Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

"I do what I can," she said in a tone of such humility that Dora wanted to kick her shins.

"Does your sister-in-law ever join in these activities?"

"I'm afraid Felicia's favorite charity is Felicia. We get along. Period."

"But not close?"

"No," Eleanor said with a short bark of laughter. "Not close at all."

"Could you tell me something about Helene and Turner Pierce. How long have you known them?"

"Oh, perhaps a couple of years."

"How did they become friends of the Starrett family?"

"Let me think…" Eleanor considered a moment. "I do believe Father Callaway brought them around. He knew them from somewhere, or maybe they were members of his church-I really don't recall."

"And how do you get along with them?"

"Excellently. I admire them. They are two attractive young people, very chic, very with it. And it's a pleasure to see a brother and sister so affectionate toward each other."

"More affectionate than Clayton and Felicia?"

Eleanor stared at her. "No comment," she said.

Dora rose from the low stool with some difficulty. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Starrett," she said. "You've been very helpful."

"I have?" the other woman said. "I don't know how."

Dora left the beauty salon, went next door to a small hotel, and used the public phone in the lobby.

"The Starrett residence," Charles answered.

"This is Dora Conti. Is any member of the family home? I'd like to speak to them."

"Just a moment, please."

It took longer than a moment, but finally Felicia came on the line, breathless.

"Hiya, kiddo," she said. "Listen, I can't talk right now. Gotta run. Heavy lunch date."

"Wait, wait," Dora said hastily. "I just want to know if it's okay if I come over and talk to Charles and Clara for a few minutes."

"Of course," Felicia said. "I'll tell them to let you in and answer your questions. 'Bye!"

Dora walked over to Madison Avenue and boarded an uptown bus. It had turned cold, almost freezing, and everyone was bundled up; the bus smelled of mothballs. Traffic was clogged, and it took almost forty-five minutes before she arrived at the Starrett apartment. Charles opened the door and led the way into the kitchen where a short, stout woman was standing at the sink, scraping carrots.

Clara Hawkins looked as dour as her husband. Her iron-gray hair was pulled up in a bun, and her lips seemed eternally pursed in a grimace of disapproval. She was wearing a soiled apron over a dress of rusty bombazine, and her fat feet were shoved into heelless slippers. What was most remarkable, Dora decided, was that Clara had a discernible mustache.

No one offered her a chair so she remained standing, leaning against the enormous refrigerator. She looked around at the well-appointed kitchen: copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging from an overhead frame; a Cuisinart on the counter; a hardwood rack holding knives and a butchers' round; a double-sink of stainless steel; gleaming white appliances; and glass-doored cupboards holding enough tableware to feed a regiment.

"I just have a few questions," Dora said, addressing Charles. "I understand that on the evening Mr. Starrett was killed, there was a cocktail party for family and friends."

He nodded.

"Where was it held-in the living room?"

"Mostly," he said. "That's where I served drinks and canapes. But people wandered around."

"You mean they all weren't in the living room constantly during the party?"

"They wandered," he repeated. "Only Mrs. Olivia remained seated. The others stood and mingled, went to their bedrooms to fetch something or make a phone call."

Clara turned from the sink. "Sometimes they came in here," she said. "For more ice, or maybe for another drink while Charles was busy passing the tray of hors d'oeuvres."

"Were there any arguments during the party? Did anyone make a scene?"

Wife and husband looked at each other, then shook their heads.

"How long have you been with the Starretts?" Dora asked, bedeviled by the fear that she wasn't asking the right questions.

"Seven years, come March," Charles replied. "I started with them first. Then, about a year later, the cook they had left and Clara took over."

"Both of you get along well with the family?"

Charles shrugged. "No complaints," he said.

"I understand the late Mr. Starrett had a short temper."

Again the shrug. "He liked everything just so."

"And when it wasn't, he let you know?"

"He let everyone know," Clara said, turning again from her task at the sink. "He was a mean, mean man."

"Clara!" her husband warned.

"Well, he was," she insisted. "The way he treated people-it just wasn't right."

"Speak only good of the dead," her husband admonished.

"Bullshit," Clara said unexpectedly.

Hopeless, Dora decided, realizing she was getting nowhere. These people weren't going to reveal any skeletons in the Starretts' closet, and she couldn't blame them; they had cushy jobs and wanted to hang on to them.

She took a final look around the kitchen. Her gaze fell on that hardwood knife rack attached to the wall. It had eight slots. Two were empty. She stepped to the rack, withdrew a long bread knife with a serrated edge, and examined it.

"Nice," she said.

"Imported," Charles said. "Carbon steel. The best."

Dora replaced the bread knife. "Two are missing," she said casually. "What are they?"

Clara, at the sink, held up a paring knife she was using to scrape carrots. "This is one," she said.

"And the other?" Dora persisted.

Charles and Clara exchanged a quick glance. "It was an eight-inch chefs knife," he said. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere, but we can't find it."

"It'll probably turn up," Dora said, knowing it wouldn't.

Mike Trevalyan had frequently urged Dora to use a tape recorder during interviews. Most of the investigators on his staff used them, but she refused.

"It makes witnesses freeze up," she argued. "They see that little black box and they're afraid I'm going to use their words in court, or they might say something they'll want to deny later."

So she worked without a recorder, and didn't even take notes during interviews. But as soon as possible she wrote an account of her conversations in a thick spiral notebook: questions asked, answers received. She also made notes on the physical appearance of the witnesses, their clothing, speech patterns, any unusual gestures or mannerisms.

She returned to the Bedlington after her session with Clara and Charles Hawkins and got to work writing out the details of her meeting with the servants and with Mrs. Eleanor Starrett. That completed, she slowly read over everything in the notebook, all the conversations and her personal reactions to the people involved. Then she phoned Detective John Wenden.

He wasn't in, but she left a message asking him to call her at the Bedlington. She went into the little pantry and poured herself a glass of white wine. She brought it back into the sitting room and curled up in a deep armchair. She sipped her wine, stared at her notebook, and wondered what Mario was doing. Finally she put the empty glass aside and read through her notebook again, searching for inspiration. Zilch.

She went downstairs for an early dinner in the hotel, and had a miserable meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. At that moment, she mournfully imagined, Mario was dining on veal scaloppine sauteed with marsala and lemon juice. Life was unfair; everyone knew that.

She returned to her suite and, fearing Wenden might have called during her absence, phoned him again. But he had not yet returned to his office or called in for messages. So she settled down with her notebook again, convinced those scribbled pages held the key to what actually happened to Lewis Starrett-and why.