Colleen McCullough - Too Many Murders

Silvestri closed his eyes, the better to remember. “I guess it stayed in my mind better than these charity functions usually do because, to pinch a phrase from Stan Freberg, it ran on mink wheels. Smooth! We got three courses in an hour, so there was plenty of time for dancing and socializing without our needing to be there until after midnight. The food was good, and it was served without a hitch because of the sheer number of waiters and waitresses. Once the dessert plates were cleared, they kept the coffee and after-dinner drinks coming as fast as we wanted them. The coffee was good and kept hot, there was tea for those who wanted it. I remember we all agreed you couldn’t find a thing to complain about.”

Carmine listened intently, then zeroed in on one word. “You said there was time for socializing, John. What did you mean?”

“If you went to more big events instead of dodging them, Carmine, you’d know,” the Commissioner said, deftly inserting a tiny shaft of reproach. “New York City this ain’t. A lot of the people who go don’t meet much anywhere else, so as soon as the coffee’s on the table, they start table hopping to catch up. Like Elder Jesse Bateman of Busquash-I hardly ever see him, so when a couple at his table got up and went somewhere else, the wife and I joined them. It was a big dance floor and the band was playing Glenn Miller, but not everybody wants to dance. Table hopping is probably more popular than dancing.”

“And there were two vacant chairs at the Fourth National table,” Carmine said. “That means other people must have joined Norton and his guests.” He let out an explosive sigh. “Somewhere in Holloman are a bunch of people who included Norton’s table in their hopping. All I have to do is find them.”

“Well, don’t count on me,” Silvestri said quickly. “I took one look at Desmond Skeps sitting there and steered a wide berth around the Fourth National. So did a lot of others, including the Mayor and his ass-kissers.”

“Why?” Carmine asked, astonished at the Mayor’s omission.

“Even long distance, anyone could see Skeps was as drunk as a skunk.”

“Wow! So much for the temperance myth. A million thanks, sir. You’ve helped immeasurably.”

He returned to his office in a very thoughtful mood, to find Corey and Abe leaning over the Maxwell Foundation plan of fifty round tables, each one labeled with its sponsor and number. The Fourth National table was number 17, with 16 to its left and 18 to its right. There were ten rows of five tables, number 17 near the north end and well away from any important Cornucopia table. Phil Smith’s was number 43, Wal Grierson’s 39, Fred Collins’s 40. Everywhere around number 17 were tables of relative nonentities. So why did Desmond

Skeps sit there? Because he knew he’d be on the sauce? Or because, squiring Dee-Dee, he had to walk almost the length of the hall to reach number 17?

“So why with Peter Norton?” Carmine asked yet again.

“And why with Dee-Dee?” Corey asked yet again.

“Erica Davenport would have been his logical choice,” Abe said.

“No way! He’d just dumped her as his mistress,” Corey said, “and she was with her usual date, Gus Purvey.”

“He was throwing dust in someone’s eyes,” Abe said positively. “For sure he invited himself to sit with Norton, who must have been over the moon at being noticed by the King of Kings.”

“Who was blind drunk, apparently,” Corey said.

“Yeah, but Norton wasn’t to know that would happen when Skeps told him to reserve two places at his table,” Abe countered.

“I wonder,” Carmine asked dreamily, “how did women like Bianca and Cathy and the old lady see Dee-Dee? Especially if Skeps was as pissed as a newt. Even if they hadn’t recognized Skeps, Norton or Denbigh would have enlightened them, but I doubt they were impressed. Evan Pugh would have known, but it wasn’t in him to be impressed by anyone except himself. So I’d say the vacant chairs were on either side of Skeps and Dee-Dee. Beatrice, Cathy and Bianca must have been on tenterhooks-women tend to think that drunks are going to throw up all over the place.”

“We should get a few answers from Gerald Cartwright,” Corey said. “I’m sure Cathy would have told him about Skeps the drunk.”

“Any bets she didn’t?” Abe asked. “Whichever way we turn, it’s the same old blank wall. Norton’s wife is crazy, Cathy Cartwright was overworked and coping with Jimmy, Bianca and the poor old lady came alone and lived alone, the blacks lived in a world where Skeps didn’t matter, and I doubt Denbigh and his wife engaged in pillow talk. Though it’s weird that Marty Fane didn’t say anything about Dee-Dee’s date with Skeps. He was willing to do anything to help us track her killer down.”

“I don’t think Marty even knew,” Carmine said. “Dee-Dee was loyal to him in her way, but if Skeps slipped her a couple of big ones, she’d have buttoned her mouth. She probably pretended to have the bug that was going around.”

“We never get a break,” Corey said.

“Yes, we do! Delia’s given us the Maxwell banquet, and I call that a break.” Carmine put his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands. “Erica Davenport told me Skeps never had more than one drink a day. She even gave me a reason for it. But the longer I know them, the harder I find it to believe anything a Cornucopia Board member tells me. Add to them Philomena Skeps, Anthony Bera and Pauline Denbigh. The other thing eating at me is the certainty that our mastermind has an assistant here in Holloman, probably someone we don’t even know. Definitely not someone who hangs around County Services or Malvolio’s with his ears cocked for information. He doesn’t need to.”

“What makes you think there’s an assistant rather than a series of hirelings?” Abe asked.

“Oh, there was that, but every master has an apprentice.” Carmine straightened and gazed at them sternly. “One thing is for sure. Those eleven people died because of something that went down at Peter Norton’s table. What we have to do is find out what it was.”

“Locate any table hoppers who sat there?” Corey asked.

“Of course. Beatrice Egmont was popular, she must have had visitors. Abe, you have a list of her friends. Go ask all of them what happened at Norton’s table. Some of them were bound to be at the banquet.”

Carmine switched his attention to Corey. “You get to grill Gerald Cartwright. If his wife was too harassed to tell him about what happened, the fact that he insisted she go unaccompanied says he knew there would be plenty of friends there. Get their names and talk to them as well as Cartwright, Corey.”

“While you,” Abe said, “tackle Erica Davenport.”

With Myron’s departure Dr. Erica Davenport had diminished, though the hair, makeup and apparel could not be faulted. Today she wore a softly draped dress of lavender-blue, with matching eyes. Her walk had lost its imperiousness, and when she sat behind her lacquered desk she couldn’t keep her hands still, had to fiddle with a pen, a file, her own perfectly manicured nails. She was near some kind of breaking point, but what kind eluded Carmine, for he knew she wasn’t the mastermind any more than she was Ulysses. It was more, he decided, as if she had suddenly realized that she was far less important than she ought to be, and harbored a colossal sense of betrayal.

Why had four months elapsed between the Maxwell affair and the murders? Sitting facing the nominal Managing Director of Cornucopia Central, Carmine felt that if anybody knew the answer to that question, she did.

It took him a full ten seconds to force her to meet his stare; when she yielded and looked, he was staggered by the craze of fear, worry and sick desperation in her eyes. Jesus, what exactly did she know? How could he pry it out of her? She was near the breaking point, yes, but he wasn’t capable of giving the blow necessary to make her fly apart. Suddenly he longed for Myron, understanding that Myron might be the only one who could. If ever a woman needed exquisite tenderness to break, she was Erica Davenport.