But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (23 page)

Mrs. Polk had surprised him by getting into the front seat of the Rolls looking as if she'd been crying. She'd actually liked the old man? They'd both gotten along with him all right, but as for actually
liking
him … Bjarne thought it must have been the somberness of the occasion that made her cry. Some people cried at even the thought of a funeral.

Not that it was a real funeral. There was no religious service scheduled; they were just going to poke him in the ground and be done with it. Well, not quite; Mr. Malcolm was going to say a few words at the graveside. Except that Mr. Malcolm never stopped with just a
few
words.

Bjarne drove into the cemetery and eventually found the gravesite. They were the first ones there, other than the undertaker's hearse. The manservant parked the Rolls and waited. The coffin was already in place, on an apparatus for lowering it into the grave when the time came. Standing by the hearse was a dark-suited man Bjarne took to be the undertaker, a plump, rosy-cheeked man who offended Bjarne's sense of decorum. Undertakers should be John Carradine–thin.

The Murdochs drove up; they too parked and stayed in their car. Then came Mr. Malcolm and Miss Nicole, followed soon after by the two police investigators who'd been sticking their noses into everybody's business ever since Mr. Vincent died. At last Miss Gretchen and Mr. Lionel arrived. They all started getting out of their cars.

“She's wearing white!” Mrs. Polk gasped, scandalized.

Everyone there was dressed in muted colors except Nicole Lattimer, who was wearing a shimmering white … pantsuit? No, Bjarne decided, pants
dress
. Her dark hair was pulled behind her ears and tied into a single thick braid that hung down the middle of her back. Bjarne smothered a smile. Her walk was as duck-waddly as ever, but she looked terrific. She also stood out like a sore thumb—which was undoubtedly the idea.

Mr. Vincent's lawyer had come with Mr. Lionel and Miss Gretchen. Everyone stood around feeling awkward while the undertaker murmured words of condolence to Gretchen. The Murdochs made a point of not speaking to the two policemen who'd put them through that embarrassing scene at the police station the night before. Now and then Dorrie would shoot a bellicose look in their direction; both men pretended not to notice.

Nicole saw Lieutenant Toomey looking at her outfit. “White is the color of mourning in some cultures,” she explained.

Bjarne nudged Mrs. Polk with his elbow.

“I heard,” she muttered.

Malcolm cleared his throat. “I suppose we can begin.” He stepped over to the head of the grave. “We are here to mourn the passing of a remarkable man,” he began, “a man who occupied a significant place in all our lives.”

Ain't that the truth
, Lieutenant Toomey thought as he and Rizzuto edged back away from the group around the grave. Did any of them really mourn Uncle Vincent's passing? They were all wearing the appropriate expressions, but only Mrs. Polk looked truly grieved.

Malcolm Conner was leadenly extolling the virtues of a man nobody really liked. Then Toomey caught sight of someone new: a woman in her forties, immaculately groomed, the brim of her black hat shading her face. She stood apart from the others, none of whom seemed aware of her presence. She was absolutely motionless, in stark contrast to the others who were all beginning to fidget as Malcolm droned on and on.

“Know her?” Toomey whispered. Rizzuto shook his head. “Find out who she is.”

Rizzuto started inching his way around the others toward the mystery lady in the black hat. Malcolm was praising the courage of a man who'd had to face life from a wheelchair, with about as much conviction in his voice as a ten-year-old reciting Shakespeare. Lionel Knox was heavily shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Dorrie Murdoch's hands kept patting her blond curls and smoothing her dress, Simon Murdoch's left eyebrow had climbed almost to his hairline, Nicole Lattimer shimmered whitely, and Gretchen Knox startled everyone by saying in an overloud voice, “That was very nice—thank you, Malcolm.”

There was a brief moment of awkward embarrassment, and then Malcolm acknowledged the command in Gretchen's voice by winding up his eulogy with a few hasty sentences and stepping back from the grave. The undertaker took over, assuring Gretchen the burial itself did not require her attendance and he would see to everything himself. The “funeral” was over.

Mrs. Polk headed straight for Gretchen. “Miss Gretchen, I need to talk to you. Soon.”

“Well, we're going to read the will as soon as we get back.” She looked at her uncle's lawyer. “Aren't we, Mr. Dann?”

Mr. Dann said they were. “It won't take long.”

“Right after,” Gretchen promised Mrs. Polk.

Nicole buttonholed Lionel and Dorrie. “Are you two going into Ellandy's today?” she asked in a low voice. “Malcolm has the new partnership agreement drawn up.”

“Already?” Dorrie asked in surprise. “That was fast.”

“He just used the same form he used for the original partnership—only this one's made out for three partners instead of two.”

“I'm going in now,” Dorrie said.

“I'll be in later,” Lionel told them. “As soon as this will thing is over.”

“Suppose I tell Malcolm one-thirty,” Nicole offered. “Is that all right?”

Lionel agreed. Dorrie said, “I'll have to miss my aerobic mime class—but yes, one-thirty's fine.”

Lieutenant Toomey raised an eyebrow and passed on by.

A few steps away, Simon was congratulating Malcolm on the eulogy. “I'm amazed you found so many positive things to say about the old boy,” he remarked dryly. “It must have taken you a while.”

“All night, as a matter of fact,” Malcolm muttered. “That and the new Articles of Partnership.”

“Ah, yes, the new partnership—Nicole's not wasting any time, is she?”

“You don't approve?”

“Frankly, no. It seems to me Dorrie and Lionel ought to wait until Ellandy's financial picture is clearer before making a change as significant as that. But Dorrie is determined, and I suppose Lionel must be too.”

“Nicole's waited a long time, Simon,” Malcolm said with a hint of reprimand in his voice.

“So she has,” Simon smiled, and changed the subject.

Lieutenant Toomey nodded vacantly at no one in particular.

Bjarne and Mrs. Polk left in the Rolls. Then everyone was piling into cars, engines were started, the exodus was under way. Sal Rizzuto slid into the passenger seat next to Toomey.

“Well?” Toomey asked. “Who is she—the lady in the hat?”

“The undertaker's wife,” Rizzuto said in annoyance. “She goes to alla funerals of their ‘more important clients', she says.”

Toomey laughed, glad not to have another Mysterious Stranger to worry about. He told Rizzuto that as of one-thirty that afternoon, Nicole Lattimer would be a partner in Ellandy Jewels.

Rizzuto whistled. “A full partner?”

“Sounded like it, from what I was able to hear.”

“Why now?” the Sergeant puzzled. “How was she able to convince 'em to take her in now, with that loan business still hangin' over their heads?”

“That is something we're going to have to find out,” Toomey said, and started the car.

The Knoxes, Mr. Dann, and the two servants were already at Uncle Vincent's house by the time the policemen got there. Bjarne let them in. Mrs. Polk had set up a buffet in the dining room, but no one was in there. Mr. Dann was in the living room with Lionel; Gretchen had thought using the library for reading the will would have verged on the ghoulish. The heiress herself was nowhere in sight. Godfrey Daniel came over and greeted Lieutenant Toomey, the only one in the house who seemed glad to see him.

Gretchen kept them all waiting while she changed her clothes. She came into the living room wearing white trousers and a bright yellow top. Short mourning period. “Did he make one of those video wills?” she asked Mr. Dann. The lawyer looked pained and said no.

The two Knoxes, the two servants, and the two policemen settled down to hear Mr. Dann read the will. The reading took all of two minutes. Two hefty bequests to Bjarne Pedersen and Dorothy Polk, slightly more to the latter because she'd been with the old man longer. A small legacy for the ASPCA—
Godfrey Daniel's influence, no doubt
, Toomey thought. The rest of the estate went to Gretchen Knox, as expected. Total amount for Gretchen estimated in the neighborhood of twenty-two million, dependent upon a final accounting. Not sufficient to take over an airline, but enough to render the saving of grocery coupons unnecessary.

Toomey was eyeing the manservant curiously. “Bjarne Pedersen?” he asked, stumbling over the pronunciation.

“Too hard for most people,” Bjarne explained. “Just call me Barney.”

Rizzuto sniggered. “Good honest American name, huh?”

“Do I have to sign anything, Mr. Dann?” Gretchen asked. “No? Well, in that case, I have something I need to do.” And without even saying goodbye, she hurried out of the house. They heard her car start and drive away.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Polk. “I wanted to talk to her.”

Toomey said, “Mrs. Polk, does she always keep a change of clothing here?”

But it was Lionel who answered. “She's started bringing her clothes over. Since we'll be living here.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Mr. Dann said. “I'd hate to think of this good old house being sold and divided into apartments. Now I must go. Barney, if you would call me a cab …?”

The lawyer and the manservant went out. Mrs. Polk invited the others to help themselves from the buffet and led the way into the dining room. Sergeant Rizzuto piled a plate high with cold cuts and retired to the library. Toomey had given him two instructions. First, don't come out until those files have been restored to order; and second, find the original report Paul Bernstein had given to Uncle Vincent.

Toomey nibbled a bit of cheese. “Are you going to mind living here?” he asked Lionel.

“No, I like the place. It's much grander than the house we're living in now. I simply didn't like the way Gretchen decided we were moving without asking me what I wanted. I just got the new satellite dish up, for crying out loud.”

“Maybe that's what inheriting twenty-two million dollars does to you. It won't bother you, living in the house where Uncle Vincent was murdered?”

“I'm
hoping
it won't bother me,” Lionel said.

Toomey picked up another wedge of cheese from the dining table. “This is good stuff—lots of bite. Let's go out on the terrace. There's something I want to ask you about.”

“Oh-oh,” Lionel grinned wryly, opening the dining room door that led to the terrace. “Mind the cat.”

Toomey glanced down to see Godfrey Daniel winding around his legs. Stepping carefully, the Lieutenant led the way outdoors and chose a chair for himself in the sunlight. Godfrey jumped up on his lap and started sniffing at the wedge of cheese Toomey still carried in his hand.

“He loves cheese,” Lionel said, sitting down opposite the Lieutenant. “Cheese and goose liver and fresh salmon. Hates cat food.”

“I've got one at home like that.” Toomey took a bite of his cheese and put the rest down on the terrace floor; Godfrey Daniel jumped down to enjoy his snack. The Lieutenant said to Lionel, “Well, now. Tell me about your visit to the De Beers people in London.”

Lionel's mouth dropped open. “How in the
hell
did you know about that?”

“Uncle Vincent knew. His detective hired a London detective and you were followed. It was all in Bernstein's report, of which I now have a copy.”

Lionel looked dazed. “Jesus. You can't keep anything secret any more.”

“You didn't know you were followed in London?”

“I found out about it later—I meant I couldn't keep anything secret from
you
. Look, Lieutenant, I'd appreciate it if you didn't spread this around. That trip to London wasn't one of my more shining moments.”

“What happened?”

Lionel thought a moment, trying to come up with the best way of putting it. “Do you know anything about the buying and selling of diamonds?”

“Simon Murdoch told me about De Beers' control of the market, and how only the relatively few ‘chosen' become sight-holders.”

“Ah, that makes things easier, then,” Lionel said. “I was trying to persuade De Beers to make me a sightholder. I've
been
trying for almost two years now. It was Simon Murdoch's idea. You see, Simon was never made a sightholder because he doesn't process his own diamonds. The idea was for Ellandy Jewels to buy the necessary equipment and prove to the De Beers people we were serious about diamond-processing. Once I was made a sightholder, Simon would act as my representative and buy the rough diamonds, I'd finish the stones, and we'd both make a nice profit.”

“What about Dorrie Murdoch? Were you planning to squeeze her out?”

“Hell, no! When I say ‘I', I mean Ellandy's.”

“But you lied to her about your reason for going to England, Bernstein's report says.”

Lionel made a face. “Hedging my bets, Lieutenant. It was a gamble, investing all that money in diamond-finishing equipment in the hopes that De Beers would smile on us. Frankly, I didn't want Dorrie to know what I was up to. I'd already had one business failure, and I was afraid she might start having second thoughts. So it just seemed better to keep her in the dark. Simon went along—he agreed not to tell her either.”

“But when you started buying the new equipment, didn't she—”

“She was all for it. Designers love seeing their work all the way through the process, Lieutenant, and that includes finishing the stones as well as constructing the mountings. Both my ‘creative' partners were in favor of buying the equipment.” Lionel grinned wryly. “We're making Nicole a partner.”