Follet's Antiques was a small shop but very well-appointed, with every piece set off advantageously. There was a goodly mixture of styles and periods, but none of it seemed to clash. Bethancourt peered closely at an exquisite Chinese vase.
"That's the best piece in the shop," said a voice. "Good afternoon, Sergeant Gibbons."
Tom Follet was a tall, thin young man who looked very different to his brother. He was much darker in complexion and his face was longer. He smiled at them.
"I take it," he said, "that I inherited enough today to make me an even better suspect?"
"Yes," said Gibbons frankly, "if only there was some evidence that you needed it."
Follet shook his head. "If I had needed it, she would have given it to me. My mother was a generous woman and I loved her deeply. She was really a rare person. Everyone who knew her loved her—except, of course, for my stepfather."
"Why not him?" asked Bethancourt curiously. "He married her and it seems the marriage was a happy one."
"He married her for her money and he cheated on her," said Follet shortly. "She knew he had other women, too, but she wouldn't listen to a word about it. Said she was getting on and she knew he loved her. She'd just never run into someone who didn't love her before, that was all."
"But they were happy?" persisted Bethancourt.
"I suppose they were. Why shouldn't they be? He had the money he wanted and she had him. He was very charming and she loved him. And, really, Bill and I never made much of a fuss about it. She was desolate when our father died and I think we both felt that she deserved what happiness she could find. So long as she remained deluded about MacGruder, what was the harm? And he'd never leave the money."
"But you don't think he killed her?"
Follet's face darkened. "How could he have?" he asked. "He was miles away, playing golf, wasn't he?"
"Yes," said Gibbons, "I'm afraid his alibi is confirmed in every particular. But I really came today to ask you about your brother."
"Bill? I hope you're not suspecting him now. He was with Annie all day anyway."
"That's true," said Gibbons. "No, it's another matter. I understand you made several cheques for rather large sums out to him over the past four months. Why was that?"
"He needed money," answered Follet promptly. "He'd made some very foolish investments and overextended himself as well. I warned him against it at the time. Frankly, I would have been inclined to lend him very little, as a lesson to him. But there was Annie and the baby to consider."
"Did she ask you for money, too?"
"Oh, no, she knew nothing about it. Bill was quite anxious lest she find out—he didn't want her to be disappointed in him. I told him it would be better to let her know what had happened, but he would have none of it."
"Do you know if he applied to his mother for loans as well?"
"No, he didn't. The same went for her as went for Annie. I said he was silly. Mother had enough to completely restore his losses, and she would have given it to him if it took all she had. But he couldn't bear the thought of her knowing what a fool he'd been, so I helped him out as best I could." He grinned. "I suppose I was just as silly. I could have told mother I'd spent a lot on a fake and had her give me the money to give to Bill. But I didn't want her thinking less of me any more than Bill did. It's not that she would have complained, or been anything but sympathetic, mind. But there it is. We wanted her to be proud of us."
"And of course," said Bethancourt, "there was no reason that she should be disappointed in you. It's hard to lie about something like that."
"Yes, it is."
"This is a delicate question, Mr. Follet, but I do need to ask it. Was your mother aware that you are gay?"
"Yes," said Follet unemotionally. "She knew."
"And how did she feel about it?"
"We didn't discuss it much. It wasn't what she would have wished for, but my mother was good with unpleasant facts. Like David's infidelity. If there was nothing to be done about it, she just left it alone."
"I see."
There was a pause and then Gibbons asked suddenly, "What do you do if you find a piece you can't afford but would like to have?"
"I don't buy it," answered Follet. "Everything in the shop is for sale, sergeant. If I had a hankering after, say, a Faberge egg, it would be pointless to go into debt for it just to sell it to someone else."
"But if you wanted it for yourself?"
"That," said Follet seriously, "would be even more foolish than Bill and his investments."
***
The Foxes lived next door to Bill and Annie Follet. Mrs. Fox, a woman of about sixty, opened the door to them.
"No," she said when asked, "Jim isn't back yet. Don't get home for another half an hour or so."
"We just wanted to go over what he told the other policeman," explained Gibbons.
"Oh, about the car," she said. "Well, he was washing and polishing for a solid two hours, I can tell you that. I brought him out some tea once, and a beer a little later when he was almost done."
"And what time would that have been, Mrs. Fox?"
"He went straight out after breakfast. We have it late on Sundays, so it might have been ten o'clock when he started. Maybe about half ten I came out with the tea. And then I did up the kitchen and went to make the bed and have my bath. It was when I came down and found him still at it that I brought out the beer. Must have been getting on for noon. Yes, it was, because I asked him, would he be done in time for lunch and he said yes."
"And the Follets' car was parked in their driveway both times when you came out?"
"His car was. The red one. I don't remember seeing her car."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Fox. Do you know the Follets well, by the way?"
"I see them often enough, but we don't have them over, nor them us. We're a bit elderly for them."
"Have you ever seen Mrs. MacGruder, Mr. Follet's mother?"
"She's been down once or twice. A very nice woman, and I was awful sorry to hear about her being killed like that. Annie spoke of her often—always said what a wonderful person she was. Really fond of her, she seemed, and that's not always the case with mothers and daughters-in-law. In fact, I think on Sunday as ever was, Annie said her mother-in-law would be coming down when the baby was born and how glad she was about it."
"You saw Annie on Sunday?"
"Oh, yes, I went out back after breakfast to feed the dog and they were both out in the garden, looking at their herbs. I waved and we just passed the time of day for a minute or two."
"What time would this have been, Mrs. Fox?"
"Well, let's see. It was before I took Jim the tea, so it must have been around ten-fifteen."
"Ten-fifteen? Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Fox. You've been a very great help."
"Isn't that just the way of it?" grumbled Gibbons when they were back in the car. "If I'd gone to see her first, I needn't have bothered with Gleason at all. Or if the bloody police out here had thought to talk to her as well as her husband."
"Yes," said Bethancourt absently. "You know, Jack, I think we've got the wrong end of this case altogether. Look at what we've got so far: a dead woman with three people who stood to gain by her death. Two of them couldn't possibly have murdered her, the third could have, but has no motive. I expect you asked the solicitor whether she had any intention of changing her will?"
"I did. She didn't, at least as far as he knew." Gibbons was thoughtful. "I think it's time we had another talk with Mr. MacGruder."
***
MacGruder did not look pleased to see them but, when pressed, invited them in. He led the way to the living room, but did not offer them seats.
"Well?" he demanded. "What is it now?"
"We wanted to ask you some questions about your stepson Tom," said Gibbons.
"Still harping on the family? Well, go ahead."
"Did your wife know he was homosexual?"
"Of course," grunted MacGruder. "There was no secret ab
out it."
"Did they ever quarrel about it? Or about anything to your knowledge?"
MacGruder started to reply in the negative, and then stopped himself. "Well," he said reluctantly, "there was some kind of row that last time he visited."
"When would that have been?"
"A month ago, maybe. I don't know what it was about. I know she had been worried about him—all this AIDS going around, you know. She might have said something that set him off. Anyway, she was pretty upset after he left. Said he was unreasonable and he had better get over it."
"Did she suggest she might want to change her will?"
"Change it?" MacGruder looked startled. "Never. Oh, you mean Tom. No, she never said anything, although she might not have. It would be like her to take care of it herself and then tell me afterwards."
"She didn't see Tom again before she died?"
"No. She went down to Cirencester about a week before she was killed, but Tom had gone to an auction that day and wasn't around. She was back for dinner that night, as I recollect."
"But you didn't hear what the argument was about?"
"No," said MacGruder irritably. "Didn't I just say I hadn't?"
"Just so," said Gibbons soothingly. "Thank you very much, Mr. MacGruder. We won't take up anymore of your time."
***
"That's the first decent bit of information I've had in a long time," said Gibbons. "Can you drop me by the Yard? I'd like to call the brothers again and get some corroboration, if any."
"His times are right."
"What? Oh, yes, you mean about the visits. Yes, that all works out well enough. And it's fortunate that Bill and Annie saw her after Tom. She may have said something to them about the argument."
"They may not be very willing to tell you if she did," said Bethancourt. "I imagine their loyalties lie with Tom rather than with MacGruder."
"Well, I have to ask, don't I? If they won't say anything, perhaps one of her friends will—there's that widow she was such great friends with. I'll also be interested to see what explanation Tom Follet gives for the row."
"Yes," said Bethancourt. "I'll be interested in that, too."
***
Marla was asleep. Bethancourt slipped out of the bed and stood a moment looking down at her. They had had another argument that evening when they had returned home to find a message from Gibbons on the machine and Bethancourt had insisted on ringing him back. They had made up, more or less, but she was sure to be sulky in the morning.
He turned and, wrapping a heavy silk dressing gown about himself, crept from the room. In the study, he switched on the lamp and poured himself a scotch. He could not sleep. Cerberus, wakened by the absence of his master, padded quietly into the room and sat at Bethancourt's knee. Bethancourt fondled his ears and then picked up one of the police photos provided by Gibbons. There was something wrong about this case. Gibbons had reported that the Follets were united in denying that Tom had any kind of argument with his mother before her death. That could mean only one thing, but Bethancourt was at a loss to explain it. He stared at the photograph. It was all there: the body sprawled on the floor, obviously fallen from the stool; the hand mirror and eyeliner compact to one side, the brush cast to the other side against the wall. The dressing table itself, otherwise undisturbed. The larger mirror on the wall, a small clock to one side of the table with the cup of coffee next to it, and a picture of the MacGruders in a silver gilt frame on the other side. In the space between lay a small bottle of foundation, two cases of eye shadow, and a brown pencil, all set out in an orderly fashion.
Bethancourt sighed. There was something missing, he could feel it in his bones. But he could not think of what it was.
***
"Really," said Marla, "every time one of these cases comes along, you become totally preoccupied. It's worse than when you're writing. At least then you admit that you're preoccupied."
Bethancourt shifted uncomfortably behind the steering wheel. Marla had many virtues, but he had often had cause to wish that her temper was more restrained. He apologized, knowing it would do him no good, and it did not. She went on about his disgraceful behavior the evening before until he pulled up outside the studio where she was working that day. There was a parking space out front so he pulled into it and offered to come up for a few minutes—another conciliatory gesture and one which Marla accepted in better spirit. With Marla, actions spoke louder than words.
The studio was a bustle of activity. Marla was whisked away almost immediately to be fussed over by the fashion editor and the makeup man. Spencer Kendrick, the photographer, whom Bethancourt knew and liked, stopped to chat but was then appealed to by several people to "come look at this."
Left alone, Bethancourt cast an eye over the clothes and accessories (hastily being arranged by the stylist) to be shot, idly watched a harried assistant setting up another light, and finally wandered over to where Marla was having her face administered to by the makeup man.
"I may push off now," he announced. "What time shall I pick you up?"
Marla cast a jade green eye up at him, started to reply, and was promptly hushed by the makeup artist. Obediently, she closed her eyes and held a finger up to Bethancourt. The makeup man didn't spare him a glance. Expertly, he added colour to Marla's lids, licked a finger to smudge the edges, smeared a line of colour beneath her eyes, and turned momentarily back to his paraphernalia.
"I have to stop by the office tonight," said Marla. "How about meeting me there at six?"
"Six it is."
"Hold still," said the makeup man, taking her chin in one hand.
Marla touched her finger to her lips in the motion of blowing a kiss and then closed her eyes again. Bethancourt started to turn away and then paused to watch the makeup man draw the moistened brush along Marla's lashes, leaving a thin black line behind. He dunked the brush in a cup of water, dabbed it in the liner and repeated the performance on the other eye.
Bethancourt forced himself to turn away, thinking to himself that that was what Delia MacGruder was doing when someone came in and murdered her. She had painted one line on her right eye and was about to do the left when she stopped. She stopped to eat or drink something someone handed her, and she died.
***
He proceeded to have coffee with his agent in an attempt to pacify the man, who was irate about deadlines and Bethancourt's failure to meet them. Bethancourt reflected that everyone was releasing their frustrations this morning by yelling at him. He went home, ostensibly to write an article, actually to sit in an armchair and stare out at nothing until the telephone rang.
"If she had a fight with her son, she didn't tell anybody," said Gibbons gloomily.
"Then maybe she didn't have one."
"But why would MacGruder lie?"
"Maybe he killed her. He did have the most to gain."
"Don't be silly, Phillip," said Gibbons irritably. "He was playing golf with two other men when she died."
"That's true," said Bethancourt meditatively.
"I hate it when you're calm like this," said Gibbons. "Here I am, practically foaming at the mouth and you're sitting at home in perfect peace. Why is that?"
"Because you have ambition and I don't," replied Bethancourt. "You have a job and you want to do well and rise up through the ranks. Whereas I would like to be able to discover who killed Delia MacGruder, but if I don't, I reckon someone like you will. It's true that you have to work for a living and I don't, but you enjoy your work and take pride in it, while I don't take pride in much of anything."
"That's not true, Phillip," said Gibbons. "What you do, you do very well. And you know about a lot of different things that I don't. You just don't care particularly what anybody else thinks of you. I have to care. At least, I have to care what Carmichael thinks."
"How is he today?"
"Ready to roast me. Well, that's not entirely true. He did allow as how I had followed up all leads admirably, only he wants to know why they don't go anywher
e. God knows I don't know why."
"I do," said Bethancourt. "I told you: we've got hold of the wrong angle somehow. Go back to the beginning, Jack. That's where we went wrong. There was something odd about the dressing room, and I'd give a hundred pounds if I could just remember what it was."
"So would I," said Gibbons, "and a hundred pounds is more to me than it is to you. Look, I've got to go give Carmichael today's agenda and hope it cheers him up. Ring me if you have any new thoughts."
"All right."
He hung up the receiver and found Cerberus at his side.
"Time for your walk, old fellow? All right, let me get my coat."
Cerberus followed him to the door in a dignified manner that managed to convey a discreet pleasure in the coming outing, but no particular anxiety. They were across the river in the meadows of Battersea Park, turning for home, when the answer came suddenly to Bethancourt. He stopped dead and the dog looked around curiously at him. In his mind's eye he was reliving that morning, seeing the makeup man's every move with crystal clarity. He saw the contorted face of the dead woman and the complete inventory of the dressing room. And he saw what was missing.
He took Cerberus home at a run. He hardly needed to consult the police photo for confirmation, but he did so anyway. Then, jubilant, anxious, full of the news, he dialed Scotland Yard. But Jack Gibbons was out to lunch.
***
Gibbons was enjoying the cottage pie in a pub two blocks from his office. His cohort, Chris O'Leary, was having sausage. Between bites and sips of beer, they discussed the MacGruder murder and their superior's eccentricities. It was with some surprise, therefore, that Gibbons felt his shoulder taken in a strong grip and heard a familiar voice saying,
"Jack! Thank God I've found you—I've been to three pubs already. Tell me—what did you take away from the dressing room?"
"Take away?" asked the detective in surprise, setting down his fork.
"Yes, yes," said Bethancourt impatiently. "Take away, impound as evidence. The coffee, of course, but what else?"
"Oh." Understanding dawned. "Not much. Just the makeup on the table—"
"Including the eyeliner on the floor?"
"Yes, that and the hand mirror and the little brush."
"Thank God." Bethancourt sank down on a stool with relief.
"Look here, Phillip, what's this all about? Have you had an idea?"
"I've figured it out," Bethancourt announced, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his pants leg. "The cyanide was in the eyeliner."
The Dressing Table Murder Page 4
