And, like an idiot, it never occurred to me to think of her as a vicious, cold-blooded killer.”
“But she couldn’t.”
“Hold on,” he interrupted again.
“Let me finish. Neglecting the percentages wasn’t the worst of my stupidities; I neglected the obvious. Which, in this case, was her statement that she left Manhattan that night about six-thirty and got up to Brewster around eight. Who says so?
She says so. Where’s the proof? There is no proof. And like the moron I am, I never even doubted,her story, didn’t try to prove it out one way or the other.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s guilty.”
“No? Here’s the scenario as I see it: “Simon Ellerbee really has a thing for this Joan Yesell.
And he’s straight; he’s not scamming her. So he tells his wife he wants a divorce. I figure that happened maybe three weeks, a month before he was killed. Or maybe she found out about Yesell herself-who knows? But the idea of divorce really shakes her. He’s dumping the golden goddess for a wimp? She starts plotting.
“So on the murder night, as usual, she tells him she’ll drive up to Brewster early, and he can follow after he gets rid of his late patient who, Diane knows, is probably Yesell. Diane gets her car out of the garage, but she never leaves Manhattan.
Maybe she drives around, but I have a feeling she parks somewhere on East Eighty-fourth, where she can see the door of the townhouse, and just sits and waits.
“Yesell is late that night and doesn’t show. But I figure Diane is in such a state that it doesn’t matter. I think she intended to kill the two of them-I really do. She wants to waltz in on them while they’re in each other’s arms. Then she’ll bash in their skulls with her trusty little hammer. Where she got the ball peen, I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out.
“Anyway, she’s got herself psyched up for murder, and when Yesell hasn’t shown up by, say, eight-thirty, Diane says to herself, the hell with it, I’m going to kill the man who betrayed me. Gets out of the car, plods through the rain, goes up to her husband’s office, and kills him. The fatal blows landed high on his head, but from the back, So he had turned away from her, not expecting death. Afterward she rolls him over, hammers out his eyes.
“Monica, let me get you a drink; you look a little pale.”
He went into the kitchen, brought back a bottle of Frascati and two glasses. Then he sat down again, and poured the wine.
“Was I too graphic? I’m sorry. But do you see any holes in the story? It hangs together, doesn’t it? Makes a crazy kind of logic?”
“I suppose,” Monica said hesitantly.
“But why, Edward?
Was it just the woman scorned?”
“That was part of it, sure, but there was more to it than that. I completely misjudged that woman. I thought her cold, always in control, always thinking before she acted. But now I believe that behind that facade is a very passionate woman.”
There were other things Delaney wanted to tell his wife.
Why Diane Ellerbee had crushed her husband’s eyes, for instance. But he thought Monica, now looking forlorn and shaken, had heard enough gore and violence for one night.
“Let’s go watch some TV comedy,” he suggested.
“Or just sit and talk. We haven’t had an evening together in a long time.”
She smiled warmly.
“No, we haven’t. What are you going to do now, Edward?
Arrest her?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t have enough for that yet.
Everything I told you is just supposition. We’ll have to try and come up with hard evidence. Maybe we will, maybe we won’t. But I can tell you one thing: That bloody lady is not going to walk away from this whistling a merry tune.”
Early on the morning of December 28th, a Saturday, Delaney called Boone and Jason and asked both men to come to the brownstone at 1 1:00 A.m. By the time they had arrived, he had assembled more reports, notes, and data he felt clearly pointed to the guilt of Dr. Diane Ellerbee.
He sat them down and went through his presentation again, much as he had related it to Monica the night before.
“As I see it,” he finished, “there’s no way we’re going to prove or disprove she went up to Brewster that night at the time she claimed. Unless an eyewitness comes forward which is about as likely as a blizzard in July. But let’s assume she had the opportunity to waste him. That leaves the motive and method.”
“Seems to me you’ve got the motive, sir,” Boone said.
“A wife being dumped for another woman. I’ve handled a dozen homicides like that.”
“Sure you have,” Delaney said.
“Happens all the time. But I think there was more to it than that. This gets a little heavy, but bear with me. Here we have a beautiful young woman who’s enjoying all the perks that beautiful young women enjoy. Then she becomes Ellerbee’s student. He sees her pa tential and tells her that if she doesn’t use her brain, she’s nothing but a statue. Get it? He’s saying that her looks don’t mean damn-all; it’s just a lucky accident of birth. He’s not impressed by her beauty, he tells her, but he’s impressed by her brain and convinces her that she’s got to use it if she wants a fulfilling life. Okay so far?”
“He’s trying to improve her,” Jason Two said.
“Like we talked about before.”
“Right! He’s telling her that beauty is only skin deep. She goes along with that, makes a happy marriage and a successful career. Then, suddenly, she finds out he’s got eyes for another woman. Get that-he’s got eyes for another woman.” The Sergeant said, “So you think that’s why she put his eyes out?”
“Had to be,” Delaney said definitely.
“Not only was he being unfaithful to her, but he was going back on everything he had told her. So, after he was dead, she blinded him. Now you’ll never find anyone more beautiful than me, you son of a bitch-that’s what she was saying.”
“Hey,” Jason said, “that’s one crazy lady.”
“Maybe she was when she did it,” Delaney admitted, “but after it was done she covered up like an Einstein and diddled us with no trouble at all. I mean she was thinking every step of the way, acting like the outraged widow seeking justice and making a great show of cooperating with us any way she could. No dummy she.”
“We’re never going to hang it on her,” Boone said.
“What have we got?”
“It’s all circumstantial,” Delaney said.
“And thin at that.
But we’ve got to try to flesh it out. Here’s what I want you men to do today … You can divide it up any way you like.
First, check out that Manhattan garage where the Ellerbees kept their cars when they were in town. Find out if the garage does any servicing or repairs. If so, did they lose a ball peen hammer in the last three months?
If that doesn’t work, go up to Brewster. They keep that Jeep station wagon up there; they must have a local garage or gas station doing their servicing.
Ask the same question: Are you missing a ball peen hammer?
I’ve got a couple of things I want to check out. Let’s all meet back here at, say, nine o’clock tonight and compare notes.
Boone you look doubtful. Aren’t you convinced she did it?”
“I’m convinced,” the Sergeant said mournfully.
“After listening to Joan Yesell’s story, Diane becomes the number one suspect. The only thing that bothers me is that I think she’s going to walk.”
“Jason?”
“Yeah, I think the lady killed her husband. But like the Sergeant says, pinning her is something else again.”
“We’ll see,” Delaney said stolidly.
“We’ll see.”
After they left, he went into the kitchen to fortify himself.
The women had gone shopping and then planned to catch the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. So Delaney had the house to himself. More important, he had the refrigerator to himself.
There was a marvelous loaf of marbled rye: half-rye, halfpumpernickel baked in a twist. With thick slices of smoked turkey, chips of kosher dill pickle, and a dousing of Tiger sauce, a great condiment he had discovered. At first taste it was sweet-and-sour. A moment later, sweat broke out on your scalp and steam came out of your ears.
He took that sandwich and a frosty bottle of Tuborg into the study and ate while he worked.
What was bothering him was this: In the first interview with Diane Ellerbee, she stated that she had noticed no recent change in her husband’s behavior. Then, days later, she had come over to Delaney’s brownstone and said yes, on second thought, she realized his manner had altered.
Now what in hell caused her to change her mind?
It took him almost a half-hour to find it, but find it he did.
When he first phoned Carol Judd, he had suggested she call Diane Ellerbee to check him out. Carol had called, and met with him-at which time she had described the changes in Dr. Simon’s personality; how he had started to wear a flower in his lapel.
Comparing the dates of his meeting with Judd and Diane’s visit to the brownstone, Delaney guessed what had happened.
But he had to confirm it. He dialed Carol Judd’s number and, because he was a superstitious man, he told himself that if she was home, it would be a good omen and his theory would prove out.
She was home.
“Miss Judd?” he boomed.
“Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Delaney. That was a nice lunch we had.
When are we going to do it again?”
He laughed.
“It looks like I owe you a lot of lunches. But meanwhile there’s one little question you can answer for me.
Remember when I first called you, I suggested you check with Diane Ellerbee to make sure I wasn’t just a telephone freak.”
“Sure, I remember that. I called and she said you were okay and I could talk to you.”
“Uh-huh. Now for my question: Did she call you back later and ask you what questions I had asked?”
Silence for a second. Then: “Let’s see … I think she called the next day. She was trying to find me a job, you know. We talked about that for a while and … Yes, you’re right; she wanted to know what questions you had asked.”
“And you told her,” Delaney said, “that I had asked if you had noticed any change in her husband’s personality. And you told her what you told meright?”
“I really can’t remember, but I suppose I did. Shouldn’t I have?”
“Of course you should!” he said heartily.
“Thank you for your help, Carol. And I was serious about having another lunch. May I call you?”
“Anytime,” she said breezily.
He hung up, smiling coldly. That was some brainy lady.
Not Carol Judd, but Diane Ellerbee. When she heard that he had asked if the victim’s manner had changed, she realized he had probably asked the same question of Joan Yesell and Sylvia Mae Otherton and received similar answers.
But she, the wife, who should have been the most sensitive to her husband’s moods, had said, oh, no, he hadn’t changed.
So, having lied and fearing that Delaney would pick up on it, she had hiked herself to the brownstone and confessed: Oops, I made a mistake; he had become moody in the past year.
Delaney could appreciate her thinking; she had made an error and was covering up. That was okay; her ass was on the line and she had to improvise to protect it. He could understand that. But as far as he was concerned, it was another indication of her guilt. Nothing that would condemn her in a court of law, but significant.
There was another question that had to be answered. He phoned Detective Charles (Daddy Warbucks) Parnell, and the wife said he was working at a Staten Island precinct and could probably be reached there. She gave Delaney the number, but when he called, they said Parnell had already left, heading for one Police Plaza.
Delaney finally tracked him down. After an exchange of pleasantries, he asked Parnell, “Do you know the attorney who wrote Simon Ellerbee’s will and put it into probate?”
“Yeah, I know the guy. Not well, but I know him. What do you need?”
“Just the date when Ellerbee made out his will. That business of canceling his patients’ outstanding bills-I’d like to find out when Ellerbee decided on that.”
“I don’t know if he’ll tell me, but I’ll try. On Saturdays he’s usually playing squash at his club. I’ll call him there and get back to you one way or another.”
“Thank you,” Delaney said gratefully.
“I’ll be here.”
He went back to the kitchen for another Tuborg and brought it into the study, sipping thoughtfully out of the bottle.
He returned to the matter of how Simon Ellerbee had changed in the last year of his life, after he had started his affair with Joan Yesell. He wondered why Simon’s mentor, Dr. Samuelson, hadn’t noticed any change in his closest friend’s personality.
Delaney dug out the report on Samuelson and there it was: Boone: “Did you notice any change in Simon Ellerbee in the last six months or a year?”
Samuelson: “No, no change.”
Delaney stared at the written record of that exchange.
Something wasn’t kosher. For a brief moment he wondered if Samuelson had been an accessory to Diane Ellerbee’s crime.
He couldn’t see it. Still … He phoned Dr. Samuelson.
“Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.
“How are you today, sir?”
“Weary,” Samuelson said.
“Patients this morning. Saturday afternoons I reserve to get caught up on my reading. Professional journals. Very dull stuff.”
“I can imagine,” Delaney said.
“Doctor, something important has come up concerning Simon Ellerbee’s death, and I need your help. I was wondering if I could see you tomorrow morning. I know it’ll be Sunday, but I hoped you’d still be willing to talk to me.”
“Sure, why not?” Samuelson said.
“What time?”
“Oh, say ten o’clock. All right?”
“In my office. I’ll see you then.”
Satisfied, Delaney hung up and swiveled back and forth in his chair, ruminating. He thought about the relationship between Samuelson and Diane Ellerbee, and remembered the way she had treated him when they were at Brewster. He also recalled Rebecca Boone’s comment on the drive home.
“I think he’s in love with her,” Rebecca had said.
The anklebone was connected to the kneebone which was connected to the thighbone which was connected to the hipbone. Humming, Delaney went to his file cabinet and dug out the biographies.