The Mephisto Club (11 page)

FIFTEEN

Edwina Felway’s house was in the suburb of Newton. It sat at the edge of the snow-covered Braeburn Country Club, overlooking the east branch of Cheesecake Brook, which was now a gleaming ribbon of ice. Although it was certainly not the largest house on this road of grand residences, its charming eccentricities distinguished it from its more stately neighbors. Thick vines of wisteria had clambered up its stone walls and clung there like arthritic fingers, waiting for spring to warm their knobby joints and coax forth blooms. Framed by one of the gables, a large ocular of stained glass peered like a multicolored eye. Beneath the peaked slate roof, icicles sparkled like jagged teeth. In the front yard, sculptures reared ice-encrusted heads, as though emerging from snowbound hibernation: A winged fairy, still flash-frozen in mid-flight. A dragon, its fiery breath temporarily extinguished. A willowy maiden, the flower wreath on her head transformed by winter to a crown of snowdrops.

“What do you think?” asked Jane as she stared out the car window at the house. “Two million? Two and a half?”

“This neighborhood, right on the golf course? I’m guessing more like four,” said Barry Frost.

“For that weird old house?”

“I don’t think it’s all that old.”

“Well, someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look old.”

“Atmospheric. That’s what I’d call it.”

“Right. Home of the Seven Dwarfs.” Jane turned the car into the driveway and parked beside a van. As they stepped out, onto well-sanded cobblestones, Jane noticed the handicapped placard on the van’s dashboard. Peering through the rear window, she saw a wheelchair lift.

“Hello, there! Are you the detectives?” a booming voice called out. The woman who stood on the porch waving at them was obviously able-bodied.

“Mrs. Felway?” said Jane.

“Yes. And you must be Detective Rizzoli.”

“And my partner, Detective Frost.”

“Watch those cobblestones, they’re slippery. I try to keep the driveway sanded for visitors, but really, there’s no substitute for sensible shoes.”
Sensible
was a word that clearly applied to Edwina Felway’s wardrobe, Jane noted, as she climbed the steps to shake the woman’s hand. Edwina wore a baggy tweed jacket and wool trousers and rubber Wellingtons, the outfit of an English countrywoman, a role she certainly seemed to fulfill, from her accent right down to her green garden boots. Although she had to be sixty, she stood straight and sturdy as a tree, her handsome face ruddy in the cold, her shoulders as broad as a man’s. The gray hair, cut in a neat pageboy, was pinned back with tortoiseshell barrettes, fully exposing a face with prominent cheekbones and direct blue eyes. She had no need for makeup; she was striking enough without it.

“I’ve put the kettle on,” said Edwina, ushering them into the house. “In case you’d like some tea.” She shut the door, pulled off her boots, and shoved her stocking feet into worn slippers. From upstairs came the excited barking of dogs. Big dogs, by the sound of them. “Oh, I’ve shut them up in the bedroom. They’re not all that disciplined around strangers. And they’re quite intimidating.”

“Do you want us to take off our shoes?” asked Frost.

“Heavens, forget it. The dogs are in and out all the time anyway, tracking in sand. I can’t worry about the floor. Here, let me take your coats.”

As Jane pulled off her jacket, she could not help staring upward at the ceiling that arched overhead. The open rafters were like the beams of a medieval hall. The stained-glass ocular that she had noticed outside beamed in a circle of candy-colored light. Everywhere she looked, on every wall, she saw oddities. A niche with a wooden Madonna, decorated in gold leaf and multicolored glass. A Russian Orthodox triptych painted in jewel tones. Carved animal statues and Tibetan prayer shawls, and a row of medieval oaken pews. Against one wall was a Native American totem pole that thrust all the way to the two-story ceiling.

“Wow,” said Frost. “You’ve got a really interesting place here, ma’am.”

“My husband was an anthropologist. And a collector, until we ran out of space to put it all.” She pointed at the eagle’s head that glared down from the totem pole. “That thing was his favorite. There’s even more of this stuff in storage. It’s probably worth a fortune, but I’ve gotten attached to every hideous piece and I can’t bring myself to let any of it go.”

“And your husband is—”

“Dead.” She said it without hesitation. Just a fact of life. “He was quite a bit older than me. I’ve been a widow for years now. But we had a good fifteen years together.” She hung up their coats, and Jane caught a glimpse into the cluttered closet, saw an ebony walking stick topped by a human skull.
That monstrosity,
she thought,
I would’ve tossed out a long time ago.

Edwina shut the closet door and looked at them. “I’m sure you detectives have your hands full with this investigation. So we thought we’d make things easier for you.”

“Easier?” asked Jane.

The rising squeal of a teakettle made Edwina glance toward the hallway. “Let’s go sit in the kitchen,” she said, and led the way up the hall, her worn slippers whisking across the tired oak floor. “Anthony warned us you’d have a lot of questions, so we wrote out a complete timeline for you. Everything we remember from last evening.”

“Mr. Sansone discussed this with you?”

“He called last night, to tell me everything that happened after I left.”

“I’m sorry he did. It would have been better if you hadn’t talked to him about it.”

Edwina paused in the hallway. “Why? So we can approach this like blind men? If we want to be helpful to the police, we need to be sure of our facts.”

“I’d rather have independent statements from our witnesses.”

“Every member of our group is
quite
independent, believe me. We each maintain our own opinions. Anthony wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s why we work so well together.”

The scream of the teakettle abruptly cut off, and Edwina glanced toward the kitchen. “Oh, I guess he got it.”

He?
Who else was in the house?

Edwina scurried into the kitchen and said, “Here, let me do it.”

“It’s fine, Winnie, I’ve already filled the pot. You wanted Irish breakfast tea, right?”

The man sat in a wheelchair, his back turned to the visitors. Here was the owner of the van in the driveway. He pivoted his chair around to greet them, and Jane saw a thatch of limp brown hair and eyeglasses with thick tortoiseshell frames. The gray eyes that met her gaze were focused and curious. He looked young enough to be Edwina’s son—no older than his mid-twenties. But he sounded American, and there was no family resemblance between the robustly healthy Edwina and this pale young man.

“Let me introduce you,” said Edwina. “This is Detective Frost and Detective Rizzoli. And this is Oliver Stark.”

Jane frowned at the young man. “You were one of the dinner guests last night. At Sansone’s house.”

“Yes.” Oliver paused, reading her face. “Is that a problem?”

“We had hoped to talk to you separately.”

“They’re not happy we’ve already discussed the case amongst ourselves,” Edwina told him.

“Didn’t I predict they’d say that, Winnie?”

“But it’s so much more efficient this way, nailing down the details together. It saves everyone time.” Edwina crossed to the kitchen table and gathered up a huge mountain of newspapers, everything from the
Bangkok Post
to
The Irish Times.
She moved them to a countertop, then pulled out two chairs. “Come, everyone, sit down. I’ll go up and get the file.”

“File?” asked Jane.

“Of course we’ve already started a file. Anthony thought you’d want copies.” She strode out of the kitchen and they heard her thump solidly up the stairs.

“Like a mighty redwood, isn’t she?” said Oliver. “I never knew they grew them that big in England.” He wheeled his chair to the kitchen table and waved at them to join him. “I know it goes against everything you police believe in. Independent questioning of witnesses and all that. But this really is more efficient. Plus, we had a conference call with Gottfried this morning, so you’re getting three witness statements at once.”

“That would be Gottfried Baum?” asked Jane. “The fourth dinner guest?”

“Yes. He had to catch a flight back to Brussels last night, which is why he and Edwina left dinner early. We called him a few hours ago to compare notes. All our memories are pretty much in agreement.” He gave Jane a wan smile. “It may be one of the
only
times in history that we’re all in agreement about something.”

Jane sighed. “You know, Mr. Stark—”

“No one calls me that. I’m Ollie.”

Jane sat down so that her gaze was level with his. He met her look with one of mild amusement, and it irritated her. It said:
I’m smart and I know it. Certainly smarter than some policewoman.
It also irritated her that he was probably right; he
looked
like the stereotypical boy genius that you always dreaded sitting next to in math class. The kid who handed in his algebra exam while everyone else was still struggling with problem number one.

“We’re not trying to mess up your usual protocol,” said Oliver. “We just want to be helpful. And we can be, if we work together.”

Upstairs, the dogs were barking, claws tapping back and forth across the floor as Edwina shushed them, and a door thudded shut.

“You can help us by just answering our questions,” said Jane.

“I think you misunderstand.”

“What am I not getting?”

“How useful we can be to you. Our group.”

“Right. Mr. Sansone told me about your little crime-fighting club.”

“It’s a society, not a club.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Frost.

Oliver looked at him. “Gravity, Detective. We have members around the world. And we’re not amateurs.”

“Are you a law enforcement professional, Ollie?” asked Jane.

“Actually, I’m a mathematician. But my real interest is symbology.”

“Excuse me?”

“I interpret symbols. Their origins and their meanings, both apparent and hidden.”

“Uh-huh. And Mrs. Felway?”

“She’s an anthropologist. She just joined us. Came highly recommended from our London branch.”

“And Mr. Sansone? He’s certainly not law enforcement.”

“He might as well be.”

“He told us he’s a retired academic. A Boston College history professor. That doesn’t sound like a cop to me.”

Oliver laughed. “Anthony
would
underplay himself. That’s just like him.”

Edwina came back into the kitchen, carrying a file folder. “Just like whom, Ollie?”

“We’re talking about Anthony. The police think he’s just a retired college professor.”

“And that’s just the way he likes it.” Edwina sat down. “It doesn’t help to advertise.”

“What are we supposed to know about him, anyway?” asked Frost.

“Well, you know he’s quite wealthy,” said Edwina.

“That was pretty obvious.”

“I mean,
seriously
wealthy. That house on Beacon Hill, it’s nothing compared to his estate in Florence.”

“Or his house in London,” said Oliver.

“And we’re supposed to be impressed by that?” said Jane.

Edwina’s response was a cool stare. “Money alone seldom makes a man impressive. It’s what he does with it.” She placed the file folder on the table in front of Jane. “For you, Detective.”

Jane opened the folder to the first page. It was a neatly typed chronology of last night’s events, as recalled by three of the dinner guests, Edwina and Oliver and the mysterious Gottfried Baum.

(All times are approximate)

6:00: Edwina and Gottfried arrive

6:15: Oliver Stark arrives.

6:20: Joyce O’Donnell arrives.

6:40: First course served by Jeremy…

The entire menu was listed. Consommé followed by salmon aspic and a salad of baby lettuces. Beef tournedos with crisp potato cakes. A tasting of port to accompany slivers of Reblochon cheese. And finally, with coffee, a Sacher torte and thick cream.

At nine-thirty, Edwina and Gottfried departed together for Logan Airport, where Edwina dropped Gottfried off for his flight to Brussels.

At nine forty-five Oliver left Beacon Hill and drove straight home.

“And that’s what we remember of the timeline,” said Edwina. “We tried to be as accurate as possible.”

Right down to the consommé, thought Jane, scanning the chronology. There was nothing particularly helpful here; it repeated the same information that Sansone and his butler had already provided, but with the additional culinary details. The overall picture was the same: A winter’s night. Four guests arrive on Beacon Hill within twenty minutes of one another. They and their host share an elegant supper and sip wine while they discuss the crimes of the day, never realizing that, just outside, in the frigid garden behind their building, a woman was being murdered.

Some crime-fighting club. These amateurs are less than useless.

The next page in the folder was a sheet of stationery with only a single letter printed at the top: “M,” in a gothic font. And beneath it, the handwritten note: “Oliver, your analysis? A.S.” Anthony Sansone? Jane flipped to the next page and stared at a photograph that she immediately recognized: the symbols that had been drawn on Sansone’s garden door.

“This is from the crime scene last night,” said Jane. “How did you get this?”

“Anthony sent it over this morning. It’s one of the photos he took last night.”

“This isn’t meant for public distribution,” said Jane. “It’s evidence.”

“Very interesting evidence,” said Oliver. “You know the significance, don’t you? Of those symbols?”

“They’re satanic.”

“Oh, that’s the automatic answer. You see weird symbols at a crime scene and you just assume it’s the work of some nasty satanic cult. Everyone’s favorite villains.”

Frost said, “Do you think this is something else?”

“I’m not saying this
couldn’t
be a cult. Satanists do use the reverse cross as a symbol of the Antichrist. And that slaying on Christmas Eve, the one with the decapitation, there was that circle drawn on the floor around the victim’s head. And the burned candles. That certainly calls to mind a satanic ritual.”