Colleen McCullough - Too Many Murders

“Did you associate personally with Mr. Skeps?”

“Naturally! Far more, however, when he was married to Philomena. Now there was an ideal tycoon’s wife! Educated, beautiful, charming, modest as women should be but rarely are. These days they’re trollops, all of them. Desmond was obsessed with Philomena, especially after Desmond Three was born, but he couldn’t overcome his completely unfounded jealousy. The pool man was her lover, the gardener, the phone technician, even the paperboy. In the end, no man who wanted to keep his job would go near her, and the poor woman had a breakdown. When she came out of it, she left Desmond for good, even though she didn’t have a bean. I respected her, Captain, truly respected her.”

Carmine glanced briefly at his papers. “I have Mrs. Skeps listed as living in Orleans, Massachusetts, sir. That doesn’t suggest she’s on the breadline. You’re going to have to explain why she didn’t-er-have a bean.”

“Desmond overstepped the mark when she sued for divorce,” said

Philip Smith. “He persecuted her-hired seedy private detectives to hound her, even kidnapped Desmond Three, though she hadn’t denied him access to the child. By the time the case got into court, she had an attorney worth his weight in gold, Anthony Bera. Expressed briefly, she was awarded astronomical alimony and sole custody of Desmond Three. She bought a property in Orleans and sent the boy to the Trinity Grey School last year. Despite her retaining Mr. Bera to watch over her interests, she isn’t a vengeful woman, Captain. Desmond continued to have access to the boy, who hasn’t been poisoned against his father.”

“I see. How long ago was the divorce?”

“Five years ago last November.”

“And has Mr. Skeps had intimate congress with other women since then? Has he a mistress? Girlfriends?”

Philip Smith looked irritated. “How would I know?”

“You had plenty of contact with the man.”

“Not when it came to whom he philandered with, Captain! I am known to disapprove of such activities.” He drew a breath. “Go ask Erica Davenport!”

Myron’s inamorata! “Why? Is she the likely one?”

“No, definitely not. That woman’s an iceberg. But she may know the more prurient aspects of Desmond’s life.”

“Fill me in on the iceberg, Mr. Smith.”

“This is like being the class tattletale!”

“Tattle away, Mr. Smith.”

“Erica is the head of Cornucopia Legal, which oversees the activities, contractual and otherwise, of all Cornucopia.”

“Define ‘otherwise,’ sir.”

“Oh, how would I know? Things like verbal indiscretions, potential libels and slanders, compromising behavior in senior personnel.”

“Wow! Mr. Skeps ran a tight ship.”

“He had to. We do a lot of business with the Pentagon.”

“So it would be fair to say that Miss Davenport heads up Cornucopia’s private KGB?”

“Oh, unkind! She’s a ‘doctor,’ actually. Dr. Erica Davenport. She’s been with us for ten years. Her undergraduate studies were at Smith, in economics, then she went on to Harvard Law. After which she did the customary dreary apprenticeship all lawyers do-at a firm in Boston. When she came to us, we funded her doctorate in corporate law at Chubb. A terrifyingly intelligent woman! She took over Cornucopia Legal from Walter Symonds ten years ago. Those years in Boston were not wasted, Captain. We got a fully polished gem.”

“Her childhood background, Mr. Smith?”

“WASP, from Massachusetts-plenty of money in the family.” Smith examined his buffed nails. “She knows all the right people-I was told she was the most beautiful debutante of her year.”

Where did she fit it all in? Carmine wondered. Debutantes don’t usually end up working for dreary Boston law firms.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Smith. Please remember that, no matter what the federal interest in Cornucopia might be, this is first and foremost a murder investigation.” On his way to the door he paused. “Where will I find Cornucopia Legal?”

“Right below here.”

That pecking order again! Clearly Dr. Davenport rated a two-viewed set of windows-unless, of course, the size of her office was considerably reduced.

It was not. Here there were definite signs of feminine occupancy: vases of spring flowers, delicately pastel paper on the two solid walls, woodwork painted pale green to match the leather upholstery, a pink-hued oriental rug on the blond wood floor. A room that gave an impression of a soft, nice, intensely feminine occupant. Horseshit, thought Carmine. The woman Philip Smith had described ought by rights to be flaunting black leather and chains. Women just didn’t rise to head a segment of Cornucopia without more than their share of cunning, ruthlessness and utter heartlessness. The only person she’d cry for was herself. Poor Myron!

She was coming to meet him, which gave him a good opportunity to assess her. Yes, the private school princess brought to full bloom. He knew she was born on February 15, 1927, which made her forty years old, but she could have passed for thirty. Of mediumtall height, she moved very gracefully and had a whipcord-slim body atop a pair of extremely shapely legs. The clothes could not be faulted, from the cobalt blue dress with a floating, longish miniskirt to the French shoes with very high heels. The studs in her ears were two-carat diamonds, and the single diamond on a chain around her neck added another four carats. Her streaky blonde hair was cut almost as short as a man’s and combed forward to frame a face of sculpted bones under thick tanned skin; her mouth was red-lipped and full, her nose had a slightly aquiline curve, and her large, open eyes were a cobalt blue reflection of her dress. Here was the queen bee; how had Desmond Skeps managed to dominate her?

He held his hand out. “Captain Carmine Delmonico, Holloman Police,” he said. At first glance he had begun to revise his opinion of how she had risen to head Cornucopia Legal; a woman this beautiful could do it on her back. Then he encountered her eyes, and dismissed the idea of a horizontal promotion. The ruthlessness, cunning and heartlessness were all there, and well used. She would have despised woman’s wiles, taken on her adversaries with their own weapons.

Her grip was like a man’s, but brief; she indicated that he should take the client’s chair, and seated herself behind her desk. Erica Davenport would never consciously place herself in any situation where she might lose one iota of her hard-won authority.

“I believe we have a friend in common,” he said.

“Myron Mandelbaum? Yes. What a pity I’m barred from meeting him on his own turf, but of course I understand. Who could ever have predicted Desmond’s death?”

“Who, indeed? Not you, I take it, Dr. Davenport?”

“No. It came as a terrific shock.”

“Do you think it’s linked to his business activities?”

“I have no idea, honestly.”

“What happens now-on the business front, I mean?”

“We wait to see what Desmond’s will contains, as he’s the majority shareholder and the virtual owner of Cornucopia.” Like Smith, she studied her nails, which she kept long and lacquered pale pink. Probably not a lesbian, he thought.

“How long before the will is read?”

“That depends on his personal lawyers, who are situated in New York City. I believe someone is coming up with all his testamentary papers tomorrow. His son is bound to inherit, and whoever is named as little Des’s guardian at law won’t be in a position to tamper with Desmond’s dispositions.”

“Even so, I’d appreciate a copy of the will as soon as it’s been read,” Carmine said. He changed tack. “Has anything been different over the past few days, Dr. Davenport? His mood, for example?”