Colleen McCullough - Too Many Murders

She sat in silence for a while, digesting the note of finality in his voice and not liking the fact that he had rebuked her as if it were she at fault. Her strength and independence rebelled, but her sense of justice said she had known when she married a cop what it entailed. What bothered her was the gap that yawned between the sexes when it came to guns. Women abominated them. Men esteemed them. And Julian would be on his father’s side.

“I wonder,” she said at last, “how do other women manage to sleep knowing their husbands have a gun under the pillow?”

“About like you, lovely lady. Out like a light for as many hours as the kids permit.”

She laughed. “Touché!”

“If I pushed papers or machined metal for a living, there would be no need for me to carry a gun,” Carmine said. “But cops are peacetime soldiers. There’s a war going on, and soldiers have to be armed.

The worst of it is that the war involves civilians too. Look at you and Julian by the boat shed.”

“Then perhaps,” she said, swallowing, “I should learn to use a gun, even if I don’t carry one.”

“I think that’s sensible,” Carmine said warmly. “Shooting accidents happen through sheer ignorance. I’ll arrange for you to learn at the police range. Better fire a.38 automatic, because I’ve switched to one, though Silvestri won’t.”

Yet one more battle lost, Desdemona thought. I wasn’t able to make him see my side of it, but he worked me around to seeing his side. And what would I do if someone came after Julian? I would want to protect him.

They pottered through the incredible seaside mansions of Rhode Island, mostly converted now to institutions and rest homes, but still betraying their millionaire origins. After a good breakfast they entered the biceps of the Cape, and Desdemona marveled at the beauty.

“Better in July, when the roses are out,” Carmine said.

“I never realized how many hauntingly beautiful, Old World spots this part of America has. I thought seaside villages like Essex in Connecticut were glorious, but the Cape Cod villages are more so-no, make that differently so,” said Desdemona.

They reached Orleans in the early afternoon. Carmine set Desdemona down in the sand dunes beginning to run up the Atlantic side of the Cape’s forearm, and drove off to see Philomena Skeps.

Who was waiting, placidity unruffled. Well, I’m here to spoil that, Carmine thought, seating himself in a white chair on the patio behind her house.

“When do you move to Boston?” he asked.

“Not before September,” she said. “One last Cape summer.”

“But you’ll keep this house, surely?”

“Yes, though I doubt I’ll manage much more than an occasional weekend visit. Desmond is keen to be somewhere that he can see movies, play pinball machines, mingle with friends.”

She spoke in the same gentle, even voice, but the unhappiness ran beneath its timber like water in an underground stream. Ah! Carmine thought. She’s beginning to realize her son’s sexual inclinations.

In fact, she had subtly aged in a very few short weeks. Her eyes were starting to produce crow’s-feet at their outer edges, and two faint lines ran down her cheeks to the corners of her mouth, which now turned down a little. The most amazing change of all was a broad ribbon of stark white hair through the black curls above her left forehead; it gave her an eldritch quality, as of a medieval sorceress.

“Have you established the future of Cornucopia yet?”

“I think so,” she replied with a faint smile. “Phil Smith will continue as Chairman of the Board, the present members will all continue, and I will stay in the background as trustee of my son’s controlling interest. Provided nothing untoward happens, I don’t see why anything should change. Erica’s death leaves a vacancy on the Board that I intend shall be filled by Tony Bera.”

“It’s in relation to the composition of the Cornucopia Board that I’m here, Mrs. Skeps,” Carmine said in the same formal way. “Philip Smith will be leaving the Board permanently.”

Her deep green eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been arrested for murder and espionage.”

Her breast heaved; she clutched at her throat. “No! No, that’s quite impossible! Phil? You are mistaken, Captain.”

“I assure you, I am not. The evidence is overwhelming.”

“ Espionage? ”

“Oh, yes. He’s been passing secrets to Moscow for at least ten years,” Carmine said.

“Is that why-?” She broke off.

“Why what, Mrs. Skeps?”

“Why he speaks Russian when he’s alone with Natalie.”

“If you’d told me that earlier, ma’am, it would have helped.”

“I never thought anything of it until now. Natalie’s not comfortable in English, and though Russian isn’t her native tongue, she speaks it well. Phil said he’d done a Berlitz course when he married her. He used to laugh about it.”

“Well, he’s not laughing now.”

She twisted in her chair, upset and distracted. “Tony! I need Tony!” she cried. “Where is he? He should be here!”

“Knowing Mr. Bera, I predict he’s lurking outside waiting for the right moment.” Carmine got up and went to the corner of the house. “Mr. Bera!” he bellowed. “You’re needed!”

Bera appeared seconds later, took one look at Philomena, and glared at Carmine furiously. “What have you said to put her in such a state?” he demanded.

Carmine told him, which clearly astounded him as much as it had Philomena. The two of them huddled on a cast iron settee and stared at Carmine as if he bore their execution orders.

“ Two places vacant on the Board!” Bera exclaimed.

Which gives me an idea of his priorities, Carmine thought. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about espionage or murder, all he cares about is a pliant Board to protect young Desmond’s-and his own-interests. Mr. Anthony Bera bears watching.

“If it’s any consolation, Mr. Smith’s last executive order was to appoint a new managing director for Cornucopia Central,” he said briskly. “He fills Erica Davenport’s non-Board shoes, though not her Board ones. His name is Mr. M. D. Sykes.”

This news item didn’t interest either of them, but Carmine hadn’t thought it would. He’d thrown it in to provoke a reaction, and had he got one, he would have had to dig into the past of Mr. M. D. Sykes. A relief to know there was no necessity.

When he left, it was with the rooted conviction that Tony Bera would skim as much cream off young Desmond’s milk pan as he could over the next eight years. But that was white-collar crime, not his concern.

“What an odd world it is,” he said to Desdemona as they headed for a lobster restaurant. “Some guy pinches ten grand from his firm, and he goes to prison. Whereas some other guy pinches millions from a company’s funds and doesn’t even get prosecuted.”

“Better to be at the top of the heap than the bottom,” Desdemona said. “Oh, Carmine, thank you for today! I rolled in the sand, paddled, let the wind blow through my hair, feasted my eyes on these gorgeous villages-absolute heaven!”

“I only wish I’d accomplished more,” he grumbled. “That pair may not be spies or killers, but they’re guilty of a lot of things. Bera’s got Philomena hooked, yet he’s also seduced her son. The bastard swings both ways.”

“Oh, that’s disgusting!” she cried. “To make love to a woman and her son! Surely she doesn’t know?”

“No, she doesn’t know, though she’s starting to suspect that young Desmond likes men too much. If you saw the kid, you’d know he’s behind the eight ball anyway. Too beautiful. It probably began at school, and that’s what she’s blaming.”