Finally, close to midnight, Rogoff came out of the house and lumbered over to the Lexus. A1 played the good ol' boy because he thought it would further his career. But I happened to know he was a closet intellectual and a ballet maven. Other Florida cops might enjoy discussing the methods of Fred Bundy; the sergeant preferred talking about the technique of Rudolf Nureyev.
"Mr. McNally," he said, addressing my father, "we're about to tape a voluntary statement by Roderick Gillsworth. He'd like you to be present. So would I, just to make sure everything is kosher."
"Of course," father said, climbing out of the car. "Thank you for suggesting it."
"Al-" I started.
"You stay out here, Archy," he commanded in his official voice. "We've already got a mob scene in there."
"I have something important to tell you," I said desperately.
"Later," he said, and he and my father marched into the Gillsworth home.
So I sat alone for another hour, watching police officers and technicians from a fire-rescue truck search the grounds with flashlights and big lanterns. Finally Rogoff came out of the house alone and stood by my open window peeling the cellophane wrapper from one of his big cigars.
"Your father is going to stay the night," he reported. "With Gillsworth. He says to tell you to drive home. He'll phone when he wants to be picked up."
I was shocked. "You mean Gillsworth wants to sleep in this house tonight? We could put him up or he could go to a hotel."
"Your father suggested it, but Gillsworth wants to stay here. It's okay; I'll leave a couple of men on the premises."
Then we were silent, watching as a wheeled stretcher was brought out of the house. The body was covered with a black rubber sheet. The stretcher was slid into the back of a police ambulance, the door slammed. The vehicle pulled slowly away, the siren beginning to moan.
"Al," I said as steadily as I could, "how was she killed?"
"Hit on the head repeatedly with a walking stick. It had a heavy silver spike for a handle. Pierced her skull."
"Don't tell me it was in the shape of a unicorn."
He stared at me. "How did you know?"
"She showed it to me. She brought it back from up north as a gift for her husband. He collected antique canes."
"Yeah, I saw his collection. Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
"No. Something else. Remember my asking you about poison-pen letters? Lydia Gillsworth was the person getting them."
"Son of a bitch," the sergeant said bitterly. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because she refused to let us take it to the police. And if we had, would you have provided twenty-four-hour protection?"
"Probably not," he conceded. "Where are the letters now?"
"At home."
"How's about you drive me there and hand them over. Then drive me back here. Okay? You weren't planning to get to bed early, were you?"
"Not tonight," I said. "Let's go."
I drove, and Al sat beside me juicing up his cigar.
"Tell me what happened," I asked him.
"Not a lot to tell," he said. "Gillsworth was at your place, talked to his wife on the phone, told her he'd see her soon. He says he drove directly home. Says he found the front door open although she had told him all doors and windows were locked. She was facedown in the sitting room. Signs of a violent struggle. Spatters of blood everywhere. Baskets of flowers knocked to the floor. A grandfather clock tipped over. It had stopped about ten minutes before Gillsworth arrived."
"My God," I said, "he almost walked in on a kill-ing."
"Uh-huh."
"Did he see anyone when he drove up?"
"Says not."
"Anything stolen?"
"Doesn't look like it. He can't spot anything missing."
"How's he taking it?"
"Hard. He's trying to do the stiff-upper-lip bit, but it's not working."
"She was a lovely woman, Al."
"She's not now," he said in the flat tones he used when he wanted to conceal his emotions.
When we entered the house, mother was waiting in the hallway. She wore a nightgown under a tatty flannel robe, and her feet were thrust into fluffy pink mules. She glanced at Sgt. Rogoff in his uniform, then put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
"Archy," she said, "what's wrong? Where is father? Has he been hurt?"
"He's all right," I said. "He's at the Gillsworth home. Mother, I'm sorry to tell you that Lydia has been killed."
She closed her eyes and swayed. I stepped close and gripped her arm.
"A car accident?" she asked weakly.
I didn't answer that. One shock at a time.
"Father will be staying with Gillsworth tonight,"
I said. "I came back with the sergeant to pick up some papers."
She didn't respond. Her eyes remained closed and I could feel her trembling under my hand.
"Mother," I said, "it's been a bad night, and the sergeant and I could use a cup of black coffee. Would you make it for us?"
I hoped that giving her a task would help, and it did. She opened her eyes and straightened.
"Of course," she said. "I'll put the kettle on right away. Would you like a sandwich, sergeant?"
"Thank you, no, ma'am," he said gently. "The coffee will do me fine."
Mother bustled into the kitchen, and I led Rogoff into my father's study. The letter was still lying on the desk blotter.
"There it is," I told Al. "Both the Gillsworths handled it but not my father and not me. Maybe you'll be able to bring up some usable prints."
"Fat chance," he growled, sat down behind the desk, and leaned forward to read.
"That was the third letter received," I said. "The first was destroyed by Gillsworth. The second is upstairs in my rooms. I'll get it for you."
A few moments later I returned with the second letter in the manila folder. I did not bring along the photocopy of Peaches' ransom note. Willigan had told us, "No cops!" And he was paying the hourly rate.
Rogoff had his cigar burning and was leaning back in my father's chair. He read the second letter and tossed the folder onto the desk.
"Ugly stuff," he said.
"A psycho?" I suggested.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe someone trying to make us think they were written by a psycho."
"What will you do with the letters?"
"Send them to the FBI lab. Try to find out the make of machine used, the paper, the ink, and so forth. See if they've got any similar letters in their files."
"Even right-hand margins," I pointed out.
"Oh, you noticed that, did you? Got to be a word processor or electronic typewriter. We'll see. How about that coffee?"
When we entered the kitchen, mother was filling our cups. And she had put out a plate of Ursi Olson's chocolate-chip cookies, bless her.
"The coffee is instant," she said anxiously to Rog-off. "Is that all right?"
"The only kind I drink," he said, smiling at her. "Thank you for your trouble, Mrs. McNally."
"No trouble at all," she assured him. "I'll leave you men alone now."
We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, hunching over our coffee and nibbling cookies.
"You suspect the husband, don't you?" I said.
The sergeant shrugged. "I've got to, Archy. Sev-enty-five percent of homicides are committed by the spouse, a relative, a friend, or acquaintance. These cookies are great."
"She was alive when he left here, Al," I reminded him. "He talked to her on the phone. You think he drove home and killed her?"
"Doesn't seem likely, does it?" he said slowly. "But what really helps him is that there were no bloodstains on his clothes. I told you that place looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood everywhere. The killer had to get splashed. What was Gillsworth wearing when he left here?"
I thought a moment. "White linen sports jacket, pale blue polo shirt, light gray flannel slacks."
Rogoff nodded. "That's what he was wearing when we got there. And he looked fresh as a daisy. His clothes, I mean. Absolutely unstained. And he sure didn't have enough time to change into identical duds. Also, we searched the house. No bloodstained clothes anywhere."
We sipped our coffee, ate more cookies. The sergeant relighted his cold cigar.
"So Gillsworth is off the hook?" I asked.
"I didn't say that. He's probably clean, but I've got to check out the timing. A lot depends on that. How long did it take him to drive from here to his place? Also, what time did the victim leave the seance? How long would it take her to drive home? What time did she arrive? Was someone waiting for her? There's a lot I don't know. After I find out, maybe Gillsworth will be off the hook. Right now he's all I've got."
I stared at him. "Al, is there something you're not telling me?"
"Would I do that?"
"Sure you would," I said. "Look, I know this is your case. You wear the badge; you're the law. You can order me to butt out. You're entitled to do that. But I'm telling you now I'm not going to do it. That woman meant a lot to me. So no matter what you say, I'm going to keep digging."
He looked at me strangely. "That's okay," he said. "You stay on it. Just keep me up to speed-all right?"
We finished our coffee, went to the study where Rogoff collected the letters. When we came out into the hallway mother was waiting with a small overnight bag.
"I packed father's pajamas, robe, and slippers," she said. "And his shaving gear and a fresh shirt for tomorrow morning."
I'll never cease to be amazed at how practical women can be, even under stress. I imagine that when the flood came and Noah was herding everyone aboard the ark, Mrs. Noah plucked at his sleeve and asked, "Did you remember to empty the pan under the icebox?"
Rogoff took the little valise and promised to deliver it to father. This time I drove the open Miata; after inhaling Al's cigar, I wanted fresh air-lots of it.
We didn't speak on the trip back to the Gillsworth home. But when we arrived and the sergeant climbed out, he paused a moment.
"Archy, I know Roderick Gillsworth was your father's client. Was Mrs. Gillsworth?"
"Yes, she was."
"I hear she had plenty of money. Did your father draw her will?"
"I don't know, Al. Probably."
"Who inherits?"
"I don't know that either. Ask my father."
Then I drove back to the McNally fiefdom for the final time that night. I feared I'd have trouble getting to sleep but I didn't. First I recited a brief prayer for a noble lady. I consider myself an agnostic-but just in case. .
The weekend had started badly and didn't improve. The weather was no help; Saturday morning was dull and logy-just the way I felt when I awoke. I had an OJ, cinnamon bun, and coffee with Jamie Olson in the kitchen. He was wrapping a fresh Band-Aid around the cracked stem of his ancient briar. I had given him a gold-banded Dupont for Christmas, but he saved it for Sunday smoking.
"Heard about Mrs. Gillsworth," he said in a low voice. "Too bad."
"Yes," I said. "It was in the papers?"
"Uh-huh. And on the TV."
"Jamie, if you hear anything about enemies she may have had, or maybe an argument with someone, I wish you'd let me know."
"Sure," he said. "You asked about that Mrs. Wil-ligan."
"So I did. What about her?"
"She's got a guy."
"Oh?" I said and took a gulp of my coffee. "Where did you hear that?"
"Around."
"Know who it is?"
"Nope. No one knows."
"Then how do they know she's got a guy?"
He looked up at me. "The women know," he said, and added sagely, "They always know."
"I guess," I said and sighed.
I went back upstairs to work on my journal. It was a slow, gloomy morning, and I couldn't seem to get the McNally noodle into gear. I was stuck in neutral and all I could think about was pink lemonade and strawflowers in twig baskets. It wasn't the first time a friend had died, but never so suddenly and so violently. It made me want to telephone every friend I had and say, "I love you." I knew that was goofy but that's the way I felt.
My phone rang about ten-thirty, and I thought it would be my father asking me to come fetch him. But it was Leon Medallion, the Willigans' houseman.
"Hiya, Mr. McNally," he said breezily. "Soupy weather-right?"
"Right," I said. "What's up, Leon?"
"Remember asking me about the cat carrier? Well, I found it. It was in the utility room, where it's supposed to be. I guess I missed it the first time I looked."
"That's probably what happened," I said. "Thanks for calling, Leon."
I hung up and the old cerebrum slipped into gear. Not for a moment did I think Medallion had missed spotting Peaches' carrier on his first search of the utility room. Then it was gone. Now it had been returned. Puzzling. And even more intriguing was the fact that I had mentioned the carrier's disappearance to Meg Trumble.
I was still diddling with that nonplus when my phone rang again. This time it was my father, announcing he was ready to return. He specifically requested that I drive the Lexus. He didn't have to say that; I knew very well he thought riding in my red two-seater dented his dignity.
He was waiting outside when I arrived at the Gillsworth home. He placed his overnight bag in the back and motioned for me to slide over to the passenger side so he could get behind the wheel. He thinks I drive too fast. But then he thinks motorized wheelchairs go too fast.
"I'm going to drop you at home, Archy," he said, "and then go to the office. Gillsworth wants me to inform his wife's relatives."
"Shouldn't he be doing that, sir?"
"He should but he's still considerably shaken and asked me to handle it. Not a task I welcome. Also, I want to review Lydia's will."