger. Now he does nothing but look out for everyone else.”
Ford Donaldson nodded to me then, seemingly acknowledging that we had all had enough for the moment. “I’m going to take Mrs. Wallace in now, Alice. We’ll contact the NYPD about Polikoff. Why don’t you and your friend go and get some rest? Just slam the door closed here, and I’ll speak to you in the morning.”
Holding her firmly by the arm, Donaldson led Mrs. Wallace toward the door.
“Just a second,” I said. “Mrs. Wallace, did Ben have anything to do with the thefts of the kittens?”
She stared at me blankly.
“The Scottish Folds that were taken and sold,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, confused. “Ben doesn’t even like cats.”
Tony and I walked back to the car. We were cold and depleted, but rather giddy with triumph.
Once inside, Tony said, “Let’s play one quick hand of casino. Eleven points. Loser buys drinks.”
“Drinks! This isn’t Manhattan, Tony. We’re not going to find any place open for drinks.”
“Don’t worry about it. If I win, I have some other stakes in mind, anyway,” he said mischievously.
“Besides,” I protested, “you cheat!”
“Not me. It’s you who was cheating. You don’t even know the damn rules.”
“All right, sucker,” I said. “Deal.”
“Great,” he said, grinning. “And I bet you thought we were too old to neck in a car.”
I started to win big. It was obvious that I was going to crush him. I already had three aces, the good ten, and most of the spades.
Tony began to chuckle. Which was unnerving, because he was being roundly beaten.
“I don’t see anything funny about your situation, Basillio. You’re going to have to finance the celebration.”
“True. I wasn’t laughing about that. I was laughing about how I had to drive all the way up to a backwash of the great state of Massachusetts to see the great Nestleton stymied.”
“What do you mean ‘stymied,’ Basillio? I found out what happened, didn’t I? My trap worked, didn’t it? We know who the murderer is, don’t we?”
“Yeah, Cat Lady, but it wasn’t a feline crime. Your theory about the Scottish Fold thefts turns out to be meaningless. Mrs. Wallace didn’t know what the hell you were talking about.”
“Play the game, Tony,” I said, slamming a card onto the seat. I beat him ten to one.
***
Click here for more books by Lydia Adamson
Lydia Adamson is a pseudonym for a noted mystery writer and cat lover in New York City.
Alice Nestleton Mystery Series eBooks from InterMix
A Cat in the Manger
A Cat of a Different Color
A Cat in Wolf’s Clothing
A Cat by Any Other Name
A Cat in the Wings
A Cat With a Fiddle
Look for A Cat Tells Two Tales
available now in print from Obsidian
Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) Page 17
