Jill Churchill: A Farewell to Yarns

“Yes."

“No," Mel said. "Not quite yet. I'll see that she gets home.”

At that moment, Fiona came down the stairs. "Is everybody gone? How did we do? Would you like to help counting money or packing things—oh, it's Detective—uh—"

“VanDyne, ma'am. Could I have a few words with you?”

Fiona turned very pale. "Actually, it's not a good time. Perhaps later?"

“I'm afraid it has to be now," VanDyne said. "Yes, very well," Fiona said, turning toward the family room.

Shelley watched her go, then mouthed to Jane, "Albert?”

Jane nodded miserably. Mel took her elbow and guided her along behind Fiona. Jane heard the front door close as Shelley left and had a mad urge to turn and run. Mel must have sensed the impulse. He tightened his grip on her arm. "I need a witness. My uniformed man slipped on the drive and is in the car whimpering over his wrist," he whispered.

When they entered the family room, Fiona was sitting on the sofa where Jane had sat earlier. She, too, was staring at all of the pictures. "Jane, there's a picture missing," she said a small voice.

“I know. I took it," Jane said.

Fiona looked at her for a long moment, then said, "You know, don't you."

“Yes, Fiona. I know who Albert really is." Jane felt sick.

“What do you want?" Fiona said to VanDyne.

“I want to talk to your husband about the deaths of Phyllis Wagner and Bobby Bryant.”

Fiona stood and walked to the wall, putting her palm on the spot where the band picture had been. Jane wished she could curl up and disappear.

“You don't, of course, have to talk to me at all," Mel was saying. "As his wife—”

She turned quickly and looked at him. "You don't need to talk to Richie. He didn't kill those people—I did.”

Twenty-six

"What!" Jane's exclamation came out as a strangled cry.

Mel practically shoved her into a chair and then turned back to Fiona, saying very smoothly, "Why don't you sit down, Mrs. Howard, and tell us about it.”

Fiona shrugged. "I might as well."

“Don't you want to call a lawyer?" Jane asked.

Fiona ignored her. Mel had taken a card out of his jacket pocket and was reading her rights. She didn't act like she heard him or cared. He took a small tape recorder out of another pocket and put it on the coffee table. Pushing a button to start it, he said, "Do you understand that I'm recording what you're about to say, Mrs. Howard?"

“Yes, I understand."

“And you agree to be recorded?" Mel looked as surprised as Jane felt.

“Yes."

“Please tell me in your own words what happened," he said, slowly sitting down. He moved and spoke as if in the presence of a wild animal that might take fright and flee at any quick moves. Jane remembered him saying something days ago about needing a confession, because there might be such a lack of hard evidence.

Fiona glanced at him, then at Jane, then looked out the windows and spoke in a flat tone. "Mrs. Wagner was my husband's first wife. The marriage was annulled, and he didn't know until last week that there had been a child. When she came here and I suggested that he show her the house next door, he recognized her. On the way over, she told him about her son—their son."

“Did Mrs. Wagner know right away who he was?" VanDyne asked.

“No. He told her. He told her," Fiona said. She looked years older, like the mother of a grown child who has done something very stupid. "You see, Richie isn't very good at—at protecting himself. He was so excited at the idea that he had a son, that he admitted to her who he was. It was very foolish. I couldn't trust anyone else to keep our secret. I've done so much all these years to keep everyone from knowing. Did she tell you, Jane?"

“No, she didn't tell me. I realized when I stood next to him in the choir."

“The choir. I told him not to be in it, not to take the chance, but he loved it so much. He really loved singing, you know. He didn't care nearly as much about the fame and the money as the sheer joy of singing. It was the only thing I couldn't give him. No, I didn't give him children, either. I think he would have liked children....”

Her voice trailed off into a long silence. Mel broke it by saying softly, "So you killed her to keep the secret? Tell me about it."

“There's not much to tell. That night after Richie went to bed, I waited until the boy came home. I knew he was drunk from the way he was singing. I waited another hour to make sure he was sound asleep, then I went over there. I knew my way around the house from helping take care of the old lady who used to live there. I almost went into the wrong room, but the boy was talking in his sleep, so I knew he had the big suite. I went in the small bedroom and killed her with a knife I'd picked up in the kitchen. I had one of my own with me, but I didn't want to use it." She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes for a long moment. The only sound in the room was her breathing.

“Did you tell your husband what you'd done?" Mel asked.

“Tell Richie? No, of course not!"

“What about the boy? Bobby. Did you kill him, too?”

Fiona nodded. "I didn't want to. At first I didn't think it was necessary. Richie said the woman told him she'd never revealed to the boy who his father was. I thought that was probably true, but I couldn't be sure.”

Jane shivered. Fiona was talking in a bleak but rational tone, as if they were discussing something serious but mundane, like the house needing a new roof.

“But then," Fiona went on, "then he started playing the music. It was all Richie's songs. Everybody thought he was just being a nuisance, but it was a message. I knew what it meant. He was saying that he knew who he was and who Albert was, and he was going to blackmail us. Richie had been so happy to find out that he had a son, but the son had no feelings for him at all. He—he was a blackmailer. He called after the police made him turn the music off and asked Albert if he'd heard it. I was on the extension, but they didn't know. He said he wanted to see Richie the next day and talk about an 'allowance.' That's what he called it. Richie was crushed. Absolutely crushed. So I called the boy back that night and told him Albert would meet him at the mall."

“Is that what you husband told you to do?"

“No, he didn't know I'd done it. Why do you keep asking me if he knew? I didn't tell him anything. I took the same knife, and I got there early. He'd been drinking again, fortunately. I could smell it on him. If he hadn't, I don't think I could have surprised him so easily. I killed him.”

Mel frowned. "If you'd like to get your coat, I'll have to take you in, Mrs. Howard. Once again, you understand that this tape will be entered in evidence at the trial—”

Fiona stood up. "There won't be a trial. I'm telling you I'm guilty. You don't have to prove anything. Nobody has to know why I did it."

“You can't continue to protect your husband's real identity," Mel said.

“Oh, yes I can. That's why I killed two people. I'd have killed twenty if it was necessary. Richie hated the slavering fans, the vultures, the mobs that wanted to pick him apart. Do you know—once, when he was Richie Divine, he went to arestroom in a hotel. Some horrible man rushed in and mopped up the urinal with a sponge and sold bits of the sponge. She shuddered with disgust. "I'd do anything to protect him from going back to being that kind of public figure. I've confessed. That's all you need, a confession. You have no reason to stage a circus for the press. I'd like to pack a few things. May I go upstairs and get them?"

“Yes. Do you want Mrs. Jeffry to help you?”

Fiona's spirit reasserted itself for a second. "No, I think Mrs. Jeffry has already done quite enough.”