Steve asked, “Didn’t Mrs. Chandler have the final say?”
“Oh, no,” she replied. “Alice was always considerate of other people’s feelings. We all discussed it and were going to leave off deciding until tomorrow evening—well, this evening, now—when the quilt was to be completed.”
“Let’s go back to after Mrs. Chandler returned to the sewing room.”
“I remained in the dining room all evening. I remember that Susanne, that is one of the maids, served tea, and I enjoyed a cup of Earl Grey with lemon, no cream.”
“So, you never left the dining room all evening?” queried Steve, pressing.
Mrs. Black hesitated a moment. “I may have stepped into the adjoining storage area. I was inspecting the crystal, china, and cutlery. Some people say you cannot trust the help to polish or adequately clean. Nowadays, the help is extremely slipshod in their duties.”
“So, no one saw you for a period that night.” Steve did not think that Mrs. Black could be the murderer. She did not have the strength to inflict the wound that Buck described killed Mrs. Chandler, but he did want to shake her superior attitude.
“Well, not that I am aware of. However, I am sure that someone noticed that I stepped away and to where.” After delivering this confusing answer, she began to fidget. With a pointed look at the watch pinned to her dress, she asked, “Do you have any more questions for me? I have an appointment in town.”
Steve looked at Buck. “You have anything else for Mrs. Black?”
“Not a thing. We know where she is if I do.” He gave the woman, who had hopped out of her chair, a broad smile. “Will you and the committee be here working on the quilt this evening?” he asked.
Mrs. Black answered, “Of course. We still have an amount of work to do.” With that, she scurried out the door and demanded her coat from Jeremy in an imperious, shrill tone.
With a deep sigh, Steve shook his head and leaned back in the chair. “Some people say that she is a nasty little rat of a woman.”
Buck replied, “Some people say she can give me a headache. I feel I need a bath after that. I wonder how much of what she told us is true.”
Chapter 6
Steve rose and stretched. “Looks like everyone had a reason to stick a pair of scissors in Mrs. Chandler, according to the genteel Mrs. Black. Now, at least, we have something to talk to the rest of our suspects about.”
Jeremy appeared at the door. “Will there be anything, gentlemen?”
“How about some coffee, Jeremy? This looks like it is going to be a long day. A long, long day. And could you provide lunch at around eleven thirty? Nothing big, just some sandwiches,” asked Buck.
“And a couple of beers, if you got ’em?” said Steve, hopefully.
Jeremy smiled and shook his head slowly. “I am afraid not, sir. The madam forbade spirits on the premises. I will have something prepared for you for luncheon, and the coffee will be here in a few minutes.”
A knock on the door announced Francis. His whipcord frame was dressed in a smart three-piece double-breasted brown suit, with a gray-and-brown striped tie in a Windsor knot over a crisp white monogrammed shirt. His dark hair was held in place with pomade, and he wore a thin, clipped moustache. He had a round, broad face with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes that looked almost black in the right light. His face bore a carefully cultivated air of calm boredom. Steve noticed the black mourning ribbon encircling his right sleeve between shoulder and elbow.
“I hope I am not too early?” he said neutrally.
They assured him he was not, and Steve asked Jeremy to bring another cup.
The butler bowed and departed.
Steve introduced himself and shook the moist hand offered him. “I have been sent down to investigate your mother’s death. Please, accept my deepest sympathy.”
Francis gave a quick nod, seated himself in the chair recently vacated by Mrs. Black, and crossed his legs while smoothing the cloth of his impeccably tailored trousers over his knees.
Steve seated himself and turned his notebook to a fresh page. “Mr. Chandler, can you please outline your movements that evening from about seven thirty to eleven p.m.?”
“I was at work,” he answered in a plummy voice.
Steve waited for him to elaborate. When Francis did not continue, Steve prompted, “Did anyone see you there? Were you in a meeting with someone?”
“The old man, the watchman. He had been in Cuba with Roosevelt.” He twisted and looked a question at Buck.
“That would be Mr. Haney,” the captain supplied.
Francis turned back, and Steve proceeded, “Was he in sight the whole time?”
Francis adjusted his tie. “No.”
Steve ran his fingers through his hair in a sign of annoyance. He hoped all the witnesses would not be as difficult as his first two. “Mr. Chandler. Can you please elaborate?”
With a look of supercilious surprise, he said, “I am answering your questions, am I not, Inspector?”
With a sigh, Steve nodded and continued, “How long was Mr. Haney not in sight?”
“I do not keep track of him. I was in my office working on the production schedule. I noticed him when he was on his rounds on the mill floor once.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands calmly in his lap.
Something about Francis’s lack of emotion tickled a thought, but it disappeared before Steve could grasp it.
There was a discreet knock on the door, and Jeremy entered, followed by two maids wheeling a cart bearing a coffee service. The interview paused while the butler lit the tea candle under the warming stand and arranged the service. He poured while the shorter of the female servants served the three men. The taller, redheaded maid offered a silver tray with a silver bowl of sugar, a silver creamer, and silver coffee spoons.
Steve continued after their departure, “Chief Daniels, is Mr. Haney one of your deputies?”
“Yes, Haney is one of the watchmen. He has rounds every hour.”
“How did you hear about the murder, Mr. Chandler?” Steve asked, returning to Francis.
Francis turned to Buck. “Wasn’t it that young officer with red hair and a scar on his chin?”
Buck looked at Steve. “As soon as I heard, I sent Constable Brook to get Mr. Chandler.”
Steve nodded and turned back to Francis. “Later that night at the house, after things had quieted down, did you hear anything odd or out of place? I’m wondering if the murderer hid in the house somewhere and snuck out after everyone had gone to bed.”
“No.”
“How were relations between you and your mother?” Steve sprang on him.
Francis tilted his head and a quick smile skipped across his face. “Our relations were good. I loved my mother, and I was miles away at the time some madman murdered her. We had insignificant differences, of course, but nothing of importance. We agreed on the direction of the company, and she was pleased with my management,” he answered in a slightly amused tone. Steve wondered if he was playing with them.
“Like the investment in wool?” Steve asked mildly.
Francis’s lids lowered to partly cover his eyes, and he answered calmly, “My mother and I discussed and resolved that issue.”
Steve flipped a page in his notebook as if looking for something. “Mr. Chandler, I understand you vacation in Cuba. What do you like about Havana? I have never been there, myself. Maybe I’ll go, one of these days.”
Francis’s lips tightened for a moment, and he leaned carefully forward. His eyes were steely as he answered in a slightly mocking tone, “I enjoy relaxing on the beach. I sail and fish. I like Cuban food. At night I visit the casinos and enjoy a drink or two. When I leave, I pay my bills and do not leave any scandals behind.
“Inspector, I do not like the direction of your questions. You stated that you are investigating my mother’s death. You are hinting at a problem between my mother and me. If you even dare hint to the papers that anything untoward was between us, my lawyers wil
l have you in court so fast you won’t have time to put on your hat.” Francis sat back, his face blank.
Francis’s attitude puzzled Steve. Why would he treat the investigation like a game? There was an undertone of mockery and condescension that was jarring for a grieving, loving son. He filed the thought away to mull over later when he and Buck were alone.
Steve leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Believe me, Mr. Chandler, I am not making any accusations at this time. However, I will pursue any pertinent line of questioning, and I don’t pay any attention to threats. Neither do I talk to the press during an investigation. Thank you, Mr. Chandler. If we have any more questions, may I have some more of your time?”
“Certainly, if you leave your insinuations at the door.”
Both men rose. Francis shot his cuffs and left with a nod to Buck.
Buck poured refills and took a sip. “He always was a cold fish, but that whole thing seemed staged, somehow. Maybe it’s the contrast with Mrs. Black. I don’t know,” he observed.
Steve tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil. “I get the same feeling. Something is out of whack.”
“Steve, you don’t really think he had anything to do with the murder of his mother?”
“No, it looks like he couldn’t have done it unless he was able to get out the door and sneak back when Haney was in his cubbyhole.”
Buck shook his head. “When someone is in the watchman’s office, he can see Mr. Chandler’s office and Mr. Chandler sitting at his desk. Unless the interior blinds are drawn,” he finished thoughtfully.
“If necessary, I’ll look the mill over, but I don’t think there would be anything to it,” observed Steve. “Still, there is something about his attitude that doesn’t fit. There was almost a challenge about him. Just a feeling I have.” He shrugged and asked, “Do you think Silene is ready to talk to us yet?”
Chapter 7
Light footsteps sounded in the hall, and a moment later in walked a tall young woman with bobbed, tawny hair and a black, close-fitting dress that reached a scant two inches below her knees. She had a broad brow and heart-shaped face narrowing to a square chin with a small cleft. Green, smiling eyes looked out from under perfectly arched brows. Her patrician nose topped wide, thin lips colored with pale pink lipstick. Steve cleared his throat and realized that she looked subtly like Julie. He quickly swept that thought from his mind.
The woman greeted Buck absently but looked Steve over from the top of his head down to his shoes as he stood in front of the desk, hand extended. Her lids dropped to half cover her emerald eyes as she finished her appraisal.
She shook his hand with a firm grip, using her full hand, not just the fingertips as many women did. Her grip lasted longer than necessary for politeness, and she met Steve’s eyes with a speculative boldness. “I am Silene Chandler. You must be Steve Walsh. Very, very pleased to meet you,” she said in a husky voice. Silene released his hand when she saw the flush creep up his cheeks. A low laugh accompanied her to the chair, which Steve held for her. She sat at the front of the seat with a faint smile curving her lips.
Steve circled the desk and took his seat. He felt that his collar was too tight but suppressed the urge to tug on it. Regaining his composure, he asked, “Miss Chandler, could you tell me your movements on the night your mother died?”
“Yes,” she answered, her smile broadening into a friendly, teasing grin.
After a pause, Steve continued, “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I could tell you what my movements were on the night Mother died.”
Another pause. Steve sighed, forcing calm. “Then will you please do so?”
The girl got up and walked around the desk to take a seat on the corner. She crossed her legs, exposing more leg than Steve was comfortable seeing on a possible suspect. She leaned over in front of him, took a cigarette from the box on the desk, and waited for him to light it. She arched her well-groomed eyebrows, her light smile challenging. He reached for the large silver lighter and extended the flame. He was beginning to get irritated. Silene bent down, cupping his hand, and inhaled the cigarette alight. With her left arm under her chest, she rested her right arm on her left hand and pulled in a lungful of smoke. Grinning at Steve, she exhaled. “You’re cute.”
She scratched a dimpled knee with well-manicured fingernails, drawing Steve’s eyes.
“Now tell me, cutie,” she said, stubbing out the barely smoked cigarette in a large purple glass ashtray. She rested her right elbow on her knee and tucked her chin into her hand, leaning over. “Are you married? I didn’t notice a ring, but you men don’t like to advertise when you are out of sight of the wifey.”
“Miss Chandler,” Steve began.
“Oh, call me Silene. I don’t like to be so formal with good-looking men. Do you want to take me out for dinner and a little dancing tonight?”
“Miss Chandler, will you please sit in the chair. I have no interest in turning this into a social occasion.” Steve’s face was a stern mask.
She made a moue with her lips. “Now, don’t be that way. You look like you don’t mind having a little fun once in a while.”
He stood up and looked at an amused Buck. “Can I borrow your handcuffs? I am going to arrest Miss Chandler as a material witness and take her to the holding cells at your station. There she will stay until she decides to cooperate.”
Silene’s attitude changed immediately. With narrowed eyes, she straightened and said in a low, shocked voice, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Yes, I would. If I have to I will take you up to Hartford to a real jail, and I will fight every effort to get you out. That would be highly embarrassing to you and would probably cause a fracas with my boss for me. But I don’t really care. I have been fired before, and I think the opposition party will make a huge play with the situation.
“Alternatively, you can stop the vamp act, and I will stop the hard-boiled detective act. Then we can get on with this like real adults.”
Silene rose, spine stiff, and circled the desk to return to the chair. She settled in, crossed her legs, and said in a cold voice, “I left the house right after dinner at, oh, about six o’clock. Miles and Margot Steen-Masterson picked me up, and Dean Williams was with them. We went to a little place south of here where we, well, could dance. About ten o’clock we left and had a bite to eat, and then we went out again. I returned around eleven o’clock and found the place in an uproar.”
“So, you were with Miles, Margot, and Dean all evening?”
“Most of the time. I needed some air and borrowed Miles’s convertible and drove around for about an hour.”
Buck interjected, “Most of Miss Chandler’s crowd goes down to Harrotsville to The Firehouse. There is a speakeasy in the basement. It is about forty-five minutes from here. I will check with the three of them to verify.”
“Are we done here?” asked Silene icily.
“Unless there is anything else you can tell me that would be pertinent to the investigation, I think so,” answered Steve. “Thank you for your time.” He spoke equally icily. “Oh, how were the relations between you and your mother?” he shot at her in hopes of surprising her and eliciting an unguarded answer.
A flush came to her cheeks. “You will find out or already know,” she answered stiffly. “Jeremy informed me that Emma Black has already spoken with you. Mother did not approve of my social life, but not to the point of more than a repetitive, tedious lecture. She had no problem with my professional life. Sales were up each year since I took over. And expenses were down. I brought in several new clients, three firms from Germany and France. After the war, they were eager for our products, and I made an excellent deal with them. Advantageous for us and them.”
As she started to rise, Steve innocently asked, “Do you know Barry Jones well?”
Silene sat back down and glared at him. “What do you mean by that?”
He pretended to look at his notes. “We have heard that you and Mr. Jones were having an affa
ir and that your mother was not happy about it.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know where you heard that! Look. There was a Christmas party at the nursery. Mother does—did—not like drinking, so she came for a half an hour to be social and left. After that, the band tuned up and the refreshments appeared. I had a little too much to drink. I danced. I stepped outside. Barry followed me and he—I let him kiss me, but when he got grabby, I slapped him and told him that if he ever did that again, it would blow up in his face and I would be holding the dynamite. I was not about to get involved with that ‘Jack Keefe.’ Wanda, really loaded, came out, knowing what kind of guy he was. Last I heard, when I left, she was threatening to surgically alter him, if you get what I mean. As far as I know, Mother didn’t even know about the incident. Emma Black knows that she hated gossip and would never have tolerated it, even if it were true.”
She rose gracefully and patted her dress into place. Both men watched the elegant sway of her hips as she walked enticingly from the room.
Buck shook his head and smiled. “Didn’t make a friend there, Steve, old man.”
Steve looked at Buck’s widening smile and the direction of his gaze. “How’s your wife, Captain?”
Buck jerked his eyes back, and a slow flush rose from his neck to his hairline.
The interviews with the staff were unhelpful. All of them had been in the dining room or kitchen throughout the evening. Their stories verified some of the movements Steve and Buck had already heard about from Emma Black. None of them noticed any of the guests missing for any length of time, but they were too busy to notice. They were all horrified that anyone could think of murdering Mrs. Chandler. She was kindly. A wonderful employer. Everyone was loyal and loved her. And on and on.
After the interviews with the staff, during which they managed a quick bite of the sandwiches that were brought in, Steve and Buck headed back to Chandler. When Buck drove away to talk with Haney at his home, Steve walked into the hotel. He asked the desk clerk if the Sullivans were in. The manager sent up a bellhop, who returned after a few minutes with an invitation to their suite.
The Rose Quilt Page 7
