King of Murder

They pulled into the driveway of a large, two-story brick house with columns across the front. In the yard was a FOR SALE sign with the prominent name of the realtor on top.

Herculeah looked at the house. It had obviously been the home of people who were rich, but it was no mansion. Also, it did not have the look of a house where a murder would take place. However, it did resemble the house described in A Slash of Life.

Herculeah and Gilda got out of the car and crossed the well-kept lawn. Halfway to the steps, Gilda stumbled and stopped.

“Yes, it’s nothing. I just remember something that happened right here.”

“It must have been something unpleasant, because your face is pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said firmly, and continued up the walk and up the steps. Herculeah followed.

“I’m glad they’re keeping the place up,” Gilda said as she fished in her large purse for keys. “This house is very important to me.”

She hesitated as if entering the house was going to be very difficult. She took a deep breath.

Herculeah stepped into the entrance hall. She was still in a sort of daze from seeing Meat and his date. Usually she felt that a house of murder had a special aura. The temperature was colder somehow—a ghostly chill perhaps. Today, in her numbed state, the air seemed ordinary.

She did notice that the inside of the house was the same as the house in A Slash of Life.

She glanced to the right. The large Buddha sat in a crevice in the wall. Herculeah recognized that it was made of jade and probably very valuable.

“Oh, here’s the Buddha,” Herculeah said. “You mentioned it earlier in the car, and this morning, Uncle Neiman told me that you specifically mentioned the Buddha at the book signing.” Had it only been this morning? “It was in the book, and here it is in the house.”

“Yes.” Gilda stepped into the entrance hall and crossed to the Buddha. “Rebecca and I never left this house without rubbing our hands over Buddha’s belly for luck.”

She rested her hand on Buddha’s belly. She sighed and turned away. She paused in an arched doorway. “Here’s the parlor. We weren’t supposed to play in here, but it was the perfect place for hide-and-seek.”

“We don’t have to go in the library if that would upset you.”

Ever since they had entered the house, she had felt Gilda becoming more and more anxious.

“I want to see it.” She glanced at Herculeah with gratitude. “I could never do it without someone like you along for support. This is the last time I’m ever coming here, and it’s a way of closing the book, of saying good-bye.” She strengthened herself with a deep breath. “The library is this way.”

The library was large and lined with books. But they weren’t the kind of books that you read, Herculeah thought. They were rich-people books-leather-bound, with titles embossed in gold.

In the center of the room, facing the door, was a large, handsome desk. The divided front was carved with scenes of two famous people at their desks—Abraham Lincoln on the right, Shakespeare on the left.

Gilda interrupted Herculeah’s thoughts. “She died at that desk,” she said.

“Don’t go in any farther,” Herculeah advised. “You can say good-bye from here.”

But, as if she was sleepwalking, Gilda moved into the room. Her steps on the thick Oriental carpet were soundless. Herculeah followed.

“This was her father’s desk,” Gilda said, “but after his death, it became hers. She was a lot like her father. That’s his portrait behind the desk.”

Herculeah glanced up at the oil painting of a man trying to look genial but failing because of the straight line of his mouth. “Did she resemble her father?”

“Somewhat. Her father was good to my mother and me. My mom was the housekeeper here for many years. Mr. Carwell left my mother money in his will—a lot of money. That’s how I bought my apartment at Magnolia Downs.”

The top of the desk was empty of items, the dark wood polished to a sheen. “There used to be a leather-edged blotter here,” Gilda said, “a silver inkwell there, a silver box of cigars on the right. And, of course, the letter opener.”

“The police never found the murder weapon. Whoever killed her must have taken it with them. The only thing missing from the desktop was the letter opener. It was a long, thin stiletto that had come from Italy. It was very beautiful, and probably the murder weapon.”

Gilda didn’t answer. She went and stood behind the desk, beside the leather chair with the same carving as the desk. “She was sitting here, and her murderer was standing about where I’m standing. The murderer probably picked up—”

For a moment Herculeah was back at Hidden Treasures watching Mathias King wielding his invisible “lovely stiletto.” She remembered the way his long, thin fingers drew the blade in the air and then with a quick jab thrust it into a victim. Her hair frizzled. Her hair always frizzled to warn her something was about to happen.

“Gilda,” Herculeah said firmly, “maybe we should go home.”

Gilda glanced over at Herculeah. “You’re right.” Without glancing at the desk again, she crossed the room and into the hallway.

She paused at the Buddha. “I never left the house without rubbing Buddha’s belly.”

Gilda thought for a moment, and a cloud seemed to fall over her face. “Not that I remember.”

She glanced back at the door to the library. “A person would have to be insane to kill a lovely woman like Rebecca.”

Then with a final motion she rubbed her hand over Buddha’s belly. As Herculeah moved for the door, Gilda said, “You don’t need any luck?”

Herculeah smiled. She returned, rubbed Buddha’s belly, and then led the way out of the house.