Нэнси Пикард - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, No. 6. Whole No. 784, December 2006

When he finished reading the stories, Brad returned the big volume to its proper place, retrieved his coat, and headed for the stairs. On the way, he noticed and stopped to look through the open door of a second room, which was furnished with a couch and club chair, end tables, a small refrigerator, coffee table, and radio. In one corner was a worktable with a paper cutter, glue pot, two small vises, scissors, a wooden ruler, and a few other miscellaneous items. In another corner was a book lift to hold stacks of books to be hoisted upstairs via an electric pulley. Between the two corners was a small desk with a chair. On the desk was what looked like a few invoices and a small stack of book-return cards.

“That’s my little study and workroom, Mr. Bradford.”

Brad whirled around at the sound of Hannah Greer’s voice. He had not heard her come back downstairs, and she startled him.

“It isn’t much,” she continued, “but it’s a quiet place to work after hours. I do all the bookbinding and repairs myself. It saves on the library budget, which is inadequate to say the least. What I save allows me to purchase a few extra books.”

“I apologize for being nosy,” Brad said contritely. “Part of my nature.”

“No apology necessary,” she said, smiling. “I came down to tell you that someone who was checking out a book just told me that there’s been a verdict in the King murder trial. Edward Bliss has been found guilty. In the first degree. He’ll be sentenced tomorrow. To the electric chair, I imagine.”

The news was no surprise to Brad. The only effect it had on him was to tighten the time constraint in which he had to work. He and Hannah Greer locked eyes briefly, as if each wanted to say something more to the other. But neither of them spoke. The moment became somehow uneasy, so they both turned toward the stairs. Brad found himself liking the way she walked up the stairs in front of him. Her legs looked strong, her hips solid and moving just the right distance from side to side with each step. Brad felt a stirring inside him that he had not experienced in a long time.

Back upstairs, Brad thanked the librarian for her help. Hannah Greer returned to her desk as Brad walked toward the door. Before leaving, he looked back. She was watching him. They both smiled slightly. Both of them knew why.

At ten the next morning, Brad rang the doorbell at the King mansion. Diane King herself answered the door. She was a tall, regal woman with perfectly coiffed maize-blond hair and a splendid figure, wearing one of the new pant suits that had recently come into vogue for women.

“Come in, Mr. Bradford,” she said easily. “We’ll talk on the patio. There’s coffee.”

Brad followed her through a richly furnished dining room to a patio laid in deep red Haitian root stone, ringed by a wall of yellow roses.

The east patio, Edward Bliss had said, her favorite side of the mansion... yellow roses... also her favorite...

“Mr. Bradford,” Diane King said as she poured coffee from a silver pot, “the only reason I consented to see you when you telephoned was because you said you had seen Edward and he told you that he believes I murdered my husband. If he told you that much, I’m certain he must have told you a great deal more. Such as the fact that he and I were lovers. Which is true. But I assure you, I had nothing to do with Lyle’s death. My late husband and I had an understanding: He went his way, I went mine.” As she spoke, Brad saw that there was a frankness in her eyes.

“Did your husband know about you and Bliss?” he asked.

Diane King shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Possibly. No, probably.” She smiled tolerantly. “We didn’t discuss our affairs; we weren’t that decadent. But we were usually aware of what the other was doing, at least distantly.”

“Was your husband having an affair with someone at the time he was murdered?”

“Probably. Most likely several someones. He was a ladies’ man.” She smiled again, in amusement this time. “I used to find all those silly little telltale signs that wives notice: makeup smudges on his shirt collar, perfume scents on his shirt and coat. Often it was jasmine fragrance. Jasmine is a cheap, dime-store perfume. Something I never use, of course.”

“Do you know who his most recent mistresses were?”

“No. I never really cared to know.” She sipped her coffee, then said, “Shall we get to the main point of your visit? Not that I have to, but how can I convince you that I did not murder my husband?”

Brad studied her for a long moment, studied the frankness in her eyes. “Just tell me you didn’t,” he finally said.

“All right. I didn’t. Anything else?”

“Why do you suppose Bliss thinks you did?”

Again the amused smile. “Edward is the sort of man who thinks women would kill for him. He was always quite impressed with himself.”

“You must have been impressed, too. He was your lover.”

“One of my lovers, Mr. Bradford,” she said without the slightest unease. She wet her lips. “Just one of them. And not even the best. Just the most convenient.”

Brad sat back and wryly digested that. “I see. You didn’t want to run away with him, then?”

“Heavens, no!”

“Or sue your husband for divorce?”

“Certainly not.”

“Did you ever tell Bliss you wanted to do either? Or lead him to believe you would?”

“Never.”

Brad shook his head. Bliss, you lying bastard.

“Who do you think killed your husband, Mrs. King?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea. Frankly, I didn’t at first think that Edward had done it. Then, when that story about the Memphis killing came up, I didn’t know what to believe.”

“Did that change your mind about the possibility that Bliss might have done it?”

“Well, it certainly gave me pause for thought. But I’m still not sure. I don’t want to think that Edward did it, but it’s difficult for me to draw any other conclusion.”

“What about the mistresses?”

Diane King shook her head. “If I know Lyle, they were just women he toyed with for his own amusement. He had this need for women he could dominate. He couldn’t dominate me, you see. He had to have women he could impress. But I can’t believe there would have been any emotional involvement with any of them of the sort that would lead to violence. Besides, Lyle was killed here on the estate. What would one of his mistresses have been doing here?”

“What about business associates? Did he have any business enemies?”

Again she shook her head. “On the contrary, he was extremely well liked, very popular. Honest as the day is long, in business, anyway. He was a community figure — served on the school board, the road commission, the city council.”

No wonder Bliss was arrested and now convicted so quickly, Brad thought. He finished his coffee and rose. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. King.” He was about to offer condolences for her loss, but decided that would have been somewhat inappropriate.

“Not at all,” she replied graciously. “I hope I haven’t given you the impression that I’m totally without conscience. I do regret that Lyle is dead, and I do regret that Edward is in so much trouble. But there’s nothing I can do about either of them, is there?” She smiled, a rather nice smile this time. “And life does go on.”

“It does that, Mrs. King,” Lon Bradford agreed.

This woman, he decided after he left, would not kill for any man.

It was almost noon when Brad got back to town. He went directly to the library. A young library assistant at the desk told him that Miss Greer was downstairs in her workroom. Brad went down and tapped on the open door. Hannah looked up from her desk.