Chapter Twenty-six
Lights blazed on the first floor of the red-brick mansion. Never too late for Aunt Mary. She met him at the door, hugging a purple velvet dressing gown around her frail body.
“I meant to call,” Spraggue said.
“I heard it on the news.” She led him into the library, slippers padding on the polished floor of the foyer. “Do you want food?”
Spraggue shook his head.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
She poured from a silver pot. The fragrant steam bathed his face. He sat down heavily on the green velvet sofa, leaned his head back against an embroidered cushion.
“The whole thing makes absolutely no sense to me,” Mary said angrily. “Why should that boy kill John Langford to get back at Arthur Darien? Why not kill Darien?”
“Exactly,” murmured Spraggue. Aunt Mary stared at him expectantly, but he said no more. Finally, she yawned.
“I’ve been waiting for Georgina, poor child. Are the police still grilling her?”
“She’s in jail.”
“That sweet child? That tiny little—”
“No strength required for this murder. A child could have switched the real knife with the trick one—”
“But shouldn’t that blond fellow, Hudson, have noticed? Shouldn’t it have felt different?”
“I couldn’t tell one from the other. But, believe me, the police are very interested in Gregory Hudson, slighted lover of Emma Healey, wielder of the fatal knife.”
“About Georgina. Did you—”
“I called Max Shaefer. He’s not sure he can get her sprung tonight. He’ll do his best.”
“He’d better.”
Spraggue inhaled coffee. “Has Karen Snow called?”
“No. No calls.”
“I gave her Shaefer’s number, too, but I doubt even Menlo would toss her in jail.”
“Menlo? Our Captain Menlo? Is he giving you trouble, Michael?”
“He can’t take my license away, can he?”
“True. Did you find out why Karen Snow lied?” She waited but Spraggue didn’t answer. “Are you awake, dear?” she asked after a while.
“Barely. Look, let me brood alone for a bit.” He saw his aunt’s disappointed face. “Thanks for the coffee. Thanks for everything. It’s just—”
“I know. I’ll go up to bed now.” She leaned down and rested her smooth cheek against his unshaven one. “I’m sure you did whatever you could, Michael.…” Something in his eyes warned her to stop there. She turned and left the room, closing the heavy oak-paneled doors without a sound.
He must have been asleep when the phone rang. He burrowed into a sofa pillow and tried to recapture his dream. Puzzle pieces, there were puzzle pieces in the dream … tiny fragments that persisted in changing color and shape, even as he held them, grasped them with all his strength.
He opened his eyes reluctantly. The phone.
Hurley.
“Look, Spraggue”—his voice was muffled, urgent—“I just monitored a call from a District 4 patrol car. An attempted break-in at the theater.”
“Attempted?”
“Amateur. Panicked when he heard the prowl car. The regular boys figure it was a kid, souvenir-hunting after the murder.”
“And you?”
“I just figure it’s interesting.”
“You sending a man out, Hurley?”
“Haven’t got anybody. Short shift. I can probably get somebody on it at seven.”
Spraggue checked his watch: five-fifteen. He couldn’t have slept more than fifteen minutes. “I’ll go, Hurley,” he said.
“You kidding? Menlo would have my head on a pike if he knew I was talking to you!”
“Is there a guard at the theater?”
“Nope. Menlo sealed it up tight and commandeered all the keys.”
“Thanks.”
“Wait a minute. What are you planning?”
“Try to see that nobody gets there until seven, okay?”
“You know how much say I have over Menlo—”
“Has he got Eddie yet?”
“No. But he’s got an all-points out on him.”
“How’s it worded?”
“Armed and dangerous. You know Menlo. Shoot first, talk later.”
“Hurley, see that the kid doesn’t get killed. Tone it down.”
“I’ll try to tag along when they take him—”
“Thanks.” Spraggue hung up and stared at the phone. Five-eighteen. Leave the house by five-thirty. Half an hour to the theater. Maybe twenty minutes.
What he wanted was a long, hot soak, a shave, a change of clothes, orange juice, bacon and eggs. He slapped cold water on his face, shoved a note to Mary under the jade bowl, and left the house.