Robert Barnard: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 805 & 806, September/October 2008

“I resigned several months ago, Inspector.”

“But you did handle homicides?”

“Yes.”

He gave a slight smile of approval. “Not one to waste words, are you? Good. Please describe the events you witnessed this morning.”

When she had finished telling him everything she had seen, including the devil mask on one of the grotto statues, he said, “Who killed him, Miss Harald?”

Sigrid shook her head. “I met all these people for the first time last evening.”

“Nevertheless...?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve formed no opinions.”

“No?”

“No,” she said firmly and asked a question of her own. “Was he killed in Hugh’s bed?”

She saw him struggle with the decision as to whether she should be told anything, then he shrugged, as if realizing that she probably knew almost as much as he, or soon would.

“Yes. We found signs on the pillowcase that he was smothered facedown while his arms were held immobile by the covers.”

“So no DNA under his fingernails,” Sigrid murmured, almost to herself. “Hugh blames himself. He made Darryl switch rooms because of the mosquitoes. You do realize that Hugh believes he was the killer’s target?”

“So he has told us,” the inspector said drily. “Several times. With increasing agitation. He’s demanding that we let him leave before the killer succeeds. You observed these people last night. Which do you think was the intended victim?”

“Probably Hugh. We met in their apartment before dinner last evening and were given a tour of the place, so everyone knew which bedroom was which. Darryl was well liked, while Hugh irritated nearly everyone. But how did the killer get Darryl’s body into the Severini gallery? I saw three other doors. One opens onto a blank wall, the others were locked with thumb bolts from the inside. The receptionist says there’s only one key and the office is locked at six-thirty, well before everyone left for dinner.”

“Did she also say that she found the key hanging on the doorknob of the office when she returned this morning?”

“The killer took it before the office was locked last night and she didn’t notice?”

“So she says.”

Sigrid nodded thoughtfully. “When I checked my e-mail this morning, I was left alone in the office for several minutes. The receptionist seems to run all over the castle. I assume the others were in and out of the office yesterday?”

“All except Mrs. Barbara Rosser. She doesn’t use the Internet, but—” He consulted the notes he had taken earlier. “—Mrs. Lyle, Mrs. Hayne, and Mr. Gallins were there when Mr. Hugh Jensen asked to see the frescoes. They would have seen where the key was kept and could have mentioned it to the others. And Dr. Olson, of course, has stayed here before. It’s a very distinctive key. Easy to spot. So I ask you again, Miss Harald. Who wanted Hugh Jensen dead?”

Again, Sigrid told him she could not say. Giordano let out a frustrated breath and gave a dismissive nod of his head. “Very well. Thank you for your help.”

“I wish I could have helped you more,” she said, suddenly homesick for the familiar routine of police work that had been taken from her.

The big rumpled man behind the desk cocked his head as if understanding her hesitation. “Was it easy to walk away from the job?”

“No.”

“You have no official standing here,” he warned her.

“I know.”

“But you will ask questions?”

“Probably.”

“And you will listen?”

“I usually do.”

“Bene,” he said, sounding Italian for the first time.

Trying to form a logical theory, Sigrid crossed the courtyard and almost bumped into Dr. Olson.

“Could I talk to you a minute?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Sunlight silvered his white hair as he followed her out to a table on the terrace where they could talk undisturbed, almost hidden by several huge tubs of red geraniums. Unfamiliar birds twittered in the tall cypress trees and the golden Tuscan light only underlined how far from New York and her past life she now was.

“Sorry,” Olson said, smothering a yawn. “Too much wine last night and now all this...”

Sigrid came straight to the point. “Is Barbara Rosser dying?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “How the hell—? Are you psychic or something?”

“No. Just an ex-cop. I listen to people. Not only to what they say, but what they don’t say. Alexa almost blurted it out to me last night, but Barbara stopped her. Then Barbara herself spoke of how Italy was always her favorite country. Was, not is. As if she never expected to come back.”

Olson sighed. “You’re right. This is her farewell trip. She decided to see Italy one last time rather than do another round of chemo and radiation. She didn’t want anyone else to know and made me promise that I wouldn’t treat her any differently from the rest. But I swear to God, I wanted to knock Hugh Jensen into the middle of next week when he made her miss seeing that Tiepolo ceiling in Venice.”

“I imagine Alexa wanted to herself,” Sigrid said and sat back to watch the wheels begin to turn.

“No,” he said at last. “Darryl was a small man but Alexa’s a smaller woman. She couldn’t have carried him up those stairs.”

“But Sabra Lyle could. If Hugh was a threat to her marriage...”

“Sabra’s divorced. Gene’s the married one. He sells an occasional picture, but the only way he can afford to paint full time is because of his wife’s money.”

“I thought Sabra was a successful landscape designer.”

“She is. That doesn’t mean she wants to support him.” He gave a wry smile. “So you’re not infallible, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sabra’s toured with me before. Gallins is merely this tour’s flavor of the month. There was someone different last year, there’ll be someone different next year. Adds a little spice to her vacations. You look shocked.”

Amused, Sigrid shook her head. “No. Surprised maybe, but not shocked. All the same, Gallins does have a grudge against Hugh for blackballing him with a museum, right?”

“A grudge, yes. But enough to kill? I don’t think so.”

“What about Taylor Williams? He have any run-ins with Hugh?”

“No more than any of the others. Hugh may have made some slighting remarks about how lightweight coffee-table books can be, but that’s all I’ve heard.” He stood up wearily. “I have to make some more phone calls. The others are having lunch downstairs if you want to join them.”

“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m not hungry.”

She watched him disappear down the sunlit stone staircase, then sat and thought about all the things she had seen, all she had heard, and all she had been told. Olson said he had given Hugh two sleeping pills. Assuming Hugh actually took them, anyone could have killed Darryl without waking his cousin.

She looked at her watch. Italian time was five or six hours ahead of New York so her attorney would not be at the office this early, but her e-mail would be waiting when he arrived.

As afternoon shadows deepened across the ancient stone courtyard, Inspector Giordano called them together again. “We have now questioned everyone in the castle,” he told them in his incongruous English accent.

Nervous glances were exchanged and a querulous Hugh Jensen broke the silence. “My God, man! Don’t play Hercule Poirot with us. If you know who killed Darryl, spit it out!”

“Mrs. Hayne,” Giordano said gently. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Alexa Hayne’s eyes were frightened. “N-No, I don’t think so.”

“Two young Australian women were in the lower garden last evening. They saw you and Mr. Darryl Jensen.”