Home Before Dark (38 page)

'I’ve been trying to get in touch with your husband, signora’ Investigator Morelli put her on speaker phone and looked
across his desk at Luca, who mimed blocking his ears as
Laura Lister’s strident English voice overwhelmed the small
room.
Morelli said, 'Yes, I know he’s in New York. I’ve left messages
Ś He smiled into the transmitter. 'I was hoping you could perhaps save me from bothering him. It’s a small thing.’
'I really can’t talk now. I was just on my way out.’ She sounded as if she’d run back to get the phone.
This will only take a moment, signora. I need to find the address of your husband’s office in Paris.’
'Try the phone book under Beauly-Lister.'Then, as if she’d
realised how rude that sounded, she said quickly, 'It’s 24 rue
Mabillon, near the Boulevard St-Germain.’
He didn’t write it down, but glanced at Luca. 'Thank you.’
'Is that all you wanted to know?’
Morelli cleared his throat. 'Does your husband live at that
address when he goes over on business?’
'It’s an office, not a flat. Ed always stays at the Ritz . . .’
She hesitated. 'I thought you knew that. Didn’t you speak to
him there?’
'Has he ever . . . yes, I did, foolish of me . . . considered
getting a pied-a-terre in Paris? Somewhere more convenient
perhaps for his work?’
'He might have done. I honestly wouldn’t know’
'He’s never discussed it with you?’
'We don’t feel the same way about Paris. Not my favourite
city.’ He heard the soft clop of a hand briefly muffling the
receiver. 'Look, I really have to go now.’
'Signora Lister,’ Morelli said, 'there’s been a development
in our investigation of your daughter’s murder.’
There was a pause. 'What kind of development?’
'It’s too soon to speak of a suspect, but we have a promising
lead.’
'Then I think you had better talk to Ed.’
'Of course. I’d just like to ask you about something.’ She
gave an exasperated sigh. 'Signora, if it’s inconvenient, I could
call back at another time.’
'Oh, for goodness sake, get on with it.’
He’d never established a rapport with Laura Lister. She’d
made it clear early on that she regarded him as incompetent
and untrustworthy, probably just because he was Italian.
Morelli felt belittled by those scornful blue eyes, and yet,
oddly, he admired her – found her attitude brave, not unsympathetic.
The last time he saw her, at the requiem mass for
Sophie at San Miniato, she had barely acknowledged his
presence, had seemed more haughtily remote and isolated
than ever, as if her grief, instead of starting to heal, had cut
her adrift. The father, he suspected, had been too wrapped
up in his own sorrow – or his little ragtime piano-player
perhaps – to notice. Morelli had to remind himself that this
was a fishing expedition.
'Your husband mentioned that you set up an arts foundation
in Paris after Sophie died … in her memory’
'It’s a small charity, based in London.’
'Ah . . . nonetheless a wonderful idea, if I may say so, to
give the talented but not so fortunate the opportunity to
develop their skills.’
'We felt Sophie would have approved.’
He frowned and shook his head at Luca, who was showing
signs of wanting to interrupt. 'I was wondering . . . has your
charity ever helped send anyone to The Conservatoire de la
Musique in Paris?’
'Not that I’m aware of.’ Her voice sounded strained, or
had he just imagined it? 'Try asking Ed. He looks after the
music side.’
It was possible she already suspected or even knew that
her husband was screwing around. But if that were not the
case, he had no particular wish to drop Lister in it. Having
just spoken to Gretchen in Marienbad and arranged to meet
his magnificent flaxen-haired physio tomorrow in Paris, he
felt inclined to be generous.
'He’s a difficult man to reach.’ He considered for a moment
telling the signora about the drawing, but decided he’d already
given her enough to encourage her husband to return his
calls. He was looking forward to informing Ed Lister himself
of the Questura’s breakthrough on the case; he also wanted to get his reaction in person to the coincidence of David
Mallet living on the rue Mabillon.
'What did you have to say,’ he asked his assistant as he
put down the phone, 'that was so urgent it couldn’t wait?’
'You’re going to miss your plane.’
'Not if you drive, Luca.’

There was no signpost anywhere for Gilmans Landing.
A cluster of hidden-away, old-money properties overlooking
the Hudson, it was the kind of time-warp community that
would never have had much interest in advertising its
existence. The driver turned at Dearwater Road, rolled down
the steep lane under a canopy of stately trees towards the
river, then spent the next five minutes crawling around the maze
of narrow lanes and cul-de-sacs before they found the gates to
La Rochelle.
Campbell paid the cab-fare and walked up the long private
drive towards the Fielding home. A stone-built Victorian, not
huge but right on the water, it reminded him of his grandfather’s
place in Hong Kong, which he knew only from faded
family photos but regarded with mixed feelings as his imperial
heritage. Startled by the hiss of lawn sprinklers coming to
life, the detective looked behind him and saw, gliding between
the trees, a blue triangle of sail halfway across the Hudson.
He thought of Kira’s silent tears, the shame he’d brought on
them, as he crossed the gravel circle in front of the house.
He’d been half-expecting to find his client still here at La
Rochelle – on the phone the maid had said Mr Lister was
expected some time that afternoon – but it seemed unlikely
now. The place was too quiet. Inside the porch, the interior
stained-glass French doors stood slightly ajar. He flipped
open his cell and punched in Ed’s number. Before they finally
got together, he needed to find out why the dead woman,
Grace Wilkes, had the number of La Rochelle on her cell
phone. Why she called here yesterday – he could only assume
it was to talk to Ed Lister.
He felt relieved when he got his client’s voice-mail. He left
a message to say he couldn’t make the meeting in the city
and suggesting they reschedule.Then rang the doorbell.There
was a television on somewhere, but nobody came.
After a minute or so, Campbell let himself in and followed
the sound down a narrow wood-panelled hall. At the door
to the front parlour, he cleared his throat and said tentatively,
'Mrs Fielding? Anyone home?’

61

He found her in a small flower-filled conservatory extending
beyond the parlour into the garden. A screen door gave onto a flagstoned patio shaded by a wisteria arbour with views of the river. Alice Fielding was sitting on a chintz-covered recliner
with a plaid lap rug over her knees watching an 'I Love Lucy’ re-run.
Without looking up, she said, 'It was nice of you to come all this way. How do you find New York? Hot and dirty as ever, I imagine.’
'Yes, it is,’ Campbell said. 'Mrs Fielding, I’m—’
'I hardly ever go up to town now.’
He hesitated. 'I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I tried the bell.’
'But aren’t they a riot?’ she chortled, still gazing at the screen. 'You know, the Desi Arnazes were good friends of °urs when we lived in Los Angeles after the war. They were so much fun.’
'Really? I’m a big fan myself.’
Are you delivering something?’
'No, ma’am, I’m supposed to be meeting Ed Lister. I was
wondering if maybe you’d seen him recently?’
With a little sigh of irritation, she aimed the remote at the
TV and killed the sound, then turned and looked at him with
arresting sage-green eyes. Crisply dressed in black pants and
a grey silk shirt, she wore her hair cut short and pinned on
the side with a mother-of-pearl barrette that gave her a girlish
look. He put her in her late eighties, frail and clearly a little
spaced, but not beyond reminding the world that she’d been
a knock-out in her day.
'Who did you say you were?’
'Campbell Armour, ma’am. I’m doing a job for him.’
'Oh well then . . . Eddie has just gone down to the village
to get some groceries. He should be back soon.You’re welcome
to wait.’
'Thank you.’ Campbell hid his surprise. 'Was Ed Lister
here last night?’
She gave him a puzzled look. 'Yes, he was here. Why do
you ask?’
'It’s just that . . . we’ve been missing each other.’
'He always was hard to pin down. A strong attractive man,
though, even if he can be a bit of a stick, you know, stuffy
in that buttoned-up English way.’
He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Alice had a direct
personal manner that Campbell found a little disconcerting
'And since the tragedy . . .’ She sighed. 'He simply adored

her.’
His eyes flickered away from hers. 'Yes.’
He wanted to give Ed the benefit of the doubt. But his
client’s admission that he’d known June Seaton had turned
everything on its head. Why had Ed kept quiet about it until
now? He must surely have realised, the moment the link withl
Skylands was established, that it had to be relevant? The fact
that he knew her wasn’t proof of wrongdoing, but it made
Ward’s claim that Ed was present at the house the night his
parents were killed seem a little less outlandish.
It was only a small step from there to speculating that
June’s love letter had been intended for Ed Lister and that
he was the person she’d met and fallen in love with at a party
in New York. What if Grace had lied when she told him the
unsent letter was never found? It might help explain why she
had spoken to Ed Lister here at his grandmother-in-law’s
house sometime the day before she died. It was the penultimate
call she made from her cell phone.
The more he thought about it 'the worse things looked for
his client. Campbell felt afraid suddenly that he was getting
out of his depth.
'Would you like a glass of wine?’ Alice enquired. 'I usually
have one about this time.’ She picked up the phone at her
side and pressed an extension key. 'It’ll be interesting to
see if anyone comes. Jesusita’s never around when I need
her.’
'You’re very kind. If I could make that a soda . . .’
'He’s bringing a friend up here for supper later. A special
friend he wants me to meet.’ She leaned forward suddenly
and then said in a low confidential voice, 'He told me he’s
madly in love with her.’
'I’m sorry . . . who are we talking about?’
'Who do you think? Eddie, of course.’
'Oh . . . okay.’ He nodded, trying not to look bemused.
'I believe he said her name was Laura.’
Campbell felt lost. 'You mean his wife, Laura . . . your
grand-daughter? '
'No, no, not her, stupid. I know her.’
'I haven’t been working for Mr Lister very long.’
“Then you don’t have a clue,’ she said, mysteriously, 'do
you?’

Not sure what to make of this, Campbell just kept nodding.
He felt his eye drawn uneasily to a silver-framed photograph
of the Listers on the mantel. A happy family group shot of
Ed and Laura with the children when they were young, it
looked as if it had been taken here in the grounds. There
were several photos of Sophie when she was older, almost a
little shrine to her on top of the writing desk. In one he found
striking, she was trying to hold her hair back off her face on
a windy day, laughing for or with whoever was behind the
camera.
'Such a beautiful child, don’t you think?’ Alice Fielding
said with an unreadable smile; she had caught the direction
of his gaze.
'I was about to say, ma’am, there’s a strong family resemblance.’
She waved away the compliment with an impatient gesture.
'Well, I guess that girl has awarded herself another night off.
She’s got a new boyfriend, Carlos, wouldn’t you know it. Her
head’s permanently in the clouds. But with a name like Jesusita
. . . isn’t it simply too divine?’
Campbell was uncertain if she meant it as a joke. 'Where
I live inYbor City near Tampa,’ he said solemnly, 'we have
a large Hispanic community – it’s quite a common name
there.’
'Why, I’m sure it is, Mr . . . now I’ve gone and forgotten
yours.’ She gave a merry tinkle of laughter. 'One forgets everything
at my age.’
'Campbell.’
'Campbell, would you mind going back to the kitchen and
fetching the wine? You’ll find what you need in the refrigerator.’
I
didn’t have tickets for the ballet. That was just something
I came up with on the spur of the moment because I wanted to see the girl again, whoever she was.
The problem took a little fixing and, yes, it helps to have
money (I didn’t think twice about blowing nearly two thousand
dollars on tickets I wasn’t even certain I could use), but
I put it down to luck that I was able to score a dress-circle
box for a sold-out performance at the last minute. It was
tempting to regard it as a favourable omen, as I waited for
her on the steps of Lincoln Center.
I’d arrived an hour early and hung about the front of the
esplanade, keeping an eye on the subway exit and drop-off
point for buses and taxis on Columbus Avenue. As dusk fell
and curtain time crept nearer, every five minutes or so I’d
walk back across the plaza, “joining the streams of people
converging on the Metropolitan Opera House – in case she’d
come from another direction.
Wandering up and down the grand marble peristyle trying to spot her in the crowd, I got caught up in the first-night
mood. I couldn’t help being affected by the growing buzz of
excitement. Then I’d go back to my original position on the
steps and anxiously watch the traffic, the long line of taillights
on Broadway.
Even if she did come, I told myself, and I was beginning to think it unlikely now, it would prove nothing.

The kitchen, neat and antiseptically clean, didn’t look as if
it saw much cooking action. At the far end there was a breakfast
bay flooded with evening light from floor-to-ceiling
windows. Campbell went over and stood looking out at the view, wondering if Mrs Fielding wasn’t perhaps as tightly wrapped as he’d first thought and if he could rely on anything she’d told him about Ed Lister. She had got it into her head that he was coming back any moment with her groceries, but more than likely he’d long since returned to the city.
There were long shadows now stretching over the terraced lawns that stepped down at the back of the property to a
wilderness area of wetlands and marshy reed-beds. On a
pale sand bar that ran out from under the cliffs into the
wide golden basin, he could see wading birds silhouetted
against the water. Set ablaze by the low sun, the Hudson
looked more like a lake or inland sea than a river. It was
hard to believe they were only thirty minutes from midtown
Manhattan.
He discovered where the glasses were kept and put them
out on a tray. Then he filled an ice bucket from the automatic
ice-dispenser. He decided he might as well wait an hour
and see whether Ed showed up. If the maid had gone out,
he wondered, who was going to fix supper for the old lady?
A word with Jesusita at some point might be useful.
It was only after he closed the refrigerator door, holding
a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand and a can of Diet Pepsi
for himself in the other, that Campbell noticed the fridge
magnets. They were the usual miniature suspects – bear with
a balloon, the Statue of Liberty, a classic Coca-Cola bottle,
watermelon slice, the Little Mermaid and so on. Maybe a
dozen in all. A few were holding memos, telephone numbers,
and one, a modest shopping list. What caught his eye was
the way the magnets were arranged. They’d been herded
together in the centre of the fridge door to form an elongated
heart shape or, seen from another angle, the Nike logo swoosh – a wing of the Greek goddess of victory.
It didn’t look like something Mrs Fielding would do. Campbell
wondered if Ed Lister could have been responsible for
creating the pattern. It felt like it was there for a reason, as
a reminder or a message perhaps. He remembered Ed telling
him about the body in the fridge in Florence . . . but he was
letting himself get carried away here. He decided the cluster
of magnets most resembled a heart and imagined a bored Jesusita daydreaming about her Carlos. He thought no more
about it as he carried the tray back to the conservatory.
'There you are at last, Eddie,’ Alice Fielding said. 'It was you who gave Jesusita the night off. I remember now.’
'It’s Campbell,’ he said.