Dead Dogs and Englishmen (19 page)

Lila Montrose-Hawke went out
the tall, polished front doors in a dull, gray body bag she would have hated. Cecil didn't watch. He'd taken himself off to the morning room where we'd had tea on my second visit. He sat in the bay window with twinkling lights from outside silhouetting him in the half-dark, a picture of misery, made more miserable looking by streams of mascara running down his cheeks, with lipstick smeared onto his chin, with his wig at an odd angle, and his embroidered gown twisted around his rotund body so the place where a breast should be was caught up under his armpit.

He sobbed on and on. His shoulders shook. Tears flowed as he threw back his head and keened the way old Irish and Italian women keened at death. I'd helped him into the room, then sat next to him, talking low, trying to be comforting. Each time I attempted to get up he put his maimed hand on my arm, keeping me in place beside him. I sat straight, embarrassed in my Mary Poppins costume, long blue-serge skirt to my ankles, lisle stockings in prim black shoes, a bunch of plastic flowers at my throat, hair pinned back and up, and a straw pork-pie hat atop my head. The parrot-handled umbrella was lost somewhere in the stampede of the crowd after the shot rang out.

I heard the police, one by one, opening and closing the front doors. Drifts of hot air found their way into the room, little touches of warmth amid the icy air conditioning. Dolly came in from time to time to tell me who'd arrived and who was doing what. Lucky Barnard pulled out all the stops. Every cop I knew from the area was there. Even Lieutenant Brent from Gaylord, and that annoying little automaton, Omar Winston. There were officers from Mancelona and Kalkaska, men I'd talked to for stories.

“We've got a lot of interviewing to do,” Dolly came in to inform us. She kept her voice low, glancing at Cecil's bent head. “Hope you don't mind, Mr. Hawke. Something we've got to get to. Statements have to be taken from every single one of 'em here.”

Cecil lifted one shoulder. I wasn't sure he'd heard her. “They won't know anything.”

“Got to get a statement from you too,” she added, pulling a straight-backed chair over and sitting, notebook out, pencil in hand.

“About what? You don't think I had anything to do with this, do you?” Cecil's face, when he looked up at her, was bright red from weeping. His eyes were puffed to almost closed. Freddy found him in all the confusion and sat next to his chair, on guard. Cecil reached out absentmindedly and pinched Freddy's head. At first the dog flinched, then sat totally still.

“I need to talk to everybody. Even Emily.”

Cecil sniffed at Dolly, then fished around in the bodice of his dress for a handkerchief, found none, and sniffed again. You couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. “I won't be able … I don't know when … Oh, dear. Oh, dear …” He was off into sobbing, eyes closed, hands wringing in front of him.

“It would be better to take care of things tonight,” Dolly said, her voice steady. “You want us to get whoever did this, don't you?”

Cecil's body stilled. He opened his eyes wide. “Did what? Lila committed suicide. I've been afraid of such a thing for a while now. Her depressions … Oh, my dear, such depressions.”

Dolly gave him a confused look. “No gun in the room. This was no suicide.”

Cecil's mouth dropped open. He hesitated only a moment, got control of himself, then scoffed at Dolly. “You didn't know Lila. Of course she would take herself out with high drama. You'll find it—the gun. She came up with something … I don't know what. You have to believe me.”

“It's murder, the way it looks now.”

Cecil sat back, took a few deep breaths, then spoke hesitantly, as if reluctant to say anything. “Then I know who did it.” He gave me a long look, reached over the arm of his chair and snapped Freddy hard on top of the head. “Check Lila's room. You'll find her packed suitcase there. She was leaving me right after the party. Probably the reason for what happened. Though I think she'd … misread the person she was leaving me for.”

“Leaving?” Dolly knew how to look skeptical.

“Yes, running off. Just the kind of thing that would appeal to Lila.”

“Who with?”

“Jackson Rinaldi.”

How did I know that name was coming?
Oh, Jackson.
I wanted to groan, but somehow felt it best to show no emotion in from of Cecil Hawke.

“You know him, don't you?” he asked Dolly, who half nodded. “Why do you think I accused him during the séance? Fool. Lila and I'd been fighting all day over that man, you see. I didn't know what to do. It was all I could think of. Of course she was angry with me.” Here he spread his hands wide. “But what's a man to do? That Rinaldi fellow posed as my friend while secretly having an affair with my wife. And then, I learned he was plotting to steal her away …”

The drama was getting to be too much. I could see Jackson going after a famous man's wife. Good for his ego. But not running off. Not him.

“Or perhaps not,” Cecil looked from me to Dolly. “Maybe Jackson had no idea she was planning this escape. In that case, I'd say talk to the man. Get his side of it. But remember …” He put a finger up beside his nose. “A woman is dead. Test his hands for gun powder residue, or whatever you do in such cases.”

“That's crazy,” I said.

Dolly gave me a hard look, signaling me to shut my mouth while she conducted her interview.

“Did she admit to the affair?” she asked.

“Admit! She threw it in my face. I couldn't believe it. The man's a fool. A snob and a wannabe—but dangerous around women. A very dangerous man. Just ask Emily, here.” He nodded in my direction. “I'm sure she can tell you a thing or two.”

Cecil waved a flaccid hand at me and went on. “Who knows? Maybe because she was insisting on this running off thing. Maybe because she threatened to tell me and he'd lose an influential friend. I couldn't begin to read the inferior mind of someone like Jackson Rinaldi.”

“And this other thing …” Dolly leaned in a little closer, notebook resting on her knee.

“What other thing?” He was impatient now, ready to be done with Deputy Dolly.

“Eh, when your wife pretended to be the ghost …”

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

“She asked you if you murdered someone named Amanda, and if you would murder her too. Who's Amanda?”

I'd heard the same thing coming from the ghost but I didn't think it was Amanda. More like Armando. Something like that. I said as much to Dolly.

She gave me one of her disgusted looks. “You heard wrong, Emily. It was Amanda. A woman. Not Armando. A man.”

I shook my head. “I don't think you heard right …”

“Yeah? Well, I'm the professional here. I know what I heard and I'm trained to listen.”

“Not this time,” I insisted, more into showing her up than the truth.

She blew her lips out and rolled her eyes. “I already asked the other guests. They said ‘Amanda.'”

“You know how unreliable eye, or ear, witnesses are.”

She gave up and turned back to Cecil. “Okay. Why did your wife ask if you'd murdered somebody named Amanda or Armando?”

“I thought it was a joke. I've never known an Amanda, or even an Armando, in my entire life—that I'm aware of.” He shook his head. “Typical of Lila's cruel humor.”

Dolly sat back, then looked hard at Cecil Hawke.

“About those friends,” she said, then stopped a minute.

“Yes?”

“Something's coming up over and over while we've been talking to your guests.”

We waited to hear her out.

“Except for a couple of neighbors, the rest said they were hired, down in Grand Rapids. Supposed to be here for some kind of dress-up party. So, almost nobody here is a friend of yours or your wife's.”

Cecil took a deep breath. “Another illusion. Lila was so set on a party. She was used to city life, night clubs, openings. Here, we live quietly. Really there was no one to invite. I have friends …”

“You said European friends would be here.” I frowned. “The ones who came for shooting, and riding to hounds—or whatever it is you all do.”

“Well, yes. But those are business friends. Lots of those. Sheiks. Even minor Scandinavian royalty. They'll be here for the hunt this fall.” He thought a while. “I hope this doesn't put a dent in those plans …”

“So this party was for Lila? Because she was bored?” Dolly said.

“She didn't know the people I invited weren't really …” He sighed and sat back. “That's why I encouraged her to invite you, Emily. And then your friends. I told her it would be droll, having some of the locals attend. You must know Lila was a snob. She so wanted you to see the kind of life she was used to. I think she said it might open your eyes to what you were missing.” He shrugged. “Just her way of helping you out.”

I sat back in my chair. This was a real murder, not another of their endless, silly games. Actually it was a second murder, if my tenuous ‘Toomey' link between them proved to be true. What I had to do, to keep my tightrope walk going between Hawke, Jackson, the police, and my duty to the newspaper, was stay neutral, keep any feeling I had about all of them out of it.

Cecil reached over and set his hand firmly on my leg, fingers digging into me. “You will stay the night, won't you, Emily?” His voice pleaded as his eyes insisted. “I have no one else and I couldn't stand to be alone …”

I opened my mouth to speak as Agent Lo came into the room, hesitated in the doorway, then took a few steps toward me. He stopped and looked hard at Cecil Hawke.

“INS?” Cecil made a
face after the introductions were made. “Emily mentioned you were here. But isn't that about immigration? What's your business in the death of my wife? She was an American citizen, you know.”

Lo patted the air between them, calming him. “I'm very sorry about your wife,” he said and pulled a straight-backed chair up next to Dolly. “It's just that I'm investigating the death of a Mexican national. She was killed up here recently. The only name we've come up with in connection to that killing is a name that Emily, here,” he nodded toward me, “thought she heard your wife call a man who was standing at your front door.”

Cecil shook his head. “Oh, that. Yes, Emily mentioned it. Ridiculous. I didn't recognize the name, didn't know who she was talking about …”

Dolly spoke up. “Emily saw him here tonight. He got out before I could get my hands on him.”

“You saw this man, Emily? At my party?” The question from Cecil had disappointment buried at its heart.

I nodded.

“In the middle of everything going on here? With all my guests in costume? And you still think it was the man you saw once before, on my front porch? Maybe a salesman? Maybe some down-and-outer needing a job?”

“I'm pretty sure it was the man Lila called ‘Toomey.'”

“And I'm pretty sure it wasn't. Besides that, can you tell me just what's going on? I thought you worked for me. I didn't know I was harboring a spy at my bosom. And, on top of everything, you bring your friend, a policewoman, to my party. Really, Emily.” He clucked his tongue at me. “I'm disappointed, though I suppose you did what you thought you had to do.”

Jeffrey jumped in. “Sorry to bother you with this right now,” he said to Cecil, “but this means there could be a connection between the two murders.”

“So far-fetched.” Cecil shook his head at me.

I tried to look truly sorry, but wasn't. Murder was murder.

“Could this Toomey have come to call on your wife?” Jeffrey asked.

“Many come.” Cecil wiped hard at his eyes. He deflated in front of me. “She is … was a very social woman, as Emily well knows.”

“Would you have any idea why a man named Toomey, who Emily said looked like a worker here on the farm, would be calling on her?”

Cecil shook his head.

“Maybe a family member …”

“She has no family.”

“Do you know all the men who work for you?”

“No. Just the ones who report to me.”

“No one named Toomey.”

“Not that I recall.”

“Could I nose around the farm? With your permission, of course. I'd like to talk to the guys who take care of your sheep. Maybe they'd know …”

Cecil sat up straight. His body was stiff. The smell he gave off now was oddly not of his thick cologne but a mixture of dying flowers and sweat. His hands gripped then ungripped the chair arms. For a moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them they flamed with annoyance.

“This is outrageous!” He threw one hand into the air, waking Freddy, who got up and ambled out of the room. “I lost my wife this evening. The love of my life. And you badger me about my farm hands? You have to leave. Now! All of you. In fact, I want you off my property. And no, it isn't all right to bother my workers. They have their hands full with our flocks.” He tried to stand but fell back in his chair. “Go! Go!”

“I wouldn't bother anyone.” Jeffrey kept his voice low. “I don't want to have to get a search warrant …”

“On what grounds?” Cecil demanded, half out of his chair.

Jeffrey looked hard at the man. “I can see you're upset …”

“You can, can you? How astute of you! And now you want to bother my workers? You just wait and see if I don't put up a fight. I'll call my lawyers immediately …” He was blustering, trying to stand again. “Now, would you please go? The house is overrun with policemen as it is. You're not needed, nor wanted here.”

Jeffrey got up, pushed his chair back to the wall, nodded to me and Dolly, turned, and left.

Cecil had worked himself into a manic state of mourning. He stood and held his arms out to me, child-like and needy. “You must help me to my room, Emily. Here I thought you were my friend, and now look at what you've done. Sicced a federal agent on me. I would never have believed it.”

I took his arm with no clue as to what was expected next.

“Please—up to my room,” he whispered as I guided him carefully into the hall. “You must stay the night. You simply have to. I need you. There's no one left to me now. If you're my friend, please, let me rest and then we can talk …”

Dolly, coming out of the room behind us, said, “I'll call somebody if you need a nurse …”

“Absolutely not! You've done enough, Officer. I want Emily here. She knows more about me than anyone.” He waved his hand with the missing knuckle in her face. “My life has been one of eternal strife. Tonight, is the worst of any. Emily must stay.”

I looked hard at Dolly, begging her to get me out of what he was planning. Staying in that house of mirth, in that house where a murder had just been committed—with Cecil Hawke—was like asking me to spend the night alone in a morgue. Maybe worse.

“We'll all be here, Mr. Hawke. I have to interview Jackson Rinaldi.”

“That evil man's still in my house?” Cecil was outraged.

“And Emily's had a rough night …”

“Brought on herself. She's the cause of some of this misery. You owe me, Emily.” The eyes he turned on me weren't friendly. “As for Mr. Rinaldi, the sooner he's taken off to jail the better. He's the most obvious suspect. You won't miss the obvious? Will you, officer?”

Dolly puffed her chest out to amazing proportions. She was ready to come down hard. I got in between them.

“I'll stay for a little while,” I said.

“We have to talk.” He took my hand and pulled me toward the hall. “After I've rested. Maybe later …”

“You know what, Emily?” Dolly called after me. “This is like one of those crazy English mysteries. You know—we got all the suspects in the library …” She shook her head and went back to her interrogations.

_____

Cecil's bedroom was exactly as I would have pictured it. Mostly feminine. Ruffles. Canopy bed with red bed hangings. White carpeting. Lila's dressing table was strewn with fancy spray bottles, make-up, and creams for every part of her body. The room looked not just overdone, but silly.

Cecil collapsed on the bed and motioned for me to cover him with the sheet. As I did, his head popped up. “May I say one thing about your friend, down there? The police officer. You put entirely too much trust in her. As Noel Coward was heard to say about a person who looked much like your Dolly—well, I'm paraphrasing now:
Never trust a woman with short legs. Brain's too near their bottoms
.”

He snickered, threw his arm over his eyes, and asked me, in a weak voice, to dim the lights.

“Don't leave,” he begged from the bed. “When I'm stronger, we'll talk. There are things about Lila, well, I want you to understand.”

He waved a limp hand in the direction of a fussy boudoir chair against the wall.

I looked at the silk-covered, uncomfortable-looking chair and shook my head. No way. I wasn't Freddy, already stretched out on the floor beside the bed.

“I'll be downstairs,” I said. “Whenever you feel like coming down …”

“Only what I expected.” He made a broken sound halfway between disgust and agony; then wiggled his fingers at me, motioning me out of there.

I was dismissed.