Too Many Murders (17 page)

“A fair amount on the Denbighs, who are into good causes. Mrs. Dr. Denbigh is a literacy nut. The Dean was into anything about the Renaissance. They both supported children’s disease charities. Mrs. Dr. Denbigh is also a women’s libber, big time. Desmond Skeps got a lot of press, we expected that. We noted articles that mentioned him and photocopied the ones that featured him. There wasn’t a lot about the divorce, a bit strange.”

“Well, it was out of state, and Cornucopia would have tried to play it down.” Carmine smiled at Corey, who had given the report, but made sure to include Abe—that lieutenancy was a pain, and when he’d tried to get off the panel, Silvestri said he stayed on it.

“Where are we going?” Abe asked as they headed up South Green Street toward Maple.

“The Cleveland Hotel, where we have to meet the Pughs. They’re here to identify the body, but they don’t intend to go home until they can take the body home too. Their lawyer is with them.”

“Trouble, Carmine?”

“I don’t think so. Danny Marciano took the call, and he says they sounded like decent people.”

The Pughs had been placed in a suite on the floor below the top, overlooking the red stone outcrop of North Rock. With the trees just coming into leaf, the forest that spread around Holloman looked as
if a wispy, translucent chartreuse veil had been thrown over it, but Carmine knew that David and Enid Pugh would not notice.

They were in their mid-forties, tanned and fit, dressed in the bright colors that betrayed the climate they lived in, and they were far handsomer than their son. If ever there was evidence for a changeling, it was in the form of Evan Pugh, so conceited, self-absorbed and amoral. The Pugh parents were none of those things, five minutes in their company showed that, and the lawyer was there only to help them with any legal formalities they might encounter. Their grief was private, enclosed, yet unmistakable. How had they produced Evan? They insisted upon being told the entire story of his murder, a painful business for Carmine, who hated to shatter their illusions.

But, “Yes, he would do that,” said Mrs. Pugh sadly. “Evan liked to pull the wings off butterflies. We tried every remedy known to man, Captain Delmonico, but none of us could do a thing to humanize him. The psychiatrists called him a psychopath and said there was no treatment. Davy and I just hoped and prayed that when he became a grown man, he would humanize himself. He was so brilliant! A perfect SAT score … When he chose Chubb, we had to let him go—we wanted him somewhere closer, but he was set on Chubb. The best pre-med and medical school. Medicine was the only choice as far as he was concerned.” She sighed. “Davy and I have been waiting for something like this to happen for a long time.”

“I am so very sorry, Mrs. Pugh, Mr. Pugh,” Carmine said.

He didn’t speak again until he and his sergeants were safely in the elevator. “I suppose some of them have to have model parents.”

“The Pughs are my first,” said Corey.

“And mine,” said Abe.

So when they encountered Myron escorting Erica Davenport through the Cleveland’s foyer, Carmine felt caught. Dr. Davenport was wearing a purple suit today that turned her eyes violet and, he was amused to note, shoes with lower heels; Myron wasn’t tall. Wait
until she meets Desdemona! he thought, nodding to his team to go ahead.

“How is Sophia?” was the first thing Myron said.

“Desdemona seems to think that if you take her to lunch—solo—and buy her the peridots she’s been hankering for, you stand a chance of getting back in her good books,” said Carmine.

“It will be done tomorrow, since school’s out.”

“That’s another thing, Myron. In spite of what you said to her about Erica, Sophia got it into her head that you were really coming to entertain her while I worked a heavy case. She adores her baby brother, but he takes up most of Desdemona’s time.”

Myron groaned. “Oh, Carmine, I’m really, really sorry!”

“Tell her, not me.”

“I’ll buy her diamonds!”

“You will not! Desdemona says the peridots are suitable for a sixteen-year-old, and I trust her judgment a hundred percent.”

He nodded again to Erica Davenport, who hadn’t said a word, then followed Abe and Corey out.

“Who is Desdemona?” came her light, crisp voice.

Whatever Myron answered was lost, but Carmine had a fair idea that he would laugh, look mysterious, and tell her to wait and see.

“They’re all talking about her and Myron,” said Abe.

“No wonder she’s wearing diamonds,” said Corey.

Yes, no wonder, thought Carmine. How long has Myron known her, and how can we continue to be friends when I detest the woman? She’s a harpy, feasting on living men.

The rest of the day passed fruitlessly, so when Friday dawned bright and clear, Carmine breathed a sigh of relief. He needed a break from routine. Driving himself, he headed out on I-95 for Cape Cod, a difficult destination because of the huge bites some geophysical monster had taken out of the coastline, Buzzard’s Bay being the biggest. Whichever way he went, it was a long way, so while he was in Connecticut
he put his light on the Fairlane’s roof and used his siren to barrel along at well over the speed limit of 70 mph.

Orleans occupied the first part of the Cape’s forearm after Chatham’s elbow, and was commonly held to be the prettiest of many very pretty villages, though at this time of year most of the compounds and cottages would be untenanted. The Cape was a summer resort. Its houses were usually made of cedar boards and shingles left unpainted for the sea to weather them silver, and in July were festooned in pink or white rambling roses. The arm-shaped peninsula, bent like a man displaying his biceps, hugged the placid waters of Cape Cod Bay, glassy smooth in summer, while its outer edge saw the full force of the Atlantic, on the forearm a spume-soaked mass of wave-pounded sand dunes.

Carmine loved the Cape, and if he had an unfulfilled wish, it was to own a summer cottage anywhere on Cape Cod between Hyannis and Provincetown, the first place the Pilgrims made landfall.

Philomena Skeps’s residence was at the end of a lane whose post-and-rail fences would be smothered in rambling roses by July. It was a traditional Cape Cod colonial in silvered cedar, with its share of rose trellises and enough land to say that the property was extremely valuable. It went down to the placid water of the sheltered side and had its own jetty and boathouse; someone liked messing around in boats. On the side wall of the house toward the front was a fuel oil outlet that said the tenant lived here all year round. Gazing about in delight, Carmine trod up the crunchy pebbled path to the front door.

Mrs. Skeps answered it herself. Hers was a dusky beauty, of thick black hair that curled, dark skin, black brows and lashes, dark green eyes.

“Come in, Captain,” she said, leading him down a long hall to the back of the house, where an English-style conservatory had been added, all glass joined by graceful Art Nouveau iron struts painted white. It was stuffed with plants, some of them touching the transparent roof, but space enough had been left for a white-painted table
and chairs and, in a different spot, two small white-padded settees. The pots, he noticed, were all painted white; Mrs. Skeps was a perfectionist. Green shall be the color of the room’s glory, white shall all else be.

She had provided him with pastries. As he hadn’t stopped on the road for breakfast, he made short work of the dainty goodies along with several cups (no mugs!) of coffee. Only when he was done did he lead the conversation away from pleasantries.

“You never remarried, did you?” he asked.

“No. Desmond was my only love,” she said, giving Skeps his full name as if she never did otherwise. Then she dropped her bombshell, voice tranquil. “We were reconciling.”

His startled eyes rested on her face, which remained smooth and impassive. “You were? After so long?”

“Yes, for young Desmond’s sake. I contacted Desmond over four months ago, and we’ve been having a series of discussions ever since. There is another woman, you know.”

“If there is, Mrs. Skeps, we haven’t found a trace of her.”

“It’s Erica Davenport, of course.”

“She denied it emphatically, ma’am.”

“Naturally! It wasn’t a great love affair, to be sure. On either side. Nevertheless, Captain, that Desmond should dispense with her services was one of my conditions.”

“And did he dispense with her services?”

“Yes, shortly after I first contacted him.”

“Did he give her a farewell gift of diamond earrings and a diamond pendant?” Carmine asked, curious. Well, according to the selfsame Erica Davenport, curiosity
was
his besetting sin.

Mrs. Skeps laughed, genuinely amused. “Who, Desmond? No! He may be one of America’s richest men, but he’s a miser.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, dear, it’s so hard to speak—or think!—of Desmond in the past tense. No, what Desmond gave Erica was infinitely more valuable than diamonds, though it cost him nothing.”

“A seat on the Board, among other things.”

“Quite so. I didn’t mind her at all. While she was with Desmond, he didn’t plague me.”

“You’re well educated.”

“Yes, mostly from reading.”

“The sheepskin’s fine, but it’s the extracurricular reading that really educates. But why, Mrs. Skeps, did you make your overtures of reconciliation? Your husband’s jealousy ruined your marriage.”

“I told you, because of young Desmond.”

“Isn’t he better off without the horrors his father used to put you through? I’ve had to read all the divorce material, so I know.”

“I made him give me his word that he’d never repeat that kind of conduct,” said Mrs. Skeps. “His word was sacred to Desmond. You see, young Desmond is moving into his teens, and a boy of that age needs a father, no matter how inadequate. I would die for my child, Captain! I also believe that, having given his word, Desmond would have kept it.”

“And now all your plans have collapsed.”

“Yes, but at least I tried, and young Desmond knows that I tried. With his father gone, my own brothers can step in—they didn’t dare while Desmond was alive. He threatened them with hired killers, and he meant the threat. He said anyone could buy a killer if they knew where to go.”

I wonder, who else knows where to buy a hired killer? Dr. Erica Davenport, maybe? Philip Smith? Frederick Collins? Gus Purvey, even if I do like the man? Carmine thought. Aloud he asked, “How is your son?”

“Recovering slowly. He had such a terrible bout of what I’d always dismissed as a benign children’s complaint—chicken pox. He had the sores right down inside his throat—everywhere! The worst is that he’s going to have to repeat his school year.”

“Not if you hire coaches and he goes to summer school,” said Carmine, whose own health had always been rude.

“Only if he feels up to it,” Philomena said, tone steely.

Uh-oh! An overprotective mom! Carmine changed the subject. “Tell me about Erica Davenport, Mrs. Skeps.”

“I detest her as a person, but she deserved her seat on the Board, which is more than I can say for those other slugs. Oh, not Wally Grierson! That man’s a treasure. When old Walter Symonds headed the legal division, it was pathetic. Cornucopia was forever making contractual errors and settling out of court for big sums on damage lawsuits. But after Erica took control, all that gradually stopped. Desmond adored her because she saved the company so much money.”

At that moment someone shouted from the front regions of the house, answered by the hoarse, light voice of a boy. Quick talk passed, but when the newcomer entered, Desmond Skeps III was not with him. The fellow might have passed for Carmine’s brother, cast in the same muscularly tall mold, with the same olive skin, broad facial bones, and extremely intelligent eyes; the differences lay in the hair, his worn fashionably long, and the color of the eyes—in his case, dark brown. He wore bell-bottomed jeans, a white sweater and denim jacket, but contrived to make the clothes look formal, and with him he brought an air of ownership that wasn’t lost on Carmine.

“Tony Bera,” he said, extending his hand.

“Carmine Delmonico.”

“You all right, Philomena?” Bera asked Mrs. Skeps.

“Perfectly, thank you.” She turned to Carmine. “Tony seems to think the whole world is out to get me.”

“Don’t decry a good watchdog, Mrs. Skeps. I wouldn’t be visiting you if there weren’t a murderer on the loose. Not that I think you’re in danger—I don’t. Just the same, I’m happy to see Mr. Bera. Do you live hereabouts, sir?”

“Yes, just down the lane.”

“Good. According to Desmond Skeps’s will, Desmond Skeps the Third inherits everything. I was supposed to get a full copy of the document, but so far it hasn’t materialized. Dr. Davenport called
Captain Marciano and said your son was the full heir, but gave no further details. Maybe you can fill me in, Mr. Bera?”

“I wish I could,” the lawyer said, frowning, “but so far, we haven’t even heard that much.”

“I thought there had to be a reading, especially in the presence of the heir,” Carmine said.

“Not necessarily. It all depends what the will itself directs be done. Mr. Skeps’s lawyers in New York City will have known the contents. If young Desmond is the heir, I’m entitled to see the will in its entirety because I act for his mother, and therefore for him.”

“Is that ironclad, sir?”

“Well, no, but she’ll be his guardian!”

“Yes, of course.” He looked at Philomena Skeps. “There are still a few things I need to know, ma’am. Can you give me an actual date for your first overture to your ex-husband about the possibility of reconciliation?”

“We talked about it on the phone on the Monday of the third week of last November.”

“And when did Mr. Skeps hand Dr. Davenport her marching orders?”

“Very soon afterward. That same week, certainly.”

So Erica Davenport had known of the reconciliation for four months, give or take a few days. Not much reason for murder now. A woman scorned with murder in mind wouldn’t have waited this long. It looked more as if, the Skeps fish having slipped her hook, she baited it again and caught Myron. The diamonds were a gift from Myron, the most generous of men. Given that they totaled about eight carats, the price tag must have been somewhere between a quarter and a half million dollars. No chunks of Coke bottle for Myron Mendel Mandelbaum! And he was
serious
. The last time he threw gems like that around was for Sophia’s mom.