Donald Moffitt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2012

“Ms. Robiche?” asked Auburn. “Why would she be a suspect?”

“Because he just changed his will and left her a big chunk of money. At least we think so. We don’t know — maybe he left her everything.” Sheeba had a habit of tossing her long golden bangs to emphasize certain words. “Supposedly, they were going to get married one of these days.”

“But you don’t know for certain that Mr. Rentz had changed his will in her favor?”

“We’ll find out on Tuesday,” replied Kevin grimly. “That’s the earliest we could make an appointment with his lawyer. He’s not talking till then.”

“Who is the lawyer?”

“Polderrick, the guy whose face is splashed all over the sides of a couple of those gasoline buses that run on the east side.”

“How long had your dad known Ms. Robiche?”

“Four or five months. She just sort of turned up one day.”

“There’s something funny about that woman,” said Sheeba. “People who work for the county seem to have an awful lot of free time. When Dad had his stroke, she whipped him off to the hospital and got him admitted to Intensive Care before any of us even knew anything had happened.”

“As I mentioned,” said Stamaty, “we’d like to get inside Mr. Rentz’s house long enough to check his medicines and so forth. Do you have a key?”

“No, I don’t. And I’m pretty sure my brother doesn’t either.”

“Well, obviously that woman has one,” remarked Sheeba. “Otherwise, how did she get in and find Dad unconscious?” Then, as an afterthought: “Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

“Only if the person in control of the premises refuses permission for a search,” said Stamaty. “But in that case it becomes a police matter, and Sergeant Auburn takes over. Since,” he couldn’t resist adding, “I work for the county.”

“There was just one other thing,” said Auburn. “We understand there was a chocolate pie at the party.”

“Cake,” Sheeba corrected him. “Angel food. You can’t stick candles in a pie. Anyway, not a chocolate pie.”

“But wasn’t there a pie as a special treat for Mr. Rentz?”

“If there was,” stated Kevin with calm assurance, “Dad finished it off before we got there.”

Sheeba brought a camera from the living room. “I haven’t had time to print these pictures yet, but you can scan them on the screen.” She showed Auburn which button to push, and he and Stamaty hunched over the camera together and scrolled through snapshots from the party.

Neither of them had ever seen Howard Rentz, dead or alive. The thumbnail digital images showed a hulking brute with his sons’ oxlike features, bushy eyebrows, and grizzled sideburns. Among the figures in the background, they recognized Ms. Robiche and Walter Snederle. A couple of youngsters, presumably grandchildren, also appeared in some shots.

They saw Rentz blowing out candles on a cake decorated with white, pink, and green frosting... Sheeba slicing and dispensing cake... Cary scooping ice cream... a youth with spiked hair devouring both treats with animal relish. In none of the images was there any sign of a chocolate pie. So the score stood at three witnesses in favor of pie and four against, plus the negative evidence of the pictures.

“But,” said Stamaty, as they drove back downtown, “although the folks who deny the existence of the pie are in the majority, they’re the ones who might have used it to poison Rentz.”

“What’s that Common Law maxim? Ponderantur something. It means witnesses need to be weighed rather than counted.”

It was after four thirty when Stamaty dropped Auburn back at headquarters. It still wasn’t clear to either of them whether or not they were investigating a homicide, and at this time of day any kind of investigation tended to stall because the first watch was about to end and staff members were queueing up for the stampede to the parking lot.

Paul Polderrick conducted a solo legal practice in the least respectable quarter of downtown. He seemed to specialize in the type of cases that are hard to explain to children. The secretary who took Auburn’s call promised him an interview with Polderrick at two o’clock the following afternoon.

Auburn opened a computer file on the Rentz case, recording in outline his investigation so far and keying in material from the hospital pathologist’s report on the first autopsy. Through the Public Safety network he requested background checks on Ricedale, Snederle, Ms. Robiche, and the surviving members of the Rentz family. Then he settled down to explore the topic of blood thinners and hemorrhagic strokes.

In the process of earning a degree in criminal justice with a minor in psychology, Auburn had developed valuable research skills, learning not only where to find information but also how to judge its authority and relevance. After spending an hour on Internet searches, he went to the departmental library and returned to his office with a book on forensic pathology and toxicology that seemed to be roughly the size and weight of a concrete block.

All during the time he was working toward a clearer understanding of how Howard Rentz had met his end, a vague but insistent memory kept tormenting him. When he took the book back to the library, he consulted an old city directory and resolved that issue to his complete satisfaction. There being nothing more he could do on the case tonight, he went home to a late dinner.

The morning brought an e-mail from Stamaty. The forensic pathologist’s repeat autopsy on the remains of Howard Rentz had uncovered no new evidence to support a suspicion of homicide, much less any identifiable vestiges of chocolate pie. Results of laboratory tests wouldn’t be available until after the weekend.

Before lunch Auburn presented an outline of the case — if it was a case — to his supervisor, Lieutenant Savage. Since things were quiet in the First District, Savage directed him to continue the investigation and detailed Patrolman Fritz Dollinger to work with him. Over lunch in the canteen, Auburn briefed Dollinger on the current posture of affairs. His mention of the vexed question of the chocolate pie sent Dollinger, an inveterate chocoholic, back to the serving line for a second dessert.

They took a cruiser for the appointment with Rentz’s attorney. Polderrick was a big man with sandy hair, matching complexion, and a rumpled suit. He had the easygoing manner and flourishing paunch of an athlete who has permanently broken training.

Auburn was aware, as Howard Rentz’s survivors probably were not, that an attorney is under no legal obligation either to conceal or to reveal the terms of a will between the death of a client and probate of the client’s will. He made it clear that an immediate and full disclosure would be very much to Polderrick’s advantage.

“Can do,” said Polderrick without turning a hair. He went to an outer office and returned almost at once with a file folder, closing the door behind him. “One question. Did his family send you over here, or was it Mrs. Carpenter?”

“Who,” asked Auburn, “is Mrs. Carpenter?”

“You haven’t met the Merry Widow yet? Maybe she’s going by Robiche again.”

“We talked to Joy Lynn Robiche.”

“Isn’t she a peach? The next time you see her, tell her from me that her timing on this one was a bit off.” Polderrick opened the file, glanced through it, and closed it again. “The Merry Widow isn’t my client — not in the technical sense. And at the risk of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs, I’m going to dish up some dirt you may find useful.”

A little before three that afternoon, Auburn and Dollinger parked in front of a sprawling mansion in Harmony Heights, mounted the brick steps, and rang the bell. Joy Lynn Robiche, now dressed in a tailored suit of shimmering silk and adorned with makeup and jewelry, admitted them.