Come Hell or Highball (10 page)

Digton's bushy brows shot up. “I don't get your meaning.”

“Oh. Well. It sounded as though you were trying to make me confess to being a compulsive killer of rich husbands.”

“But Alfred Woodby wasn't rich.”

“Could we stick to the topic?”

“Sure. How about that the nurserymaid, Vera Potter, told me you were seen seducing Horace Arbuckle in his study about six hours before he was shot?”

“Seducing? Zowie, are you ever mistaken.” That's who had been spying on Horace and me, then. Nanny Potter.

“Yeah?” Digton glanced down to the
V
of my robe, which had gone a little loose.

I pinched it shut.

“Seems to me,” Digton said, “you're a lady who knows how to get what she wants.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Seems to me, a lady who's used to having things her way might get a little, say,
hot-headed
when her plans are loused up.”

“Plans?” Had this monkey-man learned about my plan to crack into Horace's safe? Berta was the only one who knew. After she'd been questioned earlier, she told me that she'd kept her lips zipped about the film reel, and about Alfie's love nest, too. “What plans?”

“Your plans to have Horace Arbuckle for yourself.”

I laughed. “Horace? For myself? Don't get me wrong, I liked the fellow. But we were only friends.”

“That so?”

“Listen here,” I said. “I don't know if you're trying to trick me into some kind of confession—a false confession, I might add—but why don't we cut to the chase: If you've got evidence of anything, then go ahead, cuff me.” I thrust out my wrists.

Digton shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Maybe,” I said, “some lunatic sneaked into the house, shot Horace, and took off again.”

“Playing sleuth, huh? Matter of fact, the house was locked up tight, and there were no signs of intrusion. Nope, it was what we call an inside job. The killer never went outside.”

“You mean…?”

“Yeah. It was one of you lot.”

“But I found Horace in the kitchen, and I'd come down the servants' hallway—”

“There's another way out. Dodge into the pantry, and there's another door leading out into that same servants' corridor. Ever used a gun, Mrs. Woodby?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Arbuckle's killer was a crack shot. Got him plumb in the heart.” Digton made a gun with thumb and forefinger. “Bang! In one go, and in the dark. Knew what he—or she—was doing, all right. So. How's your aim?”

“I've gone pheasant hunting, but I've never even come close to hitting anything.” Not that I'd been trying. “Is there a reason you've adopted an especially accusatory tone with me, Inspector? Any person in this house could've shot Horace. I'm simply the unlucky one who found the body.”

“Rustling up a midnight snack, I'm told?” His gaze settled on my chiffon-encased thighs.

“A girl's got to keep her strength up.”

“The butler told me that all the household staff were just behind him when he came down to investigate the gunshot. None of them would've had time to run back upstairs to the servants' quarters. Which means that the murderer is one of you houseguests. Or the wife. Narrows it down real nice. And you know what, Mrs. Woodby? I have to say, I think it was
you
.”

I stopped breathing for a second. “I'm not so sure I like the direction you're headed, Digton.” I stood. “I think I'll cut this session short. If you'd like to put me on the rack at a later date, I'll have my lawyer present.”

“Have it your way, Mrs. Woodby. Where will you be staying? Not, I guess, your old house down the road?”

“The Algonquin Hotel,” I lied.

“You can't hide from the law,” Digton called after me as I swooshed out.

*   *   *

Of course, I couldn't sleep a wink after all that. At the crack of dawn, Berta and I took turns in the bathroom. We dressed, stuffed our suitcases, and made a break for it.

We'd made it as far as the stairs when a maid stopped us. I was wanted on the telephone.

I didn't have a good feeling about it.

I took the call by the main staircase, even though the entry hall was in commotion. Berta and I weren't the only ones who'd had the idea to flee Dune House posthaste. The front door stood open, and motorcars, people, and luggage jumbled up the drive.

I lifted the telephone's mouthpiece and put the receiver to my ear.

“Lola?” my mother shrilled. “Is that you? I hear rattling!”

“Hello, Mother.”

“My sainted aunt! What are you doing at that house party? Daphne St. Aubin telephoned and told me Horace Arbuckle's been murdered! Didn't I teach you
anything
about decorum?”

I almost kicked the wall, but decided my shoe wasn't up to the strain. “How was Europe?”

“You're forever trying to put me off the scent, Lola. How I ever raised such a dodgy daughter, I shall never understand. I raised you to be a lady, and your husband's body hasn't even gone cold before you're off to one of your wild parties! And you didn't have the decency to let me know where you'd gone off to—it took Chisholm telling me he'd seen you at the golf links. Golf! Chisholm, by the way, is dreadfully concerned about your behavior.”

Chisholm? My
behavior
? If he knew I was now an accused murderess, he'd probably spout steam from his hair follicles.

“I suppose,” Mother said, “you're motoring yourself about in that masculine contraption, too?”

“Shall I come for a visit?” I asked, mock chipper.

“Immediately, Lola.”

I was thirty-one years old. Why did Mother think she could order me around like a collie? “I'll call on you later today.”

“But—”

I hung up.

“Lola!” Olive was beside me. “Oh, Lola, it's too, too dreadful. You weren't going to leave without saying good-bye, were you?”

“Um,” I said. “Of course not. Olive, I am awfully sorry about—”

“No, no. I shall be fine.” Olive looked fatigued, but her kohl was crisp. No tears, then. “The police are still here, you know. They're absolutely ransacking the house for clues. I do hope they find some. The very idea of a murderer loafing about is simply
not
to be tolerated.”

“And Billy and Theo?” I asked “How are they?”

“Oh, still green about the gills from those cookies. Nanny Potter is
such
a marvel with them, though. I'd be lost without her.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“What? Oh no. No, I expect I'll be fine.” Olive's eyes were fastened on something beyond me. I turned.

Out in the driveway, Bruno was stepping into a limousine. George Zucker waylaid him and they had a brief exchange. George looked pleading. Bruno seemed irritated.

Probably haggling about that film studio contract again.

I looked back to Olive. Her face was glowy.

Could Olive have shot Horace in order to free herself up for Bruno Luciano? How diabolical. And how
preposterous
.

When Bruno's limousine rolled away, Olive went inside without even saying good-bye to me.

*   *   *

I found Berta on the front walk. We watched George and Sadie bundle themselves into the Rolls-Royce. Eloise Wright, resplendent in a mink coat, whisked around Cedric and shot him a vile look.

“I guess Mrs. Wright doesn't like dogs,” I said.

“There is no shame in that,” Berta said.

“And for a lady whose lover—”

“Mrs. Woodby!
Language
.”

“—has just been bopped off, she doesn't appear especially distraught.”

Two menservants strapped luggage to racks, Hibbers overseeing it all.

Nanny Potter jogged into view from the side of the house, with Billy and Theo straggling like goslings in her wake. Poor fellows. What would become of them? Olive would probably pack them off to some chilly New England boarding school.

They jogged past the motorcars and out of sight again.

“I wonder what ever happened to that rotten Mr. Oliver,” I said.

“He took himself off to the Foghorn in town yesterday evening,” Berta said, “with the other extra hands Mrs. Arbuckle hired. No room for them in the house.”

“I suppose he couldn't have been the murderer, then, or the one who stole the reel.” How disappointing.

The Rolls-Royce and the Daimler drove off. Berta and I headed toward my Duesy.

“Leaving so soon?” Hibbers called.

I'm positive Thad Parker's getaways are much more slick.

“No need to stick around like a wad of chewing gum on the sidewalk,” I said. “You look like you have something to say, Hibbers. Or maybe you had hot sauce on your eggs this morning? I told you to stop doing that, or you'll wind up a dyspeptic.”

“Madam is most amusing.” Hibbers came closer. “You requested that I inform you if I were alerted to the presence of a certain … item.”

“You found the reel?”

Berta elbowed me. “Shush!”

I leaned in toward Hibbers. “Hand it over, pretty please.”

“I did not
find
it precisely. It is more that I briefly … noticed it.”

“Where?”

“In an open traveling bag, madam, but two minutes ago.”

“Whose bag?”

“That is the predicament, madam. Miss Street and Mrs. Wright possess identical Hermès Frères weekend bags of fawn-colored calfskin. Both bags sat in the drive, amid the other items of luggage, in preparation for loading their motorcars. I happened to glance into one—its top had not been fastened—and I spied what appeared to be a flat, round metal canister, approximately the size of a dinner plate.”

“Silver colored?”

“Yes, madam. With, I believe, markings of some sort stamped on the top.”

“That's the reel! Which lady's bag was it?”

“I cannot say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I regret to say that when your canine took the opportunity to employ my pant leg as a napkin, I was momentarily distracted. During the time it took for me to disentangle myself from Cedric's jowls, both bags had been loaded into the motorcars.”

Phooey.

“Thank you, Hibbers. One more thing—is it true what Inspector Digton said, that you vouched for the innocence of all the household staff?”

“Indeed, madam.” He hovered.

“If you're expecting some jingle,” I said, “I afraid I'm completely bust.”

“Jingle, madam? Good heavens, no.”

Berta, Cedric, and I heaped into the Duesy. Before I pulled away, I gave Dune House one last glance.

A small white face stared down from a high window. My heart lurched. Wait. It was only Auntie Arbuckle. She lifted her fingers to twiddle a farewell.

“Spooky little critter,” I muttered, and peeled out of the driveway.

 

11

Berta and I motored halfway to New York and stopped at a roadside hash house for coffee and a bite to eat. If I claimed that such establishments were foreign to me, I'd be lying. Even in my Society Matron days, I'd now and again skulk into a cheap restaurant for a fry-up.

Once coffee was coursing through our veins, we talked over Horace's murder in low tones.

“Inspector Digton thinks it was me.” I forked up some fried egg.

“Goodness!”

“He thinks that Horace jilted me for another woman—Eloise Wright, I guess—and I was driven to murderous madness. Let's just hope he finds a better suspect soon.”

“Inspector Digton was ever so kind to
me,
” Berta said. “I even promised to mail him my shortbread recipe. True, he
is
rather stupid. He does not know about the film reel, either.”

Oh yes. Berta and I had both lied to the police. Mustn't forget that.

“I can't help thinking it was Olive,” I said. “She's gaga over Bruno Luciano, and now she's a wealthy widow.”

“She is also at least a decade older than Mr. Luciano. Surely she has some sense of propriety.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

“There
was
the key.”

“What key?”

“Did Inspector Digton not tell you? The killer may have lured Mr. Arbuckle to the kitchen by placing a pantry key somewhere in his reach. A key, you see, was discovered on his … person. It was even labeled ‘pantry.' The killer knew he could not resist having access to all that forbidden food. All they needed to do was give him access to the key, and then lie in wait.”

“That's awful!”

“Mr. Arbuckle made straight for my snickerdoodles, I could not help but notice.” Berta sipped her coffee.

“Don't look so smug.”

“Leaving him the key is, perhaps, something only a wife would think up.”

“A mistress would know about Horace's weaknesses, too.”

“Mrs. Wright, you mean.”

“Yes.” I described Eloise's whispered conference with Lem Fitzpatrick at the golf links. “She's a sneak, mark my words. But, you know, everyone knew that the food was kept under lock and key. In fact, the way Olive was doling out the raw veg,
everyone
was probably peckish enough to kill.” I took a huge bite of sausage with tomato catsup. “You know, if either Olive or Eloise had known Horace purchased a film starring Ruby—a saucy film, if that's what it is—they might've been jealous enough to kill.”

“But to kill Mr.
Arbuckle
?” Berta touched her locket. “He was a nice man.”

Not for the first time, I wondered what Berta's locket meant to her, and if there was a picture inside. She called herself
Mrs
., but then where was Mr. Lundgren now? Berta was a forbidding lady, and I was too chicken to ask.