Chapter Sixteen

Bodybuilding

“Whew, there goes a man with an axe to grind,” I said as Roger Phillimore headed back to the glass and steel building we’d just left. “We already knew that Trout’s not just a butler. Heather said he’s also her personal trainer and bodyguard.”

“Indeed,” Mac said. “However, sometimes axe grinders have a valid point. If there is a romantic relationship between Ms. O’Toole and this man Trout, it would certainly be an added incentive to want her husband out of the picture.”

“And she’s an American!” Lynda almost shouted it. “According to your theory, Mac, the killer must be an American, or somebody who spells like one. That would have been a very clever ploy for the killer to text herself a fake suicide note on Phillimore’s phone.”

What would Heather O’Toole look like in a prison uniform? Still great! I was conjuring up the image when Lynda added, “Next stop, Headley Hall?”

That was easier said than done. It took us a train and a cab to get there, with the cabbie muttering all the while about some of the major roads already being changed to one-way for the Olympics later in the summer. The rain was no help. That June turned out to be the wettest month in London since the dawn of weather records, and we kept getting caught in it.

Mac had decided not to phone ahead. “If forewarned is forearmed, as the cliché has it, I would prefer that Ms. O’Toole not be forearmed.”

A gaggle (herd? flock? pack?) of a half-dozen or so paparazzi, apparently having gotten the word that HO’T was in residence, were camped outside Headley Hall when we finally got there. They stirred en masse and ran our way when they saw us coming. But they relaxed and lowered their cameras when they realized we weren’t a bunch of Hollywood stars come to call on the Widow Phillimore. One astute fellow in blue jeans and long hair did give Lynda a second look just to be sure. Who can blame him? Anyway, we sailed past the paparazzi with a jaunty wave.

When Trout opened the door, I immediately thought that maybe Mac was on to something - and the younger Phillimore, too. Trout wasn’t dressed like any butler I’d ever seen. He was wearing blue gym shorts and a white sleeveless T-shirt showing off muscles that would give Rod Chance a run for his money. That reminded me that we’d seen Chance, HO’T’s first husband, coming out of this house. If we were looking for a romantic relationship, maybe we didn’t have to look at the hired help. Then again, Trout didn’t exactly look like hired help today.

He regarded us with puzzlement, as if something in his cupboard was out of place.

“Good afternoon, Trout!” Mac said. Jolly good to see you again, old bean. “You will not be saying ‘you’re expected’ this time, because we are not. I was hoping that Ms. O’Toole was home and willing to spare us a few moments.”

“I’ll see, sir. One moment.”

Instead of inviting us in, this time he let us stand outside in the drizzle. The temperature was about sixty degrees. Lynda nuzzled up against me under our umbrella. I’ve had worse waits.

After ten minutes or so, Trout opened the door again. “Ms. O’Toole will see you now.” His handsome face, impassive as ever, gave no clue as to whether he approved or not. “Follow me, please.”

I don’t know what the room to which Trout took us had been built for originally - game room? servants’ dining hall? - but now it was outfitted as a gym. When I say “outfitted,” I mean that it had all the bells and whistles of Nouveau Shape, where Lynda and I work out back home, and then some.

Heather O’Toole, clad in denim cut-offs and a gray and red Manchester United T-shirt, was running hard on a treadmill. Her black hair was gathered into a ponytail sticking out the back of a white Nike cap and bouncing along behind her. Behind the big lenses and dark frames of the glasses she was wearing, her eyes were their presumably natural brown, not violet. She was glistening with sweat, which detracted not one bit from her wholesome attractiveness. When she saw us, she slowed down to a stop.

“Now what?” she asked. She was either bemused or irritated by our return, but I couldn’t decide which. She was an actress, after all. I was determined to keep that in mind.

“First of all, we would like to express our genuine sympathy at the death of your husband,” Mac said. “As you know, Jefferson and I met him only once. Even in that short encounter his joie de vivre was quite apparent.”

Roger Phillimore had rejected Mac’s offer of sympathy, but not his young stepmother.

“Thanks.” She grabbed a towel and started wiping off the sweat. “You can go now, Bernie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Trout faded away.

“It’s been quite a shock, all of this,” Heather said. “First, the man disappears. Then, I find out that he was some kind of master swindler. Before I can even process that, he kills himself.” She sat down on a weight-lifting bench. “I’m trying to work out the tension. Besides, I’m due back on location in Barbados in three days and I’d better be in shape for the bikini scenes.”

Absolutely!

“I think you’ll be all right,” Lynda said dryly. If she felt overdressed in a white crepe dress under her khaki raincoat while the Hollywood beauty in front of her was wearing gym wear, she gave no hint of it. Au contraire, as Mac might say, she seemed quite pleased with herself as she pulled a reporter’s notebook out of her purse.

Mac, meanwhile, nodded sympathetically... before giving Heather O’Toole a verbal kick in the head. “When last we spoke, your references to your husband were quite negative. You even said if he were on an island somewhere you’d kill him.”

“Yeah, I know. I almost feel bad about that. I was really pissed at him. All the investors must be, but I had a lot more invested than anybody else. He was my husband, for crap’s sake.” Maybe she realized what that sounded like, given that his body was barely cold, because she added: “But I sure as hell didn’t want him to kill himself. I never imagined that he would.”

“Perhaps he did not.”

“What?” Her surprise seemed genuine.

“We have just left New Scotland Yard. Inspector Neville Heath is conducting what he expected to be a routine investigation into your husband’s apparent suicide. However, there are several inconsistencies surrounding Mr. Phillimore’s death that could point in another direction.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Heather said. “I mean, I’ve never known anybody who was murdered.”

“I did not say murder,” Mac pointed out. “Why would you assume that the alternative to suicide is murder and not accident?”

Heather stood up. “People don’t shoot themselves in the head by accident unless they’re playing Russian roulette. I don’t know whether James owned a gun, but if he did, I can’t see him playing with it. That’s not the kind of risk he took. When he gambled, he did it for big stakes with the odds on his side. And he only gambled in business.”

“He must have been interesting to live with,” Lynda said.

“You have no idea. He was dynamic, exciting.” Her eyes glistened. Of course, actresses know how to do that. “If you think I married an old man, you’re way wrong. I’m still mad at the bastard for what he did, but when I get over that I’m going to be damned sorry that he’s gone. We actually had a pretty good thing going. Don’t believe anything you might see on Access Hollywood.”

“Of course not,” Mac assured her. “A woman of your, er, stature is inevitably a gossip magnet. For example, someone suggested to us that you might be romantically involved with Mr. Trout.”

She laughed, the kind of laugh that in a movie is sometimes followed by a hearty slap. But she kept her hands to herself. “Bernie? That’s rich! I’m not his type.”

Mac raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, I’m a woman.” You could say that. “Bernie plays for the other team. He has no sexual interest in women. You’ve been talking to that sniveling Roger Phillimore, haven’t you? I knew it! I can see it in your faces. That twerp! He’s just jealous that his father took me away from him.”

Lynda fumbled her notebook, almost dropping it. “You mean you dated Roger before you married his father?”

“Yeah, for a few months. It wasn’t that serious. At least I wasn’t. I met him when his company bought the studio that made one of my early movies. It was one of those leveraged buyout things. He is handsome, I have to admit that, but dull as dishwater. Nothing like James. When Roger introduced me to his father there were sparks between us right away. Things just happened. I traded up.” Wow, family dinners must have been a little tense after that.

“Nice,” Lynda muttered.

“Roger’s been spreading gossip about me ever since,” Heather said. “He’s a sore loser, for starters. Plus, he wanted his father’s money, and he thought I was going to wind up with it. Hell, now I don’t even know if anything will be left after the smoke clears. I’m expecting massive lawsuits from James’s investors over that Ponzi stuff.”

“Undoubtedly the situation will be quite complex,” Mac said. “As heir to the estate, you - ”

“Actually, I don’t know whether I am or not,” Heather interrupted. “James never told me. Under the prenuptial agreement I signed, I wouldn’t get anything if we divorced within five years of our marriage. I’ve always assumed his will carried a similar provision, but I don’t know for sure. And I don’t think it matters now that his investors are likely to get whatever assets he had. If anybody benefitted from my husband’s death, it wasn’t me.”

“Suppose you were the detective,” I said. “Who would you put under the bright lights?”

“Roger,” she said without hesitation. “Or maybe his mother. They must have hated James for leaving her. Killing him might not have gotten them any money, but the psychological satisfaction would be off the charts.”