Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

Lonnie smiled cynically. ‘‘If that’s the case, I don’t need to be clairvoyant to predict that Arnold’s retirement will be a short one. And when he dies, the Beverly Hills estate and all the funds dedicated to Arnold’s welfare will go to Berkshire. The sooner the guy bumps the dog off, the sooner he gets his hands on it.’’

Melodie, scandalized, said, ‘‘Are you saying he’s going to murder Arnold?’’

‘‘As long as Arnold is unique, and working in the biz, he’s raking in the dollars big-time, so Berkshire can afford to wait. But if Arnold can be replaced- it’s good-bye doggie.’’

I told them about Arnold’s change of attitude towards Paul Berkshire.

‘‘Awesome,’’ said Melodie, impressed. ‘‘Like, it’s practically mystic.’’

‘‘So what about Rhea?’’ I asked Lonnie. ‘‘Is it definite her death was accidental?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘At the time there was lots of smoke but no fire. It could have been an accident-she was a heavy drinker and could have got confused about how many sleeping tablets she’d taken. Maybe the dog knows for sure, but he’s the only witness, and he can’t tell anyone.’’

‘‘I think he’s been trying to,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m going back there, right now.’’ They both stared at me. ‘‘Premonition,’’ I announced. ‘‘Psychic flash.’’

Melodie nodded wisely. ‘‘I have those all the time.’’

I left Lonnie chortling and marched back to my car. ‘‘I’m coming, Arnold,’’ I said.

When Berkshire opened the front door he was scowling. ‘‘Forget something?’’

‘‘ ’Fraid so. I missed filling out a whole page of my checklist. Can’t write my report until I’ve got all the info.’’

‘‘Jesus,’’ he said, ‘‘can’t anyone do anything right these days?’’

‘‘Sorry. I’ll only be a mo.’’

‘‘Lisette!’’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘‘Get up here, fast.’’

He beckoned me in and closed the door. ‘‘I’ll be upstairs if you want me, but I’m not expecting you to.’’

I watched him mount the long curving stairway. It was like something out of Gone with the Wind, except, of course, Clark Gable had been even more good-looking.

‘‘Yes, dear?’’ said Lisette, hurrying up to me. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘Do you get the feeling Arnold’s been trying to tell you something?’’

She seemed uncomfortable. ‘‘It’s just my fancy.’’

As she spoke, Arnold appeared, trotting down the hall towards us. He had a determined, focused manner, and when he reached us, he sat down and fixed us with an unblinking stare.

‘‘Would Arnold be telling you something about what happened to Rhea?’’

Lisette’s lips trembled. ‘‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried sick about it all. I took Rhea’s death hard- we’d been together for so many years-so I think I’ve exaggerated things in my own mind, to the point of believing Arnold was a witness to murder.’’

She said the last word in a harsh whisper. It was almost melodramatic, the way we both looked up the stairway. On cue, Paul Berkshire appeared at the top. ‘‘What the hell’s going on?’’

‘‘Arnold,’’ I said, ‘‘I’m sorry. I can’t do anything. If only there’d been someone else there to bear witness.’’

Arnold shook himself, as though he’d been dunked in water, then dipped his head at me. Paul Berkshire had started down, swearing. ‘‘Get the hell out of here.’’

Arnold sighed, then shot like a furry bullet up the stairs. Paul Berkshire yelled, ‘‘Fuck!’’ then tumbled down, a flaccid doll bouncing obscenely until he came to rest on the marble floor, his neck at an unnatural angle.

Lisette rushed over to him. ‘‘Oh, my God! He’s dead!’’

Arnold came down at a leisurely pace, stopped to sniff the corpse, then came over to me. I said, ‘‘That wasn’t an accident, was it, Arnold?’’

Fair dinkum. That little dog cocked his head-and smiled at me.

‘‘We’d be doing him a kindness, really,’’ said Gerald. ‘‘You do see that, Eleanor?’’

Lady Patterly ran one exquisite hand idly through the thick, fair hair of her husband’s steward. ‘‘I’d be doing myself one. That’s all that matters.’’

Born beautiful, spoiled rotten as a child, married at twenty-one to the best catch in England, wife at twenty-three to a helpless paralytic, bored to desperation at twenty-four; that, in a nutshell, was Eleanor, Lady Patterly. When old Ponsonby had retired and her husband’s close friend Gerald had come to manage the Patterly estates, Eleanor had lost no time in starting an affair with him. Discreetly, of course. She cared nothing for the world, but she was vain enough to care greatly for the world’s opinion of her.

Gerald had been only too willing. As handsome as Eleanor was lovely, he had the same total lack of scruple, the same cold intelligence, the same passionate devotion to his own interests. He took the greatest care of his old friend Roger Patterly’s property because he soon realized that with Eleanor’s help he could easily make it his own. It was Gerald who suggested the murder.

‘‘The killing part is the easiest. A pillow over his face, a switch of medicines, nothing to it. The big thing is not getting caught. We must make sure nobody ever suspects it wasn’t a natural death. We’ll take our time, prepare the groundwork, wait for exactly the right moment. And then, my love, it’s all ours.’’

Lady Patterly gazed around the drawing room with its priceless furnishings, through the satin-draped windows to the impeccably tended formal gardens. ‘‘I shall be so glad to get out of this prison. We’ll travel, Gerald. Paris, Greece, Hong Kong. I’ve always had a fancy to see Hong Kong.’’

They would do nothing of the kind. Gerald was too careful a steward not to stay and guard what would be his. He only smiled and replied, ‘‘Whatever you want, my sweet.’’

‘‘It will be just too marvelous,’’ sighed the invalid’s wife. ‘‘How shall we go about it?’’

‘‘Not we, darling. You.’’

After all, it would be Eleanor, not he, who would inherit. Unless he married her afterwards, he hadn’t the ghost of a claim. And suppose she changed her mind? But she wouldn’t. With the hold of murder over her she could be handled nicely. If he were fool enough to do the job himself… Gerald was no fool.

‘‘I shall continue to be the faithful steward. And you, my dear, will be the dutiful wife. A great deal more dutiful than you’ve been up to now.’’

Lady Patterly inspected her perfect fingernails, frowning. ‘‘What do you want me to do?’’

‘‘I want you to start showing some attention to your husband. Don’t overdo it. Build it up gradually. You might begin by strolling into Roger’s room and asking him how he’s feeling.’’

‘‘But I do, every morning and evening.’’

‘‘Then do it again, right now. And stay for more than two minutes this time.’’

‘‘Oh, very well. But it’s so depressing.’’

‘‘It’s not all jam for old Roger either, you know.’’

‘‘How sententious of you, darling. Shall I hold his hand, or what?’’

‘‘Why don’t you read to him?’’

‘‘He loathes being read to.’’

‘‘Read to him anyway. It will look well in front of the nurse. That’s our objective, Eleanor, to create the impression of devotion among the attendants. You must be able to act the bereft widow convincingly when we… lose him.’’

His mistress shrugged and turned toward the stairs.

‘‘Oh, and Eleanor.’’ Gerald lowered his voice yet another pitch. ‘‘We’d better postpone any further meetings until it’s over. We mustn’t take any risk whatever. And don’t be surprised if I start a flirtation with one of the village belles.’’