The Prodigal Son (37 page)

Millie sat listening and enjoying the food, even let Delia put more on her plate when Uda came around. Yes, today was an acid test: Davina had deliberately tossed her guests into a food pool made by an accused poisoner. And no one was worried! There might be a few in need of a digestive later on, but no one howling for an ambulance and a stomach pump. Davina had definitely won.

She was sitting nearby with Angela M.M., and they were talking about the waywardness of genetic inheritance.

“I have two great-grandparents and a paternal grandfather who were Negroes,” Davina was saying. “Grandfather, whom I remember, had red hair and green eyes, but medium-brown skin and Negroid features. Yet none of our Negro blood
showed in multiple offspring, whereas Uda’s handicap, also inherited, but very rare, did. I find it extremely interesting.”

“On one of our zanier trips,” said Angela, “M.M. and I were in the Solomon Islands — he was on some veterans’ committee, and the Solomons saw terrible fighting against the Japanese. Anyway, we were told that on one of the more remote islands there is a pure Melanesian tribe with black skin, Melanesian features, red or blond hair, and pale green eyes. They were never infiltrated by whites for any purpose, they’re a natural phenomenon.”

“Well, the Negro shows in my son, Alexis,” Davina said airily. “Would you like to see him?”

“I’d love to,” said Angela sincerely.

“Oh, please!” cried Betty Howard.

“Uda, fetch Alexis.”

Delia sat with skin crawling, though all the while her common sense kept asserting that this moment had to come, and that all the child shared with Jim Hunter was a pair of green eyes.

Millie had shrunk a little — a natural response in one who had recently miscarried. Of course Davina didn’t know this, but if she had, would it have stopped her? Delia had to think, no.

“If I were a Muslim wife, I would have been killed,” Davina was saying chattily to a growing group of listening women. “The ordinary Islamic understanding of genetics is rudimentary, I would be deemed unfaithful for producing an impossible baby. In my country, especially in its southern parts, there are many
Muslims. However, I am fortunate. I am here in America, and blessed with an educated husband who understands the vagaries of genetics, of throwbacks. In actual fact, our son’s features are Max’s, though I flatter myself he has my nose.”

At which moment Uda returned bearing a bigger version of the beautiful child Delia remembered. He sat up straight in his aunt’s arms and gazed about as if fascinated by the unfolding vistas of this tiny journey.

Delia’s head swung to Millie, who was staring at the baby in an apparent wonder. Her expression was gentle, her demeanor quite relaxed. Despite which, sight of a baby that echoed what her own would have been like must have moved her deeply. A private person, Millie, no heart on her sleeve.

Sensibly, Davina didn’t allow others to take him, cuddle him. Watching hawklike, Delia concluded that most of the women filed Jim Hunter as a possible father, yet had taken due note of Davina’s explanation and the fact that, apart from his eyes, Alexis did in fact bear no resemblance to Jim. As for Millie …

“Are you all right to go home, dear?” Delia asked her.

The blue eyes were tranquil; Millie smiled. “I’m fine.”

Delia didn’t go home immediately. She detoured to East Circle to have a drink with Carmine and Desdemona.

“If ever there was an April Fools’ party, that one was it,” she said with feeling. “I just haven’t worked out who was the intended April Fool, though on the surface it was Pamela
Devane. A frightful woman! However, the bash itself was a triumph. The invited social lionesses came, ate Uda’s food as if they’d never heard of tetrodotoxin, and had a jolly time.”

Desdemona was perturbed by the tale of Alexis’s display to the guests. “Millie?” she asked anxiously.

“He was produced after an audible discussion about inheritance and the black antecedents Davina claims to have. Real green eyes, she said. Angela came up trumps with a story of some Solomon Island natives — at that stage she couldn’t possibly have known about Alexis, so I swear M.M.’s wife is a witch. To be absolutely fair to Davina, I add, the child doesn’t resemble the present Jim Hunter or the gorilla Jim Hunter. It’s just the eyes. He’s about twice as old as he was when I first saw him, and his facial structure has grown more European. There
is
a resemblance to Max.”

“Oh, I wish this publicity tour wasn’t happening!” cried Desdemona. “Jim doesn’t want to do it, especially now that Millie has to stay behind for some minor surgery.”

“When did this happen? She didn’t mention it to me at the party,” Delia said, frowning.

“She told me when she phoned yesterday.
Minor
surgery, she said. I gathered it was to do with her woman’s works.”

“So Jim Hunter hits the road alone,” said Carmine.

“A multiple murderer,” said Desdemona. “Are all publicity tours so interminable and their chaperones so — well, tactless?”

“The rub of this one,” said Carmine, “lies in the Intelligence Quotient of the author. According to my sources, the publicist probably treats Jim like any other first-time author, whereas
you can’t. How many people deal successfully with genius? Miss Devane can’t. Put her with any other first-time author, and she’s probably superb. Millie’s defection doesn’t bode well.”

“And launch party tomorrow,” said Delia.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2, 1969

T
he rare book museum, Pamela Devane thought complacently, made an ideal venue for the reception launching
A Helical God
upon the reading public. The great square space in the middle of the broadly tiered white marble floor permitted a square column of clear glass to soar toward the ceiling far above; the column was filled with volumes in shelving that patently said the books could be accessed. The full impact of the cellular walls didn’t manifest itself after dark, but the artificial lighting was clever and effective.

A hundred and fifty people had congregated, clad in black tie or evening gown, a glittering assemblage. If the acoustics were on the poor side thanks to the lack of small or soft objects to absorb the sound waves, that couldn’t be helped; it just made the noise far noisier. M.M. and Chauce Millstone were the joint hosts, both in academic robes, and consequently much photographed. Angela, doing her best wafty impression, was circulating merrily in a beaded dress reminiscent of a 1920s flapper. Yes, thought
Pamela Devane, an Ivy League institution like Chubb had a way of doing things that made political or business parties, doomed to hotel ballrooms, look tawdry. What a setting!

Millie Hunter was magnificent. Her hair was loosely swept up on top of her head, she wore a small pair of diamond studs in the lobes of her little flat ears, and her face was made up so well that the cameras feasted on her. Her dress was long and graceful, of tawny satin that displayed her figure to perfection. She wore her large, beaded bag on a long, beaded cord over her left shoulder.

“Isn’t this grand?” Patrick asked his first cousin as they stood with their wives to one side of the main gathering. “Millie is gorgeous. For the first time, Carmine, I really feel as if the nightmare of uncertainty at least is over.”

When Nessie and Desdemona moved away in the direction of Gloria Silvestri and Delia Carstairs, Patrick’s expression changed.

“Is it true, what Millie tells me? That you suspect
Jim
of all these murders? It’s been hell existing outside the parameters of your investigations, but surely it can’t be Jim,” Patrick said.

Carmine sighed. This man had stood as a father to him through the stormy years of adolescence, despite his own growing family and his medical commitments. Of all the men on this earth, Carmine loved Patrick O’Donnell the most. And, as thanks, he was the harbinger of terrible news. Well, it had to come, but he had hoped not here, not tonight. “Patsy, let’s leave it until we can sit over some of your coffee, drown it with bourbon if we want?”

“By all means,” Patrick said stiffly, “but I need an answer tonight. Let it be short. We can have the talk tomorrow.”

“Okay. First of all, I have no proof. None at all. Yet I
know
that Jim Hunter killed three people to protect the moment that’s happening tonight. Not all personally. He vectored one, and brilliantly, and is implicated in a fourth killing. If Millie knows, it’s because Jim told her, but I don’t think he has told her. To try to check his homicidal career, I told him that I know he is a killer. That, I think,
will
stop him.”

“I see.” Patrick whisked away tears. “Thanks, cuz.”

“Tomorrow, your office, five o’clock.”

People moved in the patterns of a large party minus seating, forming small circles around certain guests like Gloria Silvestri, soignée in a limp, heavy, subtly glittering grey dress slit to mid-thigh, revealing a black-sheathed, perfect leg — how did she do it at her age?

“Complete control of her emotions,” said Delia to Angela. “Aunt Gloria has no self-doubts, no money worries, and two sons who never gave their parents any real trouble. She could stand amid the ruins of Troy already planning how to have a comfortable, carefree enslavement. In short, she’s a goddess of a kind.”

Curiosity gratified at last, Angela eyed Delia affectionately. Tonight she was a vision in what looked like Sanderson roses, save that these blooms were hurtfully vivid blue admixed with bilious yellow foliage and magenta buds, and that the fabric of
her dress had been gathered into huge puffs; search for a simile though she did, Angela could find none. The Silvestri clan was unique.

The Commissioner himself was deep in conversation with the Mayor, who paled to insignificance alongside him; his Medal of Honor was on a pale blue ribbon around his neck, and when Gloria joined him, the New York reporters deemed them the handsomest couple in the room.

Eddies and swirls, swirls and eddies, thought Carmine, doing his best to enjoy the kind of affair he privately detested. His wife, wearing three-inch heels, had the advantage of gazing over the top of almost every head, and looked superb in ice-blue lace. To Carmine, even Gloria couldn’t hold a candle to Desdemona.

She forged through the crowd like a ship of the line, one of his favorite metaphors for her, and fetched up beside him.

“Have you noticed Jim Hunter’s evening wear?” she asked.

“Uh — no.”

“He’s not wearing a cummerbund, he’s wearing a brocade waistcoat with a matching bow tie!” she said excitedly. “I know how you hate your cummerbund because it rolls up on you, so have a look at Jim. Please!”

Jim was moving their way: Carmine stared. Yes, he was in a waistcoat of black brocade with tiny gold fleur de lys, and he looked enviably comfortable.

“It’s great,” Carmine said to Desdemona. “Not even faggy — uh — I mean, effeminate.”

“In future I’m making your waitcoats and bow ties.”

Jim reached them, black skin beaded with sweat, green eyes glowing like beryls. “Isn’t this fantastic?” he asked.

“Fabulous!” cried Desdemona, beaming.

“Did you ever see anyone as beautiful as Millie?”

“No,” said Carmine sincerely. “That color suits her.”

“That’s what I said when she had second thoughts.” He sucked in a huge breath. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

“Believe, Jim, believe,” said Desdemona.

M.M. appeared at their elbows. “Desdemona, Carmine, Jim,” he said, genial and proud. “If you think this is an event, wait until you see the party we give Jim when he wins the Nobel Prize for Chemistry.”

“I can imagine,” said Carmine gravely.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to steal Jim.” Jim Hunter in tow, M.M. wandered off.

“Darling heart, I would give a lot for a chair,” Desdemona said wistfully. “Heels look spiffy, but my back is growling.”

“Come with me,” Carmine said, leading her to a hidden flight of open marble steps.

The two chairs were on a higher tier, and had a splendid view of the area where the launch itself was going to take place, judging from the number of microphones set up there.

“How do you know where to find these places, Carmine? This chair might have been tailored for me.”

“I scout the terrain before the action commences. Then I found a couple of decent chairs, flashed my gold badge at the
guy in charge, and had them put here. We may as well stay here, I think they’re getting ready for the speeches.”

“How strange,” said Desdemona as soon as her back pain had subsided, “that we can barter small talk with a multiple murderer, just as if he isn’t one.”

“Until he’s proven guilty in a court of law, lovely lady, we are obliged to. Don’t forget that forewarned is forearmed. Knowledge tells you never to get on the wrong side of him. But seriously, Jim Hunter is as safe to mix with as your average Joe. He’s a self-interest killer, not a psychopath.”

“There has to be an element of psychopathia in anyone who kills cold-bloodedly, Carmine. And he’ll kill again,” she said. “Someone will endanger his survival — he’s such a prominent sort of bloke, the sort some people lust to tear down.”

“Sssh! Action stations,” said Carmine.

Head Scholar Millstone and President MacIntosh moved together to the microphones, accompanied by the Mayor and Dean Hugo Werther of Chemistry. People began to mill, finding good spots from which to watch; Channel 6, another network channel and one New York independent jockeyed for position, and a ripple of excitement ran through the gathering. Millie and Jim were thrust through the crowd, people smiling and touching Jim as if physical contact with his person would rub some of his luck off on them. They too were stationed near the microphones, but off to M.M.’s right; the other dignitaries were clustered on his left side.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said M.M. in his democratic form of address, “in the Bible some rare events were celebrated by
killing the fatted calf. What exactly did that mean? The fatted calf was the outstanding one among the year’s crop of calves, destined not for the table but for the breeding of future cattle, therefore carefully fed and looked after with that end in view. However, on rare occasions a great and joyous event happened, and to honor it, the pampered fatted calf was killed for the table, a signal distinction. The famous example was the return of the prodigal son.”