Deadly Valentine (10 page)

Helen Reilly’s Inspector Christopher McKee believed that observation of suspects could provide the key to a crime. Well, here she was with at least three suspects to observe. Annie looked at Howard Cahill. Even tonight, obviously
under stress, he appeared competent and in control of himself. He sat deep in thought, distinct lines furrowing his broad forehead and making deep indentations to either side of his firm mouth. He looked tough, determined, wary—and worried.

There was not even a trace of grief in his demeanor.

If he had murdered his wife, surely he would parade grief as publicly as possible, like a Freeman Wills Crofts villain with an unbreakable alibi.

But he was making no show of emotion, of any kind.

He wasn’t a stupid man. Far from it. Annie knew little about him, but that little—he was a self-made multimillionaire who had fearlessly and shrewdly faced down governments, unions, competitors, and terrorists in building his great shipping fleet—argued superior intelligence.

An intelligent man who decided to murder his wife would know that the police always look at the husband first, and plan accordingly.

Of course, superior intelligence often is accompanied by overweening arrogance.

Perhaps reeling her gaze, Cahill suddenly looked directly at Annie, and she knew abruptly that despite his unaffected appearance, he was riven with emotion. For just an instant, their glances locked and in his dark eyes she saw despair and fear, a soul harrowed by unspeakable visions.

“Dear Howard,” Laurel soothed, “don’t lose heart. We must ever carry with us the memory of Saint Colette. Such
hostility
when she began her great work of returning the Poor Clare nuns to their original strict rule of life. So hard to persuade them to forgo the pleasures of the world, but she refused to be discouraged, no matter how daunting her trials.”

“The saints,” Howard said bitterly, “were never hostage to love.”

“Oh, but they were, they were,” Laurel contradicted gently. “Love made them saints. They take the Gospels quite literally. That is what mankind finds so fascinating, yet so frightening about them. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ So simple. So very, very difficult to do—and it requires such sacrifice. But that is their credo, and love made life so
difficult for them. As it does for everyone, but then what would life be without—”

“Madam.” The prominent blue vein pulsed in the general’s temple. “Quiet, if you please.”

Annie didn’t think she liked the general very much. But men who become generals, for the most part, probably care little whether they are liked. They prefer to be feared. The general’s truculent eyes, prominent beak of a nose, and downturned mouth exuded no charm. He looked ill. There was a grayish blue cast to his skin and he was too thin, his hands bony, the skin of his cheeks flaccid. But his every act underscored his will to dominate, to control, to survive.

Why would he kill Sydney? Did he see her as a Jezebel, as a shameless woman? Was he a zealot who felt the world was well rid of women like Sydney? Or had his exposure of her at the party, locked in George Graham’s embrace, been the act of a frustrated lover? Had he been attracted to her, then rebuffed? That wouldn’t jibe with his graceless comment about people staying in their own beds … In context, surely it referred to Sydney and that was an ugly slur to make with her husband listening. But the general had said it. A hateful man. The general, she decided, was well worth considering.

She looked next at Carleton Cahill, who had to be high on any list. Obviously, his relationship with Sydney didn’t fit the accepted pattern between stepmother and stepchild. Carleton, after a little too much to drink, hadn’t bothered to hide his contempt for Sydney. Had, indeed, made a point of it. It is not unusual for children to resent a remarriage, a second wife. But he was no child. Just how much had he disliked Sydney? Was it dislike verging on hatred? At the party he had seemed equally hostile to his father. Carleton was no longer glaring at Howard, but he was clearly uncomfortable, darting nervous, uneasy glances around the room. There was no vestige of grief.

Annie sighed wearily. What a mess. Max gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Tired?” he asked softly.

“I’m okay.”

The general glared at them.

Max glared back. “Look, it’s almost two in the morning. I think—”

Footsteps sounded in the hall. The general nodded toward his wife, who scurried to open the door. Two men entered. Annie gripped Max’s hand. Oh no. No. But it was.

Circuit Solicitor Bryce Willard Posey strode forward, his bulging blue eyes glistening with eagerness. Posey was without doubt and without question the most odious man she’d ever known. Despite the late hour, he was freshly shaven and exuded the sweet smell of cinnamon after-shave. Did he think a photographer might show up? But, of course, the murder of the wife of one of the island’s wealthiest residents would bring the news services, and Posey was already prepared. He’d crammed his six feet three inches, two hundred and fifty pounds into a blue suit that would have looked better on a leaner man. With a light blue shirt for television. Annie looked past him at lanky, khaki-clad Chief Saulter, whose corrugated face was a mass of unhappy wrinkles. He looked as lugubrious as Phoebe Atwood Taylor’s Syl Mayo when his cousin Asey, the famous Codfish Sherlock, was pestered by State Trooper Hanson.

Posey knew every eye was upon him. He puffed his cheeks, as full of himself as Erle Stanley Gardner’s Hamilton Burger when addressing a jury, and surveyed his audience. It was, Annie thought sourly, like watching a pouter pigeon preen.

Howard Cahill wasn’t intimidated. He sat calmly in the wingback chair, his face inscrutable.

Carleton Cahill hunched forward in his chair, his hands balled in tight fists. One blue eye jerked in a nervous tic.

The general nodded in satisfaction, his duty discharged, and fastened his cold, venomous glance on Carleton.

Annie wondered how Eileen could stand being married to such a hateful old man, a man at least twenty years her senior. Annie looked toward Eileen, and her sympathy shriveled. Eileen’s eyes glistened with a kind of eager slyness as she watched Howard. Her plump face radiated an avid interest. She leaned forward in anticipation and her blouse pulled taut, outlining the fullness of her breasts. It was obvious that she was looking forward to the coming unpleasantness,
to this slice of raw drama that had erupted in her no doubt incredibly boring and repressive life.

What a charming couple, Annie decided.

Laurel was smiling kindly at Posey. No doubt, Annie concluded, Laurel’s study of the saints had infused her with a determination to be kind to life’s unfortunates. There should, Annie thought dourly, be a legal limit to charity.

Max, of course, was his handsome, endearing, wonderful self, though she hoped he would refrain from his tendency to bait Posey. Her husband’s dark blue eyes shone with a familiar sardonic gleam, which made her heart sink.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Circuit Solicitor Bryce Willard Posey, and I have come from the mainland to take charge of this investigation.” His voice boomed sonorously in the library. “I shall not rest until I have incarcerated the perpetrator of this hideous crime of passion.”

Slowly, Howard stood. “Who killed my wife?”

The somber question hung between the two men. The contrast in their demeanor, Posey’s arrogant posturing and Cahill’s restrained intensity, made Posey look foolish. He realized it immediately. His heavy jowls reddened. “We shall find her killer, Mr. Cahill, you can count on that. We have already determined one important fact.” He waited until every eye was on him. “We are,” he said ponderously, “looking for a man.”

Carleton Cahill began to laugh raggedly.

His father called out sharply, “Carleton!”

Carleton lifted trembling hands to his face, pressed them there for a long moment, then let them drop.

Moving his bulk quickly for so large a man, Posey crossed to stand directly in front of the younger Cahill. “What’s so funny?”

Carleton didn’t answer. He shook his head miserably back and forth.

Howard was there in an instant. “Back off.”

Posey swung to face him.

Chief Saulter stepped close enough to intervene, if necessary. Max came swiftly to his feet.

Posey and Cahill were both big men, but the prosecutor
ran to fat and the shipowner had the stocky, well-muscled build of a man who had worked hard and kept fit.

“My son is upset,” Howard said quietly.

“Interesting,” Posey replied. “He’s upset—and you aren’t? It was
your
wife.”

For just an instant, Howard’s shoulders slumped and a look of pain touched his eyes. In that moment, he looked much older. Then it was past. Once again he stared at Posey with self-possession and control. “Yes, Sydney was my wife.”

“My stepmother,” Carleton said contemptuously.

“Carleton.” His father’s chiding voice wasn’t angry, was, in fact, gentle.

“Oh, Jesus,” Carleton said. “How did something like this ever happen to us?” He struggled to his feet, reached out to his father. “Dad, how did this ever happen?”

Howard gripped his son’s arm for a long moment, then shook his head wearily. “I don’t know.”

“Well, we’re going to find out just what did happen,” Posey trumpeted. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “Now, let’s see. The call came in at twenty-two minutes past one o’clock.”

Saulter broke in. “I arrived at the entrance to the Scarlet King properties at approximately one thirty-three and was met by Mr. Howard Cahill at the gate. He—”

Annie didn’t even think before she spoke. “The gate!” she demanded. “Was the gate open?” She hadn’t even thought about the gate!

Posey turned a meaty red face toward her, but Saulter said hastily, “Good question, Annie. The gate was closed. Moreover—”

Howard interrupted. “The gate was open all evening for the party.” Sudden hope flickered in his eyes.

“Who had a party?” Posey demanded suspiciously.

“We did,” Howard responded. “My wife and I. We had almost a hundred guests. I hired several young men from the country club to help park cars. One of them was at the gate all evening, to be sure no one but residents or guests entered.”

“Pretty exclusive, huh?” Posey sneered.

Howard looked at him in disgust.

The general cleared his throat. “Easily misunderstood. Private property, of course, from the turnoff through the Scarlet King compound. Gate matter of security. Compound developed by Buck Burger. Used to be criminal lawyer. Lots of enemies. Security,” he concluded.

“Do you suppose,” Eileen interrupted, “that someone from the party was an old enemy of Mr. Burger’s—or even of Mr. Cahill’s? You made a lot of enemies, didn’t you, when you broke that strike in Long Beach?” She had a soft, unctuous voice that sounded as though she’d spent years saying reassuring things she didn’t mean. “I read about it in
Hoity Toity
. Anyway, do you suppose someone killed Sydney to get back at Howard? Or maybe they thought Sydney was Billye Burger. Maybe it was an attempted kidnapping and Sydney—”

Saulter broke in briskly. “The gate was in place at ten minutes to one when the last Paradise Caterers truck departed. It was driven by Hutch Kennedy. He and his partner, Ben Dunstan, drove toward the main road and just before they reached it, they had a flat tire. They were just finishing changing it when I came in. They said not a single car or a single person had passed them from the time they left the Cahills.”

“I see,” Howard said wearily.

“The road is narrow, with bar ditches on either side,” Max observed. So there was no place for a car to park where it wouldn’t have been seen by the caterers. No place at all.

“If no car came in,” Eileen began, her eyes narrowing in thought, “that means—” She drew her breath in sharply. “That means it’s someone inside the compound, someone who lives here! Oh, my God!”

“Grim,” the general said gruffly. “But,” he patted his sagging robe pocket, “don’t be alarmed, my dear. No danger for you while I’m here.”

It might, given his age, have sounded rather pathetic. But it didn’t. Annie thought she detected a gleam of eagerness in those dark eyes. He’d damn well enjoy blowing somebody away.

Posey turned gallantly toward Eileen. “Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Houghton. We will protect you. Besides, the
ferocity of the attack upon Mrs. Cahill is characteristic of a crime of passion. Generally, crimes of passion are committed by those with a close personal relationship with the victim.” His heavy head swiveled back to Howard. “Mr. Cahill, did you give your wife a valentine?”

Howard’s iron composure cracked. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Posey’s thick lips curled in a pleased smile. “A very important question, Mr. Cahill.”

Howard jammed his hands in his pockets. “All right, Mr. Posey, if it’s so goddamned important. No, I did not give Sydney a valentine.”

“Oh.” Satisfaction oozed from Posey. “You did not give Mrs. Cahill a valentine.” He leaned forward, relishing the moment. “What were your relations with your wife?”

Carleton scrambled to his feet. “Dad, you don’t have to answer questions like that.” Carleton glared at Posey. “Why are you wasting time? Why don’t you get a search started? It’s probably too late already. Why don’t you start looking for Sydney’s murderer?”

Posey didn’t bother to answer. He ignored Carleton, who flushed a deep red.

Howard took a deep breath. “For the most part,” he said carefully, “my wife and I maintained a very cordial relationship.”

“You didn’t mind if she was screwing around with another man?”

Howard stood very still, his face a frozen mask. When he answered, there was a steeliness in his voice that hadn’t appeared before. “Carleton is right. I don’t have to answer these kinds of questions. Chief, isn’t anything going to be done to find out what happened?”

Posey was not to be ignored.
“You
can answer questions here, or you can answer them at the jail. Take your pick, Mr. Cahill. And I’ll tell you one thing”—he shook a bulbous finger in Howard’s face—“money can’t buy your way out of a murder charge, not as long as I’m circuit solicitor and I—”