Friends till the End (18 page)

Detective Voelker didn’t think so. Neither did Detective Connors, who had stayed to supervise the investigation at the Simms house and had joined him at the Crandalls’.

“Do you know any of the bars or nightclubs that Mrs. Simms frequented?”

No, said Heather. She looked surprised and a little disapproving. Of course not. How would she know?

“You feel sure that Mrs. Simms was killed by a man she had picked up somewhere?”

Heather looked even more surprised.

“Of course,” she said. “What other explanation could there be? Naturally it was some stranger she met and took home. She
would
invite people home, in spite of all the times I told her … well.” It was dangerous, of course, she went on, but Freda would persist in her habits. See where it got her in the end.

“You don’t think the murderer could have been—someone she knew?”

Heather looked shocked. Someone she knew? How could that be? No, no, it was a stranger. Somebody she met at one of those bars she went to. There were a lot of dangerous people out there, she said primly. Psychotics. They looked all right, then they turned on you. Surely the detective would know about that?

“There’s a word for it,” she said. “Psychopaths. People with no social conscience. They kill just for the pleasure of it. It gives them a feeling of power—of control. And sometimes they look absolutely all right. So, you see, there’s no way of
knowing.
”

Yes, said Detective Voelker, looking at her rather oddly. Yes.

Just before he took his leave, he asked whom she had told about Mrs. Simms’s death.

“Well, Harry, of course. He’s not here right now, he’s at the university. He’s in the lab all week long, even on Sundays, although I do try to discourage him. And of course I called Ruth Abrams as soon as I heard.”

Yes, said Voelker. Of course.

Ruth Abrams met Detective Voelker at the door with a plateful of overbaked chocolate chip cookies. That was about all he got out of her. Yes, Heather had told her on the phone; yes, yes, terrible, wasn’t it? Other than that she knew nothing. Her husband said the same.

Both couples had told him that they were sound asleep at eleven o’clock the night before. They seemed surprised that he would even ask. Of course, thought Voelker, one of them could have gotten up, gone downstairs and taken the car over to Freda’s without waking the other one. Or maybe one couple was in it together. This was a confounded business. He said so later to Connors, with a great deal of heat.

“One of them is lying,” he said. “One of them is lying. But damned if I know which one it is.”

Connors said he thought it was the girl. The Sloane girl. No reason to believe her story. That Simms woman could have seen her put something in her father’s drink.

“She stands to inherit a lot if her father dies,” Connors
pointed out. “She and her brother. She couldn’t have the Simms woman getting in the way.”

“If that’s the case, why hasn’t she done her father in already?”

“Biding her time. That’s what she’s doing. Just biding her time. Waiting until all this blows over.”

Voelker shook his head. Perhaps … but he was inclined to think not. Walter Sloane had been safe in his own home, waited on and protected by his two children. Surely if they had wanted to murder him they could have done so by now.

“This is a confounded business,” he said out loud, and Connors agreed.

Bernard looked doubtfully at the piece of paper in front of him. On it, in his neat green handwriting, was printed

Pty dd—y hve t in 1 pce—cnfsng!

Nlss—nthr nmly?

Bernard contemplated this in silence. Finally he leaned back in his chair and called, “Maya?”

Snooky appeared at the study door. “Maya’s out, Bernard.”

“Oh. Okay. Can you make head or tail of this?”

Snooky took the paper and glibly read:

“Pitty did—why have tea in one piece—confissing! Endless—nither numly?”

“Thank you.”

“These the notes for your book?”

“No.”

“What are they, then?”

“Just some notes I made to myself.”

“That your special shorthand system?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it works great, Bernard. I can see that.”

Bernard looked at the piece of paper again. “I knew what I meant at the time.”

Snooky concentrated hard.

“Pretty dead,” he said at last in triumph. “Why heave it in one piece—confessing! Unless—in there nimbly?”

“Thank you, Snooky.”

“Anytime.”

Snooky was in the living room an hour later, deep in a book, when Maya entered with a determined look on her face. “Snooky, I have to talk to you—now.”

“Fine.” He put down his book. His sister eyed it dubiously. “What’s that?” she said.

Snooky turned it over. It was called
UFO’s: Our Friends from Outer Space.

“I found it on the shelf in Bernard’s study. It’s interesting.”

“Bernard? That’s impossible. Bernard would never read that.”

“Why? He doesn’t believe in UFO’s?”

“It’s not that. For Bernard, the universe is crowded enough as it is. The thought of other planets being inhabited makes his flesh creep.”

“Well, it was on his shelf, Maya. Either there’s a part of him you don’t know about, or maybe visitors from outer space put it there.”

“I have to talk to you,” Maya repeated.

“You’re doing okay so far.”

“I’ve been thinking about you and your friend Isabel.”

“What a coincidence. So have I.”

“Honestly, I think she’s bad for you, Snooky. I don’t think you’re in love with her. Of course you’re not. Love is something completely different.”

“Okay.”

“I think this is just another one of your silly hare-brained affairs, which last a few days or weeks and always seem to end with you coming to visit us. Am I making myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“There have been three murders around that girl and for all we know, she could have committed them. Yes, she could have. Don’t wince and look away. Something extremely peculiar is going on. And I’m worried about you.
You’re young and stupid. I know you won’t drop her right away because you’re convinced you’re in love, but I wish you’d be more careful. She could be just using you to back up her story or alibi or whatever it is. There’s something very cold and self-centered about her and neither Bernard nor I like it. I know you don’t see it, but it’s there.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, please be careful. I don’t know what you’re getting yourself mixed up with.”

“I will, Maya. I’ll be careful.”

“You’re not really listening to me, are you?” asked Maya in despair.

“No.”

“But you’re going to be angry at me later anyway, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” He picked up the book. “But hey, maybe the aliens will land and we’ll all have something else to think about by then. Hey, My—did you know that there are places in Peru where their ships go by every night?”

In the Sloane house, another brother and sister were talking.

Richard said, “You know I didn’t have anything to do with—with what happened to Freda, don’t you?”

“Oh, Richard. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you didn’t.”

There was the sound of a little bell from upstairs. Isabel had given her father a bell to ring when he needed something.

“Oh,
hell,
” said Isabel expressively, and went upstairs to the sickroom.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“I want some milk,” her father snarled. “Some
hot
milk, with chocolate in it and some of those marshmallows—the little ones.”

Isabel looked at him, puzzled. “But, Daddy—you’ve never had cocoa in your life.”

“Well, I want it now. And bring it quick, will you?”

Honestly, thought Isabel, going back downstairs, he could be
pregnant
for all the demands he makes. He’s just
enjoying himself, like the big baby he is. She went into the kitchen and pulled the cocoa mix out of the cupboard.

She found a half-empty bag of tiny marshmallows, sticky and encrusted with goo, and opened it gingerly. “Ugh,” she said, lifting some out. Well, they would have to do. She knew her father well enough to know that plain cocoa without marshmallows, when he was in this mood, would definitely not be acceptable.

She carried the mug back upstairs and entered his room. He was propped up against the pillows, reading.

“What’s that, Daddy?”

“Essays. Montaigne,” her father grunted. “Thought I might as well keep up with my reading for the next time I have to talk to that great bore, Harry Crandall. Thought I’d be prepared.”

Isabel paused by his dressing table. When would that be, she wondered. When would her father feel safe again in the company of his friends?

“Leave it there and turn off the overhead light as you go,” her father said in a kindlier tone. “And Isabel—”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Thanks,” he said unexpectedly, glancing up from his book. “You’re a good girl, you know that?”

“Yes, Daddy. I know.”

As she went out, she turned to switch off the light and flashed him a look of hatred and scorn!

It was the next day, Monday, and Detective Voelker was sitting in his office surrounded by lab reports. He perused them worriedly.

Someone besides Freda Simms and the gardener had left fingerprints in the living room. These prints were not on file; nor did they match the fingerprints of any of the Sloanes or their friends.

The coroner’s report merely confirmed what Voelker had suspected. Freda Simms had been drinking heavily on Saturday night.

Voelker scowled at the fingerprints. Who was this? Probably someone who had picked up Freda in a bar—or vice versa—and brought her home. This mystery man
could have been the one who strangled her. He could have been … but somehow Voelker didn’t think so. No, he didn’t think so. He was fairly sure these prints had nothing to do with the murder.

He had his men out combing the local bars and restaurants looking for anyone who had seen Freda Simms last Saturday night. And the man she might have been with. Voelker would like to have a long talk with him. Of course she could have met him anywhere. And it would take time … lots of time.

He shook his head and continued reading the reports.

“Of course we’re going to the funeral,” Heather said. “Wait a minute, Ruth. Harry, you can’t wear that—no, go change—I
mean
it, Harry—that tie is atrocious. This is a solemn occasion.” Into the phone she said, “Well, naturally we’re going. I mean, poor
Freda.
”

“Yes,” concurred Ruth doubtfully. “I suppose—I suppose we’ll be going, too. I guess we’d better start getting ready. Sam doesn’t want to go and neither do I—you see, Heather, I mean, it’s not as if we knew her all that well—but I guess we really should …”

“Of course you should. We’ll see you there, then.”

“Yes—” said Ruth’s hesitant voice as Heather hung up with a sharp
click.
Heather turned to survey her husband.

“No,
no
, Harry,” she said in exasperation. “No, not that tie either. Are you out of your mind? Flamingos at a funeral?”

Snooky drained his cup of coffee and stood up.

“Well, I’d better get dressed. The funeral’s in an hour. I’m meeting Isabel there beforehand.”

“Be careful,” Maya said.

“I will. Bernard, can I borrow your jacket? You know, the dark one?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m going to wear it.”

“Wear it? Wear it where?”

“To the funeral.”

Snooky and Maya gaped at him.

“But sweetheart,” Maya said, “you don’t have to go to this funeral. You didn’t even know the woman.”

“I know,” said Bernard, rising ponderously to his feet. “I want to go.”

“Why, for God’s sake?”

“I want to meet all of Snooky’s little friends,” said Bernard.

The funeral was a solemn affair, although no one cried. Funerals at which no one cries are sadder occasions than funerals at which everyone cries. The reception, hosted by an elderly aunt of Freda’s who had turned up at the last minute and claimed all her money, was terribly grim. It was made even grimmer by the presence of Bernard, who sat in a corner and stared balefully at all the guests. To everyone’s surprise, Isabel and Richard appeared with their father firmly sandwiched between them; Isabel had been determined that he should come and pay his respects to the dead. There were plenty of people at the reception; Freda was one of those essentially lonely people who gather others around them like a magnet. There were more men than women. One of Freda’s friends-and-acquaintances, a gifted puppeteer, enacted a puppet mime show over the coffin. Another, a poet, brought red roses. Yet another spent his time explaining to Ruth Abrams, who was trying very hard not to listen, what a very
special
person Freda had been.

“Yes, yes,” said Ruth irritably, wondering what she had done to attract this—this
person
and what she could do to extricate herself. “Yes … of course … oh yes, she was, she was.”

Freda’s aunt, who at the age of seventy-six was now suddenly and spectacularly wealthy, gave Freda a nice going-away party.

“For that’s how I think of it,” she fluted, her voice carrying across the room, “as just a little going-away party. Of course Freda’s just on the Other Side—you know that, don’t you?—the Other Side …”

She intended to devote the rest of her life and all of Freda’s personal fortune to research in parapsychology.

“Just a going-away party,” she trilled delightedly. “I’m sure she’s here somewhere, enjoying herself …”

Bernard, upon hearing this, wished that she were. Perhaps then he could ask her to point out her murderer.

For of course her murderer was here. His eyes scanned the room. Maya, Snooky, Isabel, Richard, Walter Sloane. Heather and Harry Crandall—there. He recognized Heather from the visit to his house. Ruth and Sam Abrams—over there. Snooky had pointed them out to him at the funeral. Ruth was looking at a young man who was monopolizing her as if she wished he were in the coffin instead of Freda.

Bernard heaved himself slowly to his feet and crossed the room.

“Maya,” he said. “Introduce me to these people.”