When Bobby Mac and I were invited to a shindig – evening events were always shindigs when they occurred on King’s Road – we took special care to appear at our best. King’s Road runs along the crest of a hill. The backyards of the mansions overlooked woods and streams. Most of the homes, as was common in Adelaide, were unfenced. The swath of woods afforded privacy and a sense of country living.
I recalled one night when the publisher of The Gazette and his wife held a pig roast for the JayCees. Black-haired Bobby Mac was my handsome guy in a white jacket and black trousers. I felt twenty-four-carat in a sequin-spangled short red dress, sleeveless with a fringed skirt. We tangoed on the patio to loud applause.
The house I sought, a two-story Mediterranean-style, was next door to the scene of that long-ago festive evening. I’d visited this home several times as its owner was an avid gardener and president of the garden club. The house was U-shaped. The broad central portion faced the street. In back a wing extended on either side. The garden club often met in a sun-splashed room at the end of the east wing. The windows overlooked her verdant backyard with blooms almost year round. In the spring, her azaleas were legendary.
Tonight the front of the house appeared unchanged. Light on a post by the front porch revealed the same exterior, a cream stucco. The first-floor windows were dark. Light gleamed in several second-floor windows on the west side.
Fran gazed at this house as she shivered on the dock and again after she picked up Buddy to carry him across the lawn to the front steps of the modest ranch-style home.
The stately house appeared placid. Several cars were parked in a circular drive, a Mercedes, a Lexus, a Honda. Light glowed in a lamppost next to the separate garage set back to the west. There was no hint of drama or excitement. Yet Fran’s voice quivered when she spoke to Muff: I’m scared.
Fran told Jennifer she heard Buddy barking, found him tied to the railing of the steps. I remembered steps at the end of the garden that descended the wooded slope.
In an instant I stood next to a light stanchion at the head of the steps. I looked at the back of the house and felt an instant of disorientation. The garden was gone, replaced by a paved terrace between the east and west wings. Perhaps the pavement seemed even more shocking to me because the space was starkly illuminated by lights streaming from the ground-floor windows at the end of the east wing, harsh, bright, glaring light.
Jennifer mulishly claimed she and Buddy had been in her bedroom all evening, an obvious lie.
Fran knew Jennifer took the dog and set out apparently in pursuit of someone named Travis. Why did Jennifer tie the dog’s leash to the railing of steps leading down the hillside behind the mansion? Why did she abandon the dog?
Several second-story windows were golden oblongs behind drawn shades but, on the ground floor, light from three floor-to-ceiling uncurtained windows at the end of the east wing flooded the central portion of the terrace, leaving only the west wing in darkness. I drew close to the lighted windows and looked inside. In my garden-club days the room was cozy with chintz-covered furniture and a table for tea and several leather chairs facing the fireplace. Now the visible walls all held full bookshelves. Several clusters of chairs were flanked by small tables with reading lamps. A massive cream leather sofa faced the fireplace.
More light spilled out through the open door at the end of the wing.
I glanced at the opposite west wing. There was a dim glow behind the closed blinds of several windows. I remembered a matching door at the end of the west wing, but that door was in dark shadow now and not visible. I could see the back door to the central portion of the house and it was closed.
I gazed again at the open door at the end of the east wing. An open door on a cold November night was odd. The room appeared to be untenanted. Who would open a door on a cold November night and leave the room? And why? It was more than odd. That open door was sinister.
I crossed the terrace and stepped inside. I moved slowly, cautiously, passing the semicircle of chairs, each with a small reading table and lamp, and a large table. Arranged neatly on the surface of the table were several sketches. In the middle of the wall of bookshelves to my right was a door which, as I recalled, opened to a hallway that ran the length of the wing to the front of the house.
I approached the back of the cream leather sofa that faced the fireplace. A fire crackled. A log shifted and flames danced, but the room was cold. Likely the door to the terrace had been open quite a while. I shivered, grateful for the warmth of my sweater and snug blue jacket. A woman’s portrait hung above the fireplace. Perhaps she was in her fifties. She looked poised for action, confident, in charge. Observant brown eyes. Blonde hair in a short cut. Lips curved in a pleasant smile. Her navy silk dress was understated but elegant, a single strand of pearls lustrous. She looked ready to move, ready for what a day might bring. I liked her alert, questing expression. This was a woman who had been and seen and done. She would be at ease in a boardroom or at a baseball game. I thought the artist admired his subject, but was a little in awe of her.
The portrait made me think that her presence would always bring a burst of energy. Her arrival would change the tone of the room that now felt cold and inhospitable. The open door to the terrace and the silence made a gracious retreat somber.
I felt a ripple of unease, a burgeoning sense of wrongness about this house and the terrace and the woods below. Why did Jennifer abandon the dog? Why did she lie to Fran? Why did Fran tell Muff she was scared? My steps seemed loud on the parquet flooring. I drew nearer. My gaze was drawn to a portion of a cushion lying on the floor at the end of the sofa. Perhaps a visitor unknowingly brushed the cushion, tipping it to the floor.
I reached the back of the sofa and looked down.
A woman’s body sprawled on the cushions. Despite the crushed portion of the head and the welter of blood, I recognized the woman in the portrait.
I forced myself to walk around the end of the sofa.
Blood stained the cream leather upholstery, speckled the cushions, trickled to the floor. A poker lay on the parquet floor between the sofa and the fireplace. Flesh and bone and tendrils of blonde hair matted the pronged end. I bent and touched a limp hand, felt for a pulse. There was no pulse, would never again be a pulse.
The gentility of the surroundings was in dreadful contrast to that battered skull. I quickly stood, though haste would not matter to her. I had to sound an alarm. I gazed around the room. No telephone. I yearned for the days when a phone, usually black with a receiver sitting in a cradle, would likely be found. Surely somewhere in this huge house I could find a real phone.
A brisk knock sounded on the hall door. I whirled to look. The knob turned.
‘It’s locked.’ A man’s deep voice sounded surprised.
Another knock.
In an instant I was at the door. I popped the latch, moved out of the way.
Another knock. The door handle moved again and the door opened.
A tall, muscular young man with dark hair drawn back in a ponytail paused in the doorway. His eyes held the same wild look as a half-tamed horse that might bolt at any instant. Like Fran when she stood alone in her entryway, his expression was unguarded. His uneven features, deep-set dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, large mouth, appeared well controlled but one eyelid flickered once, twice, a third time. He shifted a well-wrapped flat square parcel from one big hand to the other.
A trim woman with short-cut gray hair remained in the hall. She radiated competence, command, certitude. She appeared pleasant, but the tilt of her jaw indicated firmness. I admired the bright pattern of large white flowers on her bronze tunic and her sleek black silk trousers, and bronze flats. Nice.
He gave her a polite nod. ‘Thanks for letting me in, Margaret.’
‘Certainly, Travis.’ The words were quite polite, but there was no warmth.
Travis. Another piece of the puzzle slotted in my mind. Jennifer claimed she went straight to her room to nurse a headache after Travis left.
Travis. Jennifer. Fran. The three of them were together this evening in the small house at the foot of the hill. Travis departed first. Jennifer then came to the top of the steps with the dog. Fran obviously was a guest at Travis and Jennifer’s house. Eventually she too went up the hill. Was she searching for Jennifer or for Travis?
Travis held out the package to show the woman who let him in the house. ‘Sylvia’s expecting me. We were talking on the phone tonight and I told her I had a great new painting for the festival and she asked me to bring it by.’ He stepped inside. ‘Hey Sylvia?’ His deep voice reverberated. ‘Hey, where are you?’
He looked to his left and stopped to stare at the open back door. ‘Hey Margaret, the door’s open.’
She stepped into the room, glanced at the open door, shrugged. ‘Perhaps Sylvia’s on the terrace.’
‘On a night like this?’ He strode to the door, looked outside. ‘Hey Sylvia.’
Silence.
He turned around, appearing irritated. ‘Well, I guess I’ll wait for her. I want her to see this painting. I guess I’ll put it on the table.’ He walked toward the ornately carved mahogany table, put down the parcel. He gave Margaret an exasperated look. ‘You know Sylvia. She won’t like it if I don’t stay. I guess I’ll hunker down by the fire, get warm.’
Margaret remained in the doorway. ‘May I bring you some coffee? Or a drink?’
He brightened. ‘That sounds good. Maybe some of that great hot chocolate you guys have.’ He was almost to the sofa. He came around the end, headed for the fireplace. He jolted to a stop, his face contorted in shock, his big body stiffening.
‘Oh my God.’
A siren squealed in the distance. Arms wrapped tightly across her front, Margaret stood in the two-story entrance hall at the open front door. Cold air swept inside. Margaret’s face was flat with shock. Travis, shoulders hunched, lurked at the far edge of the door, leaving Margaret in the commanding space, perhaps to emphasize that he was an accidental participant in a macabre situation. He moved restively, suddenly peered down at the flat parcel in his big hands. He must have retrieved the carefully wrapped package from the table in the library. Apparently not even the shock of murder made him careless about one of his paintings. His bristly black brows drew together. He took two steps to a side table, carefully placed the package there, returned to the open doorway. He pulled out his cell, spoke to Margaret. ‘My wife will wonder where I am.’ He tapped a text message, slid the phone in his pocket. Margaret made no comment, looked out at the driveway. A siren rose and fell, louder now.
Behind them twin stairways with elegant wrought-iron railings and banisters curved up on either side of the entrance hall to a broad landing with four potted palms looming over a mahogany railing. A fountain splashed midway between the front door to a huge archway. The room beyond was dark. To the right lights shone in a room beyond another archway.
I stepped out on the front porch. Soon the investigation would be in the capable hands of my old friend (and occasional adversary), Adelaide Chief of Police Sam Cobb and his assistant, Detective Sergeant Hal Price. If you ever watch old movies, snag a title starring Broderick Crawford. That’s Sam. Thick thatch of silver-streaked dark hair. Big blunt face. Broad shoulders. Stocky muscular body. I was eager to see him arrive, likely wearing his usual baggy brown suit, observant eyes quick to sum up, a man with an instinct, tough enough to hunt, kind enough to care for the innocent. Hal Price? A young Paul Newman.
The siren gave one last squeal as a patrol car jolted to a stop.
I knew the drill. The first responders corral witnesses, requiring silence until an officer has interviewed each one. Other officers would establish a perimeter. The body isn’t touched until the medical examiner completes his examination. Officers then record the scene, photographs, video, sketches, measurements, the careful bagging and tagging of physical evidence.
Two uniformed patrol officers climbed the steps to the porch, a middle-aged man with an impassive face and a lithe, ponytailed blonde. The blonde’s eyes widened as she looked through the open front door at the fountain in the middle of a marble floor and the fancy staircases leading to a landing.
Footsteps and voices sounded upstairs. A woman called out from the landing, ‘Is it an ambulance for Dad?’
Margaret looked up at the landing. ‘It’s not your father, Elise. I called the police.’
A man’s hard voice demanded. ‘What the hell for? There’s no excuse for a siren. That kind of shock is all he needs. I’ll handle this.’ A tall muscular man started down the stairs, assertive face tight with irritation.
Margaret held up a hand. ‘Please wait, Dwight. Something dreadful has happened. Someone killed Sylvia.’
A shrill cry from the dark-haired woman at the railing.
Margaret was clipped. ‘Everyone please gather in the living room. I have to take the police to the library now.’ Margaret gestured at the officers. ‘Come in.’ Her voice was shaky. ‘Someone hurt Sylvia. She’s dead.’
Travis spoke up. ‘Mrs Foster and I found her. I brought a painting to show her. We walked into the library and it was cold and we found her near the fireplace.’
‘Show us.’ The older officer was brusque.
Margaret said quickly, ‘This way,’ and she turned to lead them across the marble floor toward the east wing and the hallway to the library.
The dark-haired woman leaned over the railing of the landing. ‘Sylvia’s dead? In the library?’ Her voice rose in disbelief.
Margaret stopped, looked up. ‘Elise, we don’t know what happened. We found her. Now we have to help the police.’ She looked unsteady for a moment. ‘It’s awful. Dreadful. But I have to show them.’ She shuddered. ‘Wait in the living room. The police will help us.’ She moved forward.
Travis looked reluctant, then hurried to catch up.
I was puzzled by the arrival of only one patrol car. And then headlights sped into the drive. A green Honda slowed to a stop behind the patrol car. Not Sam’s car. The driver’s door opened, a head was visible.
Not Sam.
I scrambled for a name. I knew him, pudgy, thinning fair hair carefully draped over a bald spot, watery blue eyes. Howie. Howie Harris. Detective Harris had ingratiated himself with Adelaide’s overbearing buxom Mayor Neva Lumpkin. Seeing the last of Sam Cobb as police chief likely topped her wish list. Maybe second only to a double serving of iced cinnamon buns.
Howie rolled out of the Honda, cell phone in hand.
I was at his elbow, smelled mint aftershave.
‘You can count on me, Mayor. I’ve pared down everything while Sam’s been gone. Investigations are short and quick. Lean staff. I’ve cut down on overtime. I’m at the Chandler house on King’s Road. We got a nine-one-one call at eight forty-seven, first car arrived at eight fifty-one.’ His voice quivered. Crime on King’s Road meant Loch-Ness-size headlines in the Adelaide Gazette. ‘Reported homicide. Oh hold on, Mayor, got a text here from Shaffer. He and Woodson took the call.’ Howie peered at his phone. ‘Body in the library. ID’d as Sylvia Chandler, Arthur’s second wife. Shaffer says somebody bashed her with a poker. The back door to the terrace was open so it looks like an outside job. I’ll get around there and take over. We’ll use Maglites, check out the property, but right now it’s looking like somebody came in from outside. I’ll reassure the family that the murderer’s come and gone. I’ll tell the Chandlers the mayor’s on top of everything … Aw, thanks, Mayor.’
No pouter pigeon ever puffed a chest with more delight than Howie Harris as he basked in the mayor’s approval.
Another patrol car eased to a stop followed by a red Corvette. Two uniformed officers joined Howie. A tall, dark-haired man in a rugby sweater and Wranglers and boots climbed out of the Corvette. He moved with the grace and confidence of a halfback who would weave his way down any football field. I recognized Detective Don Smith, who often worked with calm and sensible Detective Judy Weitz.
Howie pointed at the patrolmen. ‘Get around back. Looks like Mrs Chandler was killed by an intruder. Check for footprints.’
Detective Smith loomed over Harris. ‘Acting Chief.’ There was nothing out of the way in Smith’s tone, but Harris stiffened. He drew himself up to his full five foot seven, snapped, ‘I’ll oversee the search behind the house.’ He jerked a thumb toward the front door. ‘Inform the residents that Sylvia Chandler was attacked in the library. Shaffer said somebody grabbed a poker from the fireplace and struck her, inflicting fatal injuries. The back door to the terrace was wide open so it looks like an outside job. Assure the residents that the investigation is underway and they will be kept informed.’
Smith gazed at him. ‘Has an officer sequestered the occupants? Prevented them from communica—’
‘Detective,’ the tone was supercilious, ‘this isn’t a corpse in a bar-room brawl. This is the Chandler house. Family members are to be treated with respect and shown every courtesy. By order of the mayor.’ The title was announced in a tone of reverence. After a pause, Howie said portentously: ‘You may introduce yourself as Acting Detective Sergeant.’
Police Chief Sam Cobb was absent. Was his lieutenant, Detective Sergeant Hal Price, also unavailable?
Smith shook his head. ‘Thanks, Howie, but I won’t cabbage on to Hal’s rank while he’s off with the National Guard. Detective suits me just fine.’ He turned toward the porch.
Howie called after him. ‘Remember, this is the Chandler house.’
‘Gotcha.’ Smith reached the broad front steps.
‘The mayor …’ Howie began, but Smith was already walking into the entrance hall. Howie glowered for an instant, then, perhaps recalling the mayor’s accolades, he smoothed a wisp of hair disarranged by the wind and gave a self-congratulatory nod.
Howie looked at a sidewalk to the left of the house. Rounded shoulders back, he hurried across the lawn. His exit was marred by a slight stumble over a gopher hole.
Detective Smith stood in the wide archway to a magnificent living area. Massive leather and carved wooden furniture didn’t look especially comfortable but certainly gave a flavor of medieval Spain. Gloomy tapestries featured long-faced Spanish saints, crusaders in chain mail, and sail-heavy galleons riding huge waves. Wall sconces provided spots of golden light. ‘I’m Detective Smith. I’ll be getting information from you to aid us in the investigation into the murder of Mrs Sylvia Chandler.’
The dark-haired woman who’d called out from the landing above the entrance hall was immediately on her feet, one long thin hand outstretched. A huge diamond glittered in an ornate swirl of gold on one thin finger. She pointed accusingly at Smith. ‘What is happening? Why haven’t we been informed?’ Her face had all the charm of a wax mannequin and likely was the product of several plastic surgeries, but her dress was gorgeous. Crepe-de-chine silk with a V-neck and wrap effect and swirly dipped hem. Rainbows arched gracefully against a caramel background.
She took two quick steps forward. ‘What happened to Sylvia? Who hurt her? Was she robbed? Her jade ring is worth thousands. Have you captured her attacker? Is it a transient?’
‘The house and grounds are being searched. A careful survey of the crime scene will begin as soon as the medical examiner completes his examination. We are in the initial stages of the investigation.’ He pulled a notebook from his pocket. ‘Right now I need particulars about every person present in the house.’
I tried in a sweeping glance to see the face of each person present. But if one of them was guilty of murder, he or she appeared as shocked as everyone present.
‘This is terrible.’ A slender blonde in her mid-forties shuddered. She looked athletic in blue warm-ups.
The hard-faced man who’d started down the stairs in response to the arrival of the police was now draped in an oversized leather chair, long legs outstretched. His cold brown eyes settled on the blonde for an instant, returned to the detective.
A stocky fair-haired man spoke thickly. ‘Like we’re in a precinct or something. Sirens.’ Plump fingers pushed back a straggle of sandy hair. ‘Damn. Sylvia dead. That’s cruddy. Really cruddy.’ He looked at the dark-haired woman. ‘Somebody will have to tell Dad. I guess it’s good he doesn’t seem to hear us. That would be a hell of a thing, telling him somebody killed Sylvia.’ He rubbed a flushed cheek. ‘I heard the sirens from my little spot in the dart room. I ran – guess I didn’t run – I wobbled upstairs to check on Dad. I thought something had happened to him, but he’s OK. I mean, at death’s door if you can call that OK. I yanked open the door. His door. Not … Anyway, Nursie shooed me away. Anyway, that’s why I just got down here.’ His worried frown was replaced by a sudden smile as he looked toward the archway. ‘Hey, Margaret, come on in. Damn, it’s good to see you. He’ – a plump hand waved toward Detective Smith – ‘said somebody killed Sylvia.’
Margaret and Travis stepped into the grand room. Margaret spoke in a bleak staccato. ‘We’ – she gestured at Travis – ‘found Sylvia’s body in the library and called nine-one-one. When the police arrived, we took them there.’ She spread her hands wide. ‘That’s all I know. It’s quite dreadful.’ She looked at Detective Smith. ‘I understand you will speak to everyone in the house. Except for Mr Chandler. He is quite ill. In fact, he is in a coma and not’ – a quick breath – ‘expected to live much longer.’ Her voice was steady but I saw pain and sorrow in her eyes.
The pudgy man spoke with great care, the words only slightly blurred. ‘Yeah. And we all thought Sylvia would outlive—’
Elise said sharply. ‘That’s enough, Stuart.’ Her glare was insistent, demanding.
He blinked. ‘Anyway, Paps is about to boogie off—’
The fine-featured blonde looked at him coldly. ‘Don’t call Father Paps.’ She jerked toward the detective. ‘Why are you talking to us? You should be out looking for the man who hurt Sylvia.’
Margaret said quickly, ‘They are looking, Crystal. There are searchers behind the house.’ She turned to Don. ‘What can we do to help?’
‘Please sit down, ma’am.’ He jerked his head at Travis. ‘Sir. I won’t hold everyone long but police reports require a list of every person in the vicinity of a crime scene.’ His tone was pleasant, matter-of-fact.
Margaret walked toward two high-backed wooden chairs. Travis slowly followed.
I looked at him with interest. This evening he’d left the small house at the bottom of the hill and was soon followed by Jennifer and Fran. Yet he arrived at the front door carrying a painting to show to Sylvia. I wanted very much to know if he’d first visited the terrace behind the house.
Margaret sank limply into the second chair, stared blankly forward, obviously distressed. Travis sat in the other chair, his angular face taut and wary, big hands balled into fists.
‘Hey,’ a trim middle-aged man leaned forward. ‘What happened to Sylvia?’ He was country-club perfect, from a crew-neck white sweater to a carefully trimmed blond mustache.
Smith spoke in an even tone. ‘Mrs Chandler’s body was found on a sofa in the library.’ He didn’t elaborate on the cause of death or possible weapon.
A frisson of horror rippled through the huge room.
The dumpy man with the flushed face blinked several times. He tugged at the throat of a baggy gray sweatshirt and with noticeable effort sat up straighter in an oversized red leather chair. His face creased in bemusement. ‘So what are the odds? Super-fit Sylvia dead.’ The tone was wondering, as if surely she could not be dead. ‘Why she was good to make it to ninety. And now Paps will—’
‘Stuart.’ The dark-haired woman looked grim. ‘Let’s keep to the point. We need to help the police, give them the information they need. And then we have to decide whether to tell Dad.’ She bit her lower lip. She swung to Detective Smith. ‘I suppose it must have been a burglar.’
Smith eyed her with interest. ‘Burglar?’
She rushed ahead. ‘I told her it wasn’t wise to leave the terrace door unlocked, but she always laughed and said she lived on King’s Road and the only intruders on our land were deer and raccoons.’
The blonde gazed at the detective with haunted blue eyes. ‘I’ll never feel safe here again. Sylvia loved the library. She read all the time. That’s where she spent most evenings. She liked books about dogs and lions and all kinds of animals.’ A hint of a smile. ‘She liked animals and oil rigs better than most people. And lots of business books. She knew everything about business.’
Detective Smith asked quietly, ‘Did she have any enemies?’
The tough-faced man lounging in the big chair raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Enemies might be a stretch. But she cut some sharp deals. Harley Ames sure didn’t like her.’
The dark-haired woman gave a dismissive wave. ‘Harley’s all bluster. Anyway, he’s in a wheelchair since that wreck. He didn’t sneak through the yard after Sylvia.’
Don was taking notes.
‘Carl Kelly threatened her after she fired him.’ Margaret’s face drew into a frown. ‘But the last I heard he was in El Paso.’
Smith spoke to her. ‘Tell me about Sylvia Chandler.’
Margaret made a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Personality.’
Margaret was silent for a moment then said with a tremulous smile. ‘If I sum her up in one word it would be forceful. Sylvia was a force, like a high wind or a big wave.’
Elise nodded and Stuart gave a thumbs-up.
‘When she walked in, a room brightened. She had a deep full laugh and when she laughed everyone smiled. She could be tough as nails – I’ve seen her negotiate – one minute a smile, another a steely gaze. She was energetic, willing to take on any job. She loved working, whether she was in a boardroom or on a well site or leading a meeting.’ Margaret seemed to take comfort from a rush of memories. ‘Arthur called me from Scottsdale, oh it must have been fifteen years ago, and told me he’d bought a condo and met an amazing woman, Sylvia Cramer, and he was having dinner with her that evening. They were a great match. He’d been lost ever since Ellen died and Sylvia was perfect for him, smart, hard working. The name of her realty company told you everything you needed to know about Sylvia, Yellow Brick Road Realty. I asked how she came up with the name and she gave that deep wonderful laugh and said, “Everyone wants to walk on the Yellow Brick Road.”’ Margaret’s smile faded. ‘That was fifteen years ago. And now …’ She broke off, pressed the back of a hand hard against her lips.
Stuart pushed up and a little unsteadily crossed the floor, patted her arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ Margaret murmured.
Stuart turned to the detective. ‘Maybe you could do what you need to do and get done. This has been upsetting for everyone.’
It was an Oklahoma male’s instinctive effort to shield his womenfolk, not because women are weak but because that’s what men do.
Smith spoke quickly, ‘May I have your names, please.’ He looked at each in turn, the dark-haired woman, the hard-faced man sprawled in his chair, the tipsy man in sweats, the brittle blonde, the man with the tidy blond mustache, the grieving older woman.
The dark-haired woman was brisk. ‘I’m Elise Douglas.’ She gestured at the big man sprawled in the chair near her. ‘My husband, Dwight.’
‘Stuart Chandler.’ A benign smile. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have stuck with Perrier. But I didn’t know so I have to admit Stu is stewed.’ He leaned forward, his tone confiding, ‘I wondered what the hell when I heard sirens. I was tossing darts at the target and tipping a glass in the club room. I thought, Oh God it’s Dad and went upstairs. And I’ve had too much to drink. And now …’ He trailed off.
Elise said quickly, ‘It’s all right, Stu. We’ll take care of everything.’
Smith nodded at her. ‘Do you all live here?’ The question was polite. He knew from his surroundings and Howie Harris’s orders that he was in tall cotton. For all he knew, the very rich congregated like a pride of peacocks.
Elise shook her head. ‘We’re family. My father, Arthur Chandler, is very ill and we’ve come …’ She stopped, swallowed.
Stu slumped back in his chair. ‘Oh yeah, address. I’m of no fixed abode. Right now I’m staying at the house on Grand Lake. We’re all here because Dad’s dying. And then to see how everything shakes out about the company. But Sylvia … I can’t wrap my head around her dying first.’
The big man slouched in the oversize chair took control. ‘The police aren’t interested in what we’re doing here. He needs our names for his report.’ He spoke to Don. ‘Let’s get this over with. My father-in-law Arthur Chandler is gravely ill and we are here as a family. Elise and I live in Dallas. My sister-in-law, Crystal Chandler Pace.’ He nodded at the sleek blonde watching with her eyes wide and strained. ‘Her husband Jason. They live in St Louis.’
Jason stroked his mustache, looked uncomfortable. His milieu was the club at cocktail hour.
Dwight gestured toward the older woman who sat quietly, her hands laced tightly together. Clearly her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Margaret Foster is Arthur and Sylvia’s longtime assistant. Margaret keeps everything running smoothly.’ He stared at Travis.
‘Travis Roberts.’ He talked fast. ‘I brought a new painting to show to Mrs Chandler. That’s why I came this evening. Then Margaret and I—’
‘Right.’ Smith cut him off.
Dwight had all the hallmarks of a chairman of the board as he continued briskly, ‘According to Margaret, she and the young man,’ a flicker at Travis, ‘found Sylvia’s body. Did someone break in? Have the police completed searching the house? Is there any danger to the family?’
Smith glanced at his phone. ‘The house, garage, and grounds have been searched and cleared. There is no one presently in the house other than Mr Chandler and his attendant and those present in this room.’
‘Oooh, that’s such a relief.’ Crystal gave a little whoosh of air.
Dwight stood, all six foot three of him. ‘Very well. We appreciate the excellent response by the authorities. This has been a great shock and we all need—’
Stu clapped his hands together. ‘A drink?’
‘Stuart!’ Crystal’s cry was appalled. ‘How could you?’
‘Come on, sis. A drink will help. Let’s fuzz the edges, make it easier to get to sleep. Instead of thinking about Sylvia and somebody sneaking inside the house.’
Elise swished from her chair, crossed to her brother, yanked at his arm.
Stuart struggled to his feet. ‘Oh hell. I didn’t mean anything bad. But I don’t want to think about Sylvia. Damn gruesome.’
Elise was firm. ‘It’s been a long evening. We are going upstairs now.’ She gripped his elbow, steered him toward the archway.
‘One moment.’ Smith’s tone was crisp. ‘Did you go to the library tonight, Mr Chandler?’
Elise shot the detective a shocked look. ‘Of course not. Stuart always wants to take the edge off unpleasantness.’
Don studied Stuart’s flushed face. ‘Mr Chandler, how did you know the death was gruesome?’
There was another instant of horror in the room.
Stuart pulled free of his sister, approached the detective. ‘Gruesome? Yeah, that’s what murder is. I saw somebody in an alley once. Been knifed. I kept thinking about Sylvia and how nice she always looked. Somebody hurt her, didn’t they? That’s gruesome, right?’
Don nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Chandler. Her death was gruesome.’
Elise was at her brother’s side. ‘Reaching for a drink is his way of dealing with something awful. And tonight is awful.’ She lifted her head, looked imperious, Elise Chandler Douglas of The Woodlands. ‘We will expect a report tomorrow on the status of the investigation.’ She gave Stuart’s arm another yank. ‘We are going upstairs.’
The blonde rose, too. ‘It’s all hideous. I don’t want to hear another word about it tonight. We can’t help Sylvia and the police will find out what happened.’
They were all standing now, moving toward the archway.
Detective Smith watched them go, his gaze intent. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
I was on the landing by a potted palm as they came up the stairs, Elise gripping her brother’s arm, her big husband close behind, the blonde and her trim husband. Lagging a few steps behind, Margaret used the banister as if she needed support to climb. Elise stared straight ahead. She no longer looked imperious. She looked hagridden and desperately frightened. Stuart was murmuring to himself, ‘In the nick of time, but that’s a crime. The nick of time.’ The blonde clutched at her throat. Her husband’s face wrinkled in a puzzled frown. Then he said sharply, ‘Damn stupid, Stuart. Shut up.’ Margaret tried to control a shudder, gripped the banister.