Murder in the Air (35 page)

Switching on a lamp, she surveyed the front room. Everything was topsy-turvy. The coffee table was overturned, a champagne bottle, several glasses, and a tray of food scattered on the floor in front of it. Near the front drapes, a crock containing a philodendron had fallen off a credenza and smashed to pieces on the rug. Pillows were tossed here and there. A standing lamp had been knocked on the floor.

“Buddy's not going to like this,” she muttered, edging her way through the mess into the bedroom. Perhaps there'd been a robbery. It had never happened before, but there was a first time for everything. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of red stains on the rug and the wall. “Oh … God, no,” she whispered. “Not… not again!”

It was blood, red, dark, and ominous.

Her mind raced. She tried to think, to calm herself, to make sense of it. What was going on? She was confused. She mashed the palms of her hands hard against her temples, remembering all too clearly. After a couple of seconds she swung her head around and looked again at the stains. They were still there.

“Bud … you can tell me. I'm your sister. If there's anyone you can trust in this world, it's me.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Was it Sally? Did you have to kill her again?”

She was almost too frightened to move. Last time, B.B. had gone along in the car when he'd taken the body and dumped it in that snowy field. Had Sally come back? No, that wasn't possible. But maybe … maybe this was
then.

She struggled for a context. Sometimes she lost track, got mixed up. As she tried to get her bearings her eyes were drawn to a dagger on the floor next to the bed. She leaned down and picked it up. It was sticky! She dropped it like a hot coal.

Bending over to look at it again, she realized it was familiar. “Isn't that one of my cigarette lighters?” she whispered, this time with more than a little indignation. “He took it! He just came in and took it from my collection without even asking me.”

Carrying it to the kitchen, she washed the blood off. She held it under the water for a long time, dousing it with soap and scrubbing it with a scouring pad. She knew it wouldn't do the lighter part of it any good, but she couldn't have that sticky goo wrecking the dagger's beautiful hilt. When she was finally convinced it was squeaky clean, she wiped it with a paper towel and pressed it into the pocket of her cape. “If you think you can get away with this, Buddy, you've got another think coming.” Her first act when she returned to the main house would be to put it back where it belonged. “You're going to get an earful when you get back,” she muttered. “I have
my
rules, too.”

Her indignation smoldered as she once again stepped through the mess in the living room. “It would serve you right if I just left everything the way it was.” After several seconds of angry reflection, she decided that getting back at her brother at this particular moment didn't make sense.

“Well, I'm not the maid,” she grumbled, her hands rising to her hips, “but I'll do a little picking up. Manderbachs don't like disorder.”

28

Shortly before two
A.M
., Bud pulled his Mercedes into his driveway, eased the car up to the garage doors, and then turned off the motor. He sat for a moment breathing in the peaceful night air.

It was finally over. For the first time in weeks he could allow
himself to relax. He'd pounded the final nail in Justin Bloom's coffin a few hours ago—or Wish Greveen's coffin. Bud was convinced now that they were one and the same person. Bloom had threatened him tonight, threatened everything he held dear. And yet in the end all he'd accomplished was to prove one simple point: Self-preservation was the strongest of all human motivations. It came as no particular shock to Bud, and yet the ruthless way he took care of business seemed to come from some part of himself he didn't recognize or remotely understand. Bud didn't consider himself a violent man, simply a man pushed to the wall. Perhaps, in the end, that was the most dangerous kind of man to be.

As he sat enjoying the beauty of the winter night, his attention was drawn to the alley. Through the bare trees in his neighbor's backyard he noticed flashing lights. For a second he thought it was a snowplow. The alley was in terrible shape from several recent snows. He'd called the city to complain about it just last week. But as the vehicle came closer Bud could see that it was a squad car. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “Now what?”

He stayed in his car and waited. The cruiser slowed to a crawl next to the cottage, but didn't stop. He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the red taillights pull onto the side street and disappear into the darkness. The police were probably just out checking the neighborhoods. Christmas eve was a notoriously bad night for family fights, even on Summit Avenue. Remembering his sister, Bud glanced up at the main house and was surprised to see a light on in her bedroom. Frustration rose in his chest. What if she'd been waiting up for him? God, how was he going to explain where he'd been?

“I wish she'd get a life,” he muttered, getting out of the front seat. He started for the house. Halfway up the walk, the same flashing lights assaulted him once again. This time they came from his own driveway. The police had pulled in behind his Mercedes.

A burly officer got out of the passenger door. “Just getting home?” he asked pleasantly.

Bud turned to face the man, feeling his heart begin to race. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I guess that means you live here.”

“Why yes, I do. Is there a problem?”

The officer stepped around a mound of snow and approached. “I'm Officer Maki. We got a call at our precinct about half an hour ago. A woman reported hearing shouts and screams coming from your gatehouse shortly before midnight. Her husband didn't want her to report it, so she waited until he fell asleep and then called us. You know anything about that?”

Bud shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“Have you spent any time out there tonight?”

“Yes. But I left around eleven.”

“Were you alone?”

“When Heft, yes. Earlier, I had some … friends over for a small party.”

“Did it get loud, sir?”

“Of course not.”

“Then, you got any idea what this woman was talking about?”

He shook his head. “Maybe she meant some other house.”

“No, she was specific. Even gave us the address. Seven-fifty-one Summit Avenue.” Officer Maki looked toward the cottage. “You mind if we look around?”

Bud saw no reason to object. “Sure, go ahead. Do you need me?” He noticed his sister waving at him from the kitchen window.

“Yes, sir, that would probably be a good idea.”

B.B. seemed so insistent that Bud hesitated. “Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to speak with my sister first.”

“We'll meet you down by the gatehouse.” Maki motioned for the officer inside the car to accompany him.

Bud climbed up the back steps. B.B. was waiting for him at the door, looking typically horrific. Before bed every night, she wound her hair around pink foam curlers and then covered her head with a tight black hair net. The net always left ugly indentations in her skin when she took it off the next day. And her bathrobe was huge, plaid, and bulky, and
never quite covered her abundant cleavage. The last thing she took off every night was her makeup. Tonight, it looked thicker than usual, like she'd just applied a fresh coat.

“Come in,” she said breathlessly, grabbing him by the sleeve and yanking him into the back hall. She smelled heavily of perfume. White Diamonds, if he wasn't mistaken.

“What is it?” he demanded. She was holding on to his wrist so tightly that his fingers were beginning to throb.

“Is Sally … you know—” She raised a heavy, dark eyebrow. “All taken care of?”

“Sally? What are you talking about?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Everything's under control. Don't worry.”

“B.B., you're not making any sense.”

“What do the police want?”

“Some woman called and said she heard screams coming from the cook's cottage.”

B.B.'s face puckered. “That's not good.”

“It's ridiculous is what it is. Why are you still up?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Oh, B.B., what have I told you a thousand times. Go to bed.” He gave her a hard look, then relented when he saw the hurt on her puffy face. She was
so
frustrating sometimes, but also terribly fragile. He couldn't help but love her. Who else cared enough about him to stay up and wait until he returned home? “It's freezing cold out here in the back hall. Go make us each a Scotch and soda and I'll be in in a minute.”

Her frown turned to a smile. She gave him a conspiratorial wink, and then lumbered off into the kitchen, closing the interior door behind her.

Bud flipped his coat collar up around his neck and walked out to the cottage. The officers were shining their flashlights around the base of the building, looking in bushes, examining the windows. “Find anything?” he asked, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

Officer Maki shook his head. “Everything looks okay.
Say—” He sniffed the air surrounding Bud. “Have you been handling gasoline tonight?”

“Oh … well, when I was driving around, I saw that the gas tank in my car was low. I'm always worried about gas-line freeze in this cold. So, since I keep a gas can in my trunk in the winter, I dumped it into my tank. I probably got some on my clothes.” He was explaining too much, but he didn't know how else to get out of it.

“Probably,” agreed the officer. He looked Bud up and down. “That was lucky.”

“What?”

“You having that gas in your trunk.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Hey, Mike, over here,” called the other officer. He was crouching next to the front door.

Maki hurried over. “What have you got?”

“It looks like blood. Just a couple of drops. But we better check it out.”

“Blood?” repeated Bud.

“Sir,” said Maki, “we need to get into your house. The easiest way would be for you to unlock the door.”

Bud glanced toward the main house, where his sister was watching from the kitchen window. What had she meant by everything's under control?

“Sir?”

“Urn?”

“The door?”

“Oh, right.” He felt for his keys. “I don't know what you expect to find.”

Neither of the officers responded.

Once inside, Bud turned on a light. The scene that met his eyes shocked him into silence. Although the living room was reasonably neat, most of the furniture had been moved. Everything was askew. Knickknacks were jumbled together in clumps on the tabletops, or lined up in odd little rows on the bookshelves. In the middle of the coffee table sat a philo-dendron, its roots bare of soil, drooping over the edge of a
glass pitcher. As the officers began their search, Bud's eyes were drawn to a broken pot on the floor near the front windows. Potting soil had been kicked under one of the drapes, but some of it was still embedded in the rug. “What the hell?” he said under his breath.

“Sir, would you come in here?” called one of the officers. He was standing just inside the French doors.

Bud hurried into the bedroom.

Maki had pulled back the bedspread, revealing a stained pillow. “We found blood on the carpet and the wall, so we took a look around. Can you explain this?”

Bud stared at the marks. None of them was large, but they were all clearly visible. As he bent over to touch one, Officer Maki said, “Don't do that, sir.”

Bud retracted his hand. “I have no idea how this got here.”

“There was no blood in the bedroom when you left earlier this evening?”

“Of course not.”

“Where did you go, sir?”

“What?”

“You said you left around eleven and didn't get home until a few minutes ago. Where did you go?”

“Well, I—” He looked from face to face. “I went for a drive. I … you see—” He took a deep breath. “It's been a rough week for me at work. I own Manderbach's department store—I'm sure you've heard of it. Anyway, after my … friends left around eleven, I needed to clear my head.” He knew his explanation sounded suspicious, but what could he do? He couldn't tell them the truth.

“On Christmas eve?”

Now he was getting angry. “What difference does it make what night it was?”

“About your friends. Did you part… on friendly terms?”

“Certainly.” Bud was beginning to sweat. He hoped they couldn't read his nervousness.

Maki glanced at the other officer. “We better get a detective out here—and a crime-scene unit.”

Bud's head was spinning. What was going on?

The first officer left the cottage. Through the open drapes Bud could see him trot back out to the squad car. But wait. The drapes hadn't been open when he'd left the cottage earlier in the evening. Who'd opened them?

“If you'll just have a seat in the living room,” said Officer Maki, “someone will arrive in a few minutes to question you further.”

“But I've done nothing wrong!”

“I understand that. But something happened here. Please, sir, just sit down.”

Feeling angry and dazed, Bud sank down onto the living-room couch. He needed a drink. A stiff one. And some answers. A few minutes ago he'd been on top of the world, positive that his problems were over. Now, it seemed, Christmas eve had blessed him once again—with a new disaster.