Ice Blue (24 page)

“Good God,” Kate breathed, forgetting her
manners. “What’s it worth? Oh, sorry,” she amended, mortified.
“That slipped out. It’s gorgeous.”

Ivy nodded. As she stared at the ring, her
eyes began to shine. After a moment, she wiped at them, twisted the
ring off her finger, and replaced it in the box, closing the
burgundy-furred lid with a snap.

“I’d prefer to wear it always,” she told
Kate, tucking the ring box back in her bag. “But not until this
investigation into Mal’s death ends. I wouldn’t want to risk Mrs.
Comfrey seeing it and understanding it came from her husband. I
have it. I know what it meant. I don’t have to flaunt it to the
whole world.”

Kate digested this information while Ivy
sniffed, wiped her eyes, and used the silence to compose herself.
Before their conversation resumed, the waiter reappeared, this time
with a lump of dark chocolate debauchery for Ivy, and a virginal
white ramekin for Kate.

Accepting a small torch from an assistant,
the waiter passed the flame over Ivy’s cake, which erupted into
blue flame. Ivy squealed, clapping. Patrons at nearby tables
seconded her delight with laughter and an additional spatter of
applause. When the fire disappeared, the waiter turned to Kate’s
ramekin. Passing the blue flame over the top of the dessert, he
moved it from side to side until the top was caramelized. Kate
found the sugary odor disgusting, and no one applauded the result.
Switching off the torch, the waiter turned back to Ivy, offered his
sincere wish that she would enjoy the dessert, and bustled
away.

“You mentioned your little side business.”
Kate ignored her crème brulee as Ivy tucked into her molten volcano
cake. “I thought you were Malcolm Comfrey’s administrative
assistant. You have another business, too?”

Ivy savored a mouthful of chocolate, moaned
in delight, then managed to answer. “Oh, yes, I was still Mal’s
assistant, even after we became engaged. But not as much hands-on,
you see. I actually had a junior assistant, Harriet, and she was
absolutely brill. In the end, she took on most of Mal’s heavy
lifting – she’d had special courses to prepare herself for that
sort of work, you see – while I kept Mal happy and brainstormed new
ideas for my business. Dino-Vits!” she declared.

“Dino-Vits?” Kate repeated. To be polite, she
broke into the crème brulee with her dessert fork’s delicate tines,
but did not attempt to swallow a piece.

“Yes. The idea came to me one night when …
well, in bed. With Mal,” Ivy whispered, a pretty blush appearing on
both cheeks. “We were talking about what the world needs most. Of
course, I said the world’s most important resource is children,
because children are the future. And it’s a tragedy that so many of
them live in poverty. And Malcolm said when you’re in poverty, you
have to pull yourself up by your bootstraps. And I said no, too
many children don’t have boots, and they don’t have strength. They
don’t have the good nutrition, for one thing, to become strong.
They don’t have the vitamins and minerals we take for granted. So
suddenly I had this idea of giving every child in the world a free
supply of vitamins. So they can grow up strong and pull themselves
out of poverty!”

Kate tossed her linen napkin atop the crème
brulee. “Sorry. Sudden nausea. Pay no attention to me, pregnancy
does funny things to your body. So what did Mr. Comfrey think of
your idea to distribute free vitamins to the world’s poor?”

“Well, at first he laughed at me, and was
rude,” Ivy admitted, pausing between phrases to enjoy her molten
cake. “Then he had a change of heart, and said he would give me a
stake to start the business. I couldn’t give away the vitamins for
free, but I could offer them at the most competitive rates in the
entire world.” Ivy grinned at Kate. “Of course, I was over the
moon. I decided to call the product Dino-Vits because all children
everywhere adore dinosaurs. And we manufactured the vitamin pills
to be chewable and even shaped like the three best dinosaurs –
T-Rex, Velociraptor, and Apatosaurus.”

“And this business is a success?”

“An unprecedented success!” Ivy said. “It’s
like, the moment I put the idea out to the Universe, the Universe
responded with money! Dino-Vits got investors right away. I think
Mal must have down a lot of lobbying for me behind closed doors.
But the outpouring of responses was amazing. And … believe it or
not … it’s made me rich,” she admitted, dropping into a whisper
again. “I bought my parents a new home. Paid off my sister’s debts.
And I could retire right now and never work again in my life. All
from the first six months of the business. I guess doing good
really does pay in the end.”

Kate studied Ivy for a long moment. Something
Burt Rowland said occurred to her as she watched the younger woman
finish her cake. When the dessert was nothing but a brown smear
across the gold-edged plate, Kate asked, “How’s the Dino-Vits
business done since Malcolm Comfrey died?”

Ivy blinked. “Actually … it’s lost money for
the first time ever. I’m supposed to meet with my accountant next
week. That’s why I think Mal must have been helping me somehow,
behind the scenes. All the contracts and orders are still in place,
but the remittances have slowed to almost nothing.”

Kate nodded. “Back to the engagement. Did you
and Mr. Comfrey actually set a date?”

“No.” Ivy shook her head. “He said first, he
had to tell his wife their life together was over.”

* * *

Back in her car, Kate checked her smart phone
for messages. Nothing from Hetheridge or Bhar. But Lady Margaret
had rang, and Kate wasted no time ringing her back. When Lady
Margaret came on the line, her information was everything an
investigator could hope for: first-hand, succinct, and germane. As
Lady Margaret spoke in her crisp, no-nonsense tone, Kate sat behind
the wheel and nodded, smiling idiotically as foot-traffic passed
her vehicle on both sides. Inside her head, the pieces were locking
into place, one after another.

“Thank you, Lady Margaret,” she breathed
before disconnecting. She sat for another moment, still aware of
her dodgy stomach and aching side, but no longer concerned with
them. She knew. She was sure she knew. Now to call Hetheridge, tell
him what she’d guessed and what she’d learned for sure, and see
what he…

Her phone trilled. Startled, Kate glanced at
it, expecting to see Hetheridge’s name on the screen. Instead, she
saw one of the Yard’s endless permutations of internal lines. That
meant it was probably Jackson, or Bhar.

“Wakefield,” she answered warily.

“It’s me. Dead man working,” Bhar sighed in
her ear. “You’re recalled back to the Yard. The case has broken.
We’re making an arrest.”

“What do you mean?”

“The nine millimeter gun that killed Ginny
Rowland came back covered with prints. Charlie Fringate’s prints.
Remember his prior conviction? Easy match for SO4. Jackson’s
thrilled. The whole intruder-burglar angle has been dropped and
it’s Fringate all the way. He was reputedly carrying on with Madge
Comfrey. So as the theory goes, he killed her husband to get him
out of the way – and when Ginny Rowland threatened him with
blackmail, and he was facing another bankruptcy and couldn’t afford
to pay, he killed her too.”

Kate sighed. “I have to give Jackson credit,
that makes more sense than most of the conclusions he leaps to. But
it’s still wrong. How does he explain that Fringate supposedly had
the wit to wipe down the fire iron after beating Comfrey to a pulp,
yet when he shot Ginny Rowland in the back, he somehow forgot to
wipe his prints off the gun?”

Bhar was silent for a moment. “Hell, Kate, I
didn’t even ask myself that.”

“That’s because you’re asleep on your feet.
Listen, the last time Jackson went down the wrong road, I faced him
directly and lost, and an innocent person went to trial. I won’t
risk that happening again. Tell Jackson you couldn’t get me to
answer my phone.”

“He’ll find that hard to believe. Forensics
should be calling you soon, too. Remember when the Chief told
Knestrick to check all the dust bins in the neighborhood, not just
the Comfreys’? It’s taken Knestrick this long to examine them, but
in one of the bins he struck pay dirt. A heap of billion-thread
count bath towels soaked with blood. No doubt the majority is
Malcolm Comfrey’s. With any luck, traces of the killer’s DNA will
be on them, too. If Fringate’s innocent, he’ll get off. Still want
to risk Jackson’s wrath?”

“I just need an hour or two. Just long enough
to re-interview the person who actually killed Malcolm Comfrey and
Ginny Rowland.”

“Who?” Bhar demanded.

“Madge Comfrey,” Kate said. “I know she did
it. And I think I know why.

Kate almost made the mistake of heading
toward the hotel where she had interviewed the Comfreys twice
before – an error that could have burned up an hour in London
traffic. Then she recalled Superintendent Jackson’s typical method
of dealing with the affluent – grand gestures and obsequiousness.
If Hetheridge had been perceived as offensive to Madge Comfrey,
Jackson would seek to advance his own cause by giving Madge proof
of his good will. He would declare the CID investigation of the
Comfrey house finished, and allow the Comfreys to return home. A
quick call to the Yard confirmed it, and Kate turned her vehicle
toward Belgravia.

In the Comfreys’ pea-graveled car park, Kate
switched off her smart phone’s ringer, putting the device in
journal mode. To assure a smooth prosecution, she needed to
document everything Madge Comfrey said. To her surprise, Kate
didn’t feel especially nervous as she approached the front
entrance’s tall columns and red-lacquered double doors. Her hands
were steady; her heartbeat, only slightly elevated. She had been
trained for this, she had served her apprenticeship as the second
or third officer on a dozen other arrests. She was prepared to take
the lead.

Chimes sounded within the house when Kate
pressed the door bell. What felt like a full minute passed. Just as
Kate was ready to mash the button again, she heard the tap of heels
against marble, and Madge Comfrey opened the door.

Madge’s brown hair was still arranged in that
stiff halo of perfect waves. She wore a loose frock, probably Laura
Ashley, with a dense floral print. Her pre-programmed expression of
welcome shifted to contempt when she recognized Kate.

“Good afternoon, Detective. I assume you’ve
come to issue another apology on your superior’s behalf. Write a
letter, if you feel you must.” Madge moved to close the door in
Kate’s face.

“Nope,” Kate said, interposing herself
between door and jamb with her left shoulder. “You have my sincere
regrets for any mistreatment you may have suffered, Mrs. Comfrey.
But the case isn’t closed yet. There are loose ends to be wrapped
up, and we need your help.”

Madge’s fingers tightened on the brass door
handle, as if she contemplated shoving Kate backward and slamming
the door. “What sort of loose ends?”

“May I come in?” Kate’s tone was polite.

“I’d prefer not.”

“Very well.” Kate removed her smart phone’s
stylus. “I’m not sure what your neighbors will make of me
interviewing you on your doorstep, but let’s hope they keep their
speculations to themselves, rather than call the media.”

Madge’s silver-frosted eyelids narrowed.
Opening the door wide, she indicated the foyer. “Do come in.”

The stink of lemon furniture polish hung in
the air. As Kate followed Madge into the parlor where she and
Hetheridge had conducted that first interview, the odor
intensified. Although Madge had been home less than twenty-four
hours, a frenzy of cleaning and depersonalization was underway. The
oil painting over the mantle had been removed; the framed
photographs were gone; all the small touches Kate remembered from
the night of the first murder, like that bowl of yellow
chrysanthemums, had disappeared. The room was being transformed
into the blank canvas only a prospective buyer could love.

“I heard you were putting the house up for
sale,” Kate said. “Arranging for a major estate auction, too.”

“Where did you …” Madge cut off her own
question. “Of course. Lady Margaret Knolls. When that nosy parker
calls offering sympathy, she’s only trawling for gossip. And I
thought I was being clever, enlisting her suggestions for the
proper estate agent to wring the most out of the sale, since she
associates with those wretched creatures.”

“The only form of life lower than a copper is
an estate agent,” Kate agreed, smiling at Madge and wondering if
she might actually forge a connection with her. “It couldn’t be
easy to learn your husband died whilst in bankruptcy proceedings,
and you and Jules stood to inherit very little. Just this house and
its contents, once the agent tallies up the value.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Straightening her back, Madge put on the upper-middle class hauteur
Kate despised to the depths of her working-class soul. “Perhaps
people of your background habitually indulge in such vulgar
discussions. People of mine do not. If you have a legitimate
question pertaining to my late husband’s death, please ask it.”

Goaded, Kate shot back without thinking, “Did
you beat him to death because he loved Ivy Helgin? Or because he
transferred all his assets to her? Meaning you and Jules would be
forced to earn your living, like the rest of the planet?”

Madge’s fuchsia lips twisted into a sneer.
Was that vindictive expression the last thing Malcolm Comfrey and
Ginny Rowland had ever seen?

As if she’d plucked the latter name from
Kate’s mind, Madge said, “Moments like these, I rather wish Ginny
were still alive. We used to have a bit of fun, psychoanalyzing the
motives of creatures like Ivy. And you, come to that. How you quite
likely embarked on a career in law enforcement for the opportunity
to harass your betters without fear of retribution. I’m glad you’re
the one who came to question me. Now I can continue the analysis,
even if Ginny’s no longer able to compare notes.”