Deadlock (38 page)

“I don’t drink myself, but I enjoy serving champagne—I hope you like this.”

I muttered something appreciative. She poured water for herself and handed me a plate, creamy bone china with her initials on it twined in a green and gold wreath. She was wearing a gray shirtwaist dress with a scarf neck and a strand of heavy pearls. Her high cheekbones were
covered with the circles of rouge which were doll-like yet somehow elegant and endearing.

She perched her head, birdlike, on one side, eyeing me questioningly but not talking until I had filled my plate. I sipped the champagne and ate a little cold duck. Both were excellent.

“Now, I must hear what happened. The papers gave only the sketchiest accounts. What happened to Niels’s boat?”

“There was an accident in the galley and the hull caught fire.” This was the answer I had given to the police and to Murray Ryerson and I wasn’t going to change it now.

Mrs. Grafalk shook her head vigorously. “No, my dear. That won’t do. Gordon Firth, the chairman of Ajax, came to visit me two days ago with a most extraordinary story about Niels. He had a young Englishman with him, Roger Ferrant. Mr. Ferrant says you and he discovered that Niels was running Grafalk Steamship at a loss and had cause to suspect him of blowing up Martin’s ship.”

I put the champagne glass down.

“And what do you want me to tell you?”

She looked at me sharply. “The truth. I still have to deal with this matter. I am still Niels’s chief heir; I shall have to dispose of the remaining assets of Grafalk Steamship somehow. Martin Bledsoe would be the ideal person to take over the company. He and I—were good friends a number of years ago and I still have a special spot for him. But I must know the whole story before I talk to him or to my lawyers.”

“I don’t have any proof—just a chain of suggestions. Surely you don’t want to hear a lot of unsubstantiated allegations. The police or the FBI or the Coast Guard may find proof of wrongdoing. But they may well not. Wouldn’t you prefer to let the dead bury the dead?”

“Miss Warshawski. I am going to tell you something that no one besides Karen knows. I expect you to respect my privacy—but if you don’t, it doesn’t matter that much. Niels and I have lived as two neighbors for over a decade.” She fluttered small, ring-covered hands. “We gradually grew apart. It happens that way, you know. Then he became more and more obsessed by Grafalk Steamship. He couldn’t think about anything else. He was bitterly disappointed that our son wasn’t interested in the steamship company: Peter is a cellist. Our daughter is a thoracic surgeon. When it became clear that no one of his name lived to care about Grafalk Steamship, Niels removed himself emotionally from the house.

“I have paid little attention to Niels in the last several years. Nevertheless, it became quite clear to me that he was growing more and more erratic over the past eight or nine months. I invited you up here for lunch because you struck me as clever and intelligent the day we talked. I think you can tell me what Niels was doing. You were not a social acquaintance of my husband’s. I don’t believe you were his mistress—”

She paused to look at me sharply. I couldn’t help laughing, but I shook my head.

“Yes. You don’t have the look about you. Now. I want to know why you were on Niels’s boat and how it came to burn up.”

I took another swallow of champagne. If anyone had the right to know, Claire Grafalk did. I told her the whole tale, beginning with Boom Boom’s death and ending with the icy waters of Lake Michigan. I glanced at it, involuntarily shivering.

“And how did you get out? Someone rescued you?”

“Another sailboat came up. They were attracted by the fire. I don’t remember it too clearly.”

“And the evidence of Clayton’s death?”

I shook my head. “I still have the plastic pouches with his hair and the carpet scraping. I think I keep them because they give some reality to the whole episode, not because I want to use them.”

Her head was still perched on one side. She reminded me of a robin or a sparrow—not cruel, just impersonal.

“But you don’t want to prosecute?”

“I talked to Mrs. Kelvin. She’s the black woman whose husband was killed in Boom Boom’s apartment. I figure she and I are the chief mourners—Jeannine doesn’t count.” I stared unseeing out at the lake, remembering the conversation with Mrs. Kelvin. I spent two days in the hospital recovering from the shock of my near drowning; she came to see me late on the second day. We talked for a long time, about Boom Boom and Henry Kelvin, and love.

“Niels and Sandy are both dead, so there’s no one left to prosecute. Legal action against your husband’s estate would bring no pleasure, only sully the memories of two heroic men. We have no interest left.”

She didn’t say anything but nibbled with delicate energy on a petit four. I drank some more champagne. The food was excellent, but reviewing my time in Lake Michigan brought knots to my stomach. It looked so peaceful now under the May sun, but it is not a tame lake.

“The United States Government may try to prove a case against Grafalk Steamship. It will really depend on their proving that your husband engineered theft of the depth charges and all the rest of that. With Sandy and Howard Mattingly both dead, there aren’t any witnesses. And as long as he gets the
Lucella
floating again, Martin doesn’t want to push it too hard. I think the investigation will go on quite a while, but they’re never going to be able to fix blame for blowing up the
Lucella
. Not unless Admiral Jergensen decides to testify that your husband stole the explosives. He doesn’t seem to want to right now.”

Bledsoe had been around once or twice. He figured out
most of the story when he read about the accident to the
Brynulf
. I went drinking with Bledsoe one night while I told him the rest. His lovemaking matched his kissing. That had helped, but I knew the nightmares would last a long time.

Claire Grafalk looked away from me and said in a flat voice, “Niels left Paige Carrington a condo on Astor Place.”

I drew a sharp breath. Paige was the spot that still hurt, the little needle in the diaphragm every time I thought of her. “I was wondering how she’d be able to afford that. Of course, she still has those monthly assessments to keep up. They’re not cheap.”

Mrs. Grafalk still didn’t look at me. “She’s in London now with Guy Odinflute.”

“Do you mind so much?” I asked gently.

Tears sparkled briefly in her bright eyes, but she gave a twisted smile. “Do I mind? Niels has been dead to me for many years. But once—it was different. For the sake of the man I once loved, I would have liked to see her mourn.”