But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (12 page)

“But why'd you move Uncle Vincent?”

“Oh, that was one of those brilliant ideas that seem a lot less brilliant in the clear light of day. The scene just didn't look right, you know? There was that broken glass that made it appear as if a burglar had broken in—”

“How did you get in?” Gretchen asked suddenly.

“I just took your spare set of keys and unlocked the front door. Anyway, if a burglar did break in, Uncle Vincent wouldn't just sit there calmly at his desk and watch, would he? He'd be roaring out in his wheelchair and waving his gun and yelling for Barney—but he wouldn't just sit there. So I moved him out to the middle of the floor to make it look as if that was what happened.”

“And that's where he was when I went in—in the middle of the floor. But go on.”

“Well, the blotter was all bloody. And since it might be kind of hard to explain how a man who died in the middle of the floor managed to bleed all over his desk, I burned the blotter in the fireplace.”

“Ugh,” said Gretchen.

Lionel thought it best not to mention burning the private investigator's report as well. “Then I took Uncle Vincent's gun and tucked it under him, and—
Christ!
”

Gretchen jumped. “What?”

“I just remembered what else I should have done. I meant to take away the two pieces of the Hermes—the, er, murder weapon. In case Nicole left her fingerprints. But then I stepped on Godfrey Daniel's tail—that's why he was giving me the hate treatment this morning. But last night he let out such a yowl that I got rattled and took off.”

Gretchen nodded. “I heard him. I went downstairs to find out what was wrong.”

“All right—why did you pick up the papers?”

Gretchen was silent a moment, and then said in a shaky voice, “I'm not too proud of this, Lionel. When I saw the room, it seemed to me that someone had tried to make it look as if a burglary had taken place—all those papers on the floor! Ordinary burglars don't go through file cabinets, for heaven's sake. And even the things that were taken—the jade horse and the like. They're all small things, things you can slip into a pocket or carry easily. The Degas and Uncle Vincent's six-thousand-dollar Georgian clock—they weren't touched. No real burglar would have left them behind.”

“So you concluded one of us had done it?” Lionel asked. She nodded. “You thought I had done it?” he persisted.

“You or Nicole or possibly Simon.”

“Simon! Why Simon?”

“Because I couldn't see Dorrie doing it, but it's the sort of gesture Simon might make—you know, taking drastic action to rescue his lady fair. A romantic kind of gesture.”

“You've got a strange idea of romance, Gretchen my love. But go on.”

“This is the part I'm not too proud of,” Gretchen said. “You've got to remember I'd just found out about you and Nicole, and I was hurt and confused and … and I wanted to make trouble for you. Yes, I did! So I decided to make it look as if a burglary had
not
taken place. Then when the police found out about the loan … well, I put all the papers back in the file and brought in the ivory owl from the dining room and a few other things to make it look as if nothing had been taken.”

“I see,” Lionel said, taken aback.

“But then this morning Lieutenant Toomey told me that Uncle Vincent's watch and money had been taken too—and Lionel, it hit me for the first time that it might really have been a burglar after all! So that's why I said Uncle Vincent hadn't decided about the loan. To try to undo any damage I might have done. I'm truly sorry, Lionel. I should have left things alone.”

“It might not matter in the long run,” Lionel said, thinking. “If our burglar was indeed Nicole Lattimer, I'm sure she's had the sense to destroy the promissory note by now. Then we'll all be in the clear.”

“If she found it,” Gretchen said. “It might be upstairs in the wall safe.”

“
Wall safe?
” Lionel yelled, and had to swerve to avoid hitting another car. “What
wall safe
?”

“There's one in Uncle Vincent's bedroom. I'd forgotten all about it until Lieutenant Toomey asked me if I knew the combination.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not. Uncle Vincent never told me things like that.”

Lionel thought about it. “Wait a minute, now—it won't make any difference. So long as we all stick to the story that Uncle Vincent postponed making a decision about extending the loan, it won't matter whether the promissory note is found in the safe or not. So that's all right. The only question left is—how did Uncle Vincent get back to his desk?”

“Yeah,” said Gretchen. “That's weird.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes. “He
was
dead,” Lionel said worriedly. “I know he was dead. I felt for a pulse.” He pulled into the driveway of their house and cut the engine. “I'll make a few fast phone calls and then be on my way.”

“Lionel?”

“Hm?”

“If it had been Dorrie—would you have covered up for her the way you did for Nicole?”

“I'd have covered up
better
if it had been Dorrie,” Lionel said grimly. “Dorrie's my partner—what happens to her, happens to me. Don't think what you're thinking, Gretchen. There is absolutely
nothing
between Nicole and me. Nothing. You're the only woman in my life.”

That helped a great deal; Gretchen smiled and decided to say no more about it.

For the time being.

7

Dorrie Murdoch put down the telephone and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she left her office and walked down the hall to Nicole Lattimer's office. She went in, shut the door behind her, and told Nicole that Uncle Vincent had been murdered.

The two women stared at each other a long time, both of them trying hard to look surprised and shocked. Finally Nicole remembered to ask questions. “How? When? Who? Why?”

“In the library,” Dorrie said, answering the unasked
Where?
“Lionel just called and told me. Someone broke in last night and hit him over the head and killed him. They don't know who.”

“A burglar?”

“Sounds like it. Lionel didn't give me many details—he just said the police would be here soon to talk to us. But there's something else. Evidently Lionel and Gretchen have made up their differences, because
she
told the police that Uncle Vincent simply delayed giving us an answer on the extension of the loan. She said he hadn't decided yet!”

A smile started slowly and then spread all over Nicole's face. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

Dorrie smiled back. “The least it means is that we'll have a little time. Lionel says we all have to tell the same story. If the police find out Uncle Vincent refused to grant us an extension, they're going to suspect one of
us
of killing him!”

“But I thought it was a burglar.”

“I'm sure it was—but why take chances? Just say Uncle Vincent postponed giving us an answer and we'll be all right.”

“What about Malcolm and Simon?”

“Lionel's calling them. Simon's no problem, but Malcolm might balk. He's always been such a stickler for doing things the proper way—even when he was a little boy, he was like that.”

“I don't think Malcolm will object this time,” Nicole said evenly. She looked questioningly at Dorrie. “It's all right, then? It really is all right? We're not going out of business in two weeks?”

Dorrie laughed. “We are
not
going out of business in two weeks!” she sang, and Nicole laughed with her. On impulse the two women joined hands and did an impromptu little dance. Dorrie was the first to realize that their behavior might be interpreted as a tad unseemly. “Poor Uncle Vincent,” she said soberly.

“I'd better practice saying that,” Nicole remarked dryly. “I should be sorry he's dead, but I'm not. Uncle Vincent was a troublemaker, and I'm not going to miss him one little bit.”

“Nicole,” Dorrie said reprovingly, mostly because she felt she was supposed to. “We'll have to find out from Malcolm just where we stand now on the loan.”

“Well, let's see. We'll have to pay the estate—unless that promissory note magically disappears.”

“Oh, wouldn't that be nice!” Dorrie sighed. “I don't like being a deadbeat … but a million and a half? Well.”

“Maybe we should have stolen the note after all,” Nicole said slyly.

Dorrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “I'm beginning to wish someone had.”

“Yes, that would solve the problem, wouldn't it? Especially now that Gretchen seems to be on our side again.”

It hit them both at the same time. “Gretchen!” Dorrie cried, appalled. “She inherits!”

“Everything,” Nicole gasped. “Including debts owed to Uncle Vincent!”

“That means—”

“It means that Ellandy Jewels owes one and a half million dollars to
Gretchen Knox
! Plus interest!”

“Aaaaaooooowwww!” Dorrie wailed.

“Ditto,” Nicole said grimly.

“I
hate
owing Gretchen Knox money!”

“And
Gretchen
hates
me
,” Nicole muttered. “Oh my.”

The two women stared at each other aghast, their earlier ebullient mood completely shattered.

Simon Murdoch's left eyebrow climbed higher and higher as he listened to what Lionel Knox was telling him over the telephone.

There was a silence. “Simon?” Lionel asked. “Are you still there?”

“Still here, and trying to absorb everything. So was it a burglar or not?”

“It must have been, but the police aren't saying definitely. They're going in to Ellandy's to ask questions—which means they'll get around to you eventually. Just remember to say Uncle Vincent wouldn't give us an answer on the loan extension.”

“Right, no problem. Do the police actually suspect one of us?” Simon asked.

Lionel hesitated. “I think they're just tying up loose ends. The man in charge is a Lieutenant Toomey—he seems reasonable enough, but he keeps asking questions. If he finds out Uncle Vincent refused to renew the loan, though, then he
will
suspect one of us.”

“And we can't have that, can we?” Simon murmured smoothly. “Don't worry about me, Lionel—I won't give anything away. But what about good old straight-arrow Malcolm? Are you saying he's actually agreed to tell a falsehood to legally appointed enforcers of the law? Incredible.”

“I haven't talked to Malcolm yet,” Lionel admitted. “I was putting him off 'til last.”

Simon chuckled. “Good luck.”

“I'll need it,” Lionel said glumly. He hung up and sat marshaling his arguments for a minute before he punched out the number of Malcolm Conner's law office.

A secretary passed his call on to Malcolm, and Lionel began his spiel. “Hold on to your hat, Malcolm, I've got something big to tell you. Uncle Vincent was murdered last night. He—”

“I know. Nicole just called me.”

“Oh.” Lionel felt deflated. “Well, then, did she tell you we've all agreed to say that Uncle Vincent hadn't yet decided about extending Ellandy's loan?”

“Yes, and I agreed too.”

“Because if we don't, the police are going to start thinking that—”

“Lionel, you're not listening. I said I agreed. I'll tell the same story.”

“Oh. Well, uh, thanks, Malcolm.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Uh, no.” There was a click on the line. Lionel replaced the receiver and sat staring at the telephone, somewhat puzzled.

“Dorothea Conner Murdoch,” Dorrie said, and gave Lieutenant Toomey her home address and phone number.

The Lieutenant did not like Ellandy Jewels; the place threw him off stride. The showroom, instead of being one nice even floor with ordinary display cases arranged in nice even rows, was instead divided into different levels. Each level had its own lighting scheme, its own décor. The jewelry itself was displayed with more pomp and circumstance than the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London. And with about the same amount of security, both human and electronic.

Even when he'd finally gotten himself oriented, Lieutenant Toomey still didn't like the place. It made him feel like a peasant. Not one of the pieces of jewelry he'd looked at had had anything as crass as a price tag attached to it. And he'd bet that any one of the chairs placed on the various levels for the customers to sit on cost more than all the furniture in his living room put together. Ellandy Jewels was definitely not a place for dropping in and doing a little comparison shopping for a bargain bracelet for Aunt Sophie's birthday.

He'd found Dorrie Murdoch on one of the “consulting” levels—no jewelry on display, just a table and two chairs. Dorrie herself was as carefully made up as a model, Toomey noted. She was wearing a soft green pantsuit made of some rich material he couldn't identify. Her hair was an unusual shade of blond, carefully coiffed. All in all, the female partner of Ellandy Jewels looked every bit as expensive as her surroundings.

“A great deal of our business is for custom-designed pieces,” Dorrie explained when asked about her work. “Perhaps someday that's all we'll do. A man who just left—he wanted something special to give his wife for their anniversary.” Dorrie gave Toomey a satisfied smile. “He decided on diamond earrings. His wife has a round face and a rather short neck, so I'll take that into consideration in my design.”

“So it helps to know what the wearer looks like?”

“It's essential. I've never met this woman, so when her husband phoned for an appointment I asked him to bring in a photo. But every piece here is unique, custom-designed or not. Owning the only one of something appeals to a lot of people. It's a status thing, Lieutenant. The man who ordered the diamond earrings—he was
determined
to have something especially designed for his wife, even though I can't have it in three days as he wanted. Heavens, it takes longer than that just to cut the stones!”