“INS?” Cecil made a face after the introductions were made. “Emily mentioned you were here. But isn’t that about immigration? What’s your business in the death of my wife? She was an American citizen, you know.”

Lo patted the air between them, calming him. “I’m very sorry about your wife,” he said and pulled a straight-backed chair up next to Dolly. “It’s just that I’m investigating the death of a Mexican national. She was killed up here recently. The only name we’ve come up with in connection to that killing is a name that Emily, here,” he nodded toward me, “thought she heard your wife call a man who was standing at your front door.”

Cecil shook his head. “Oh, that. Yes, Emily mentioned it. Ridiculous. I didn’t recognize the name, didn’t know who she was talking about …”

Dolly spoke up. “Emily saw him here tonight. He got out before I could get my hands on him.”

“You saw this man, Emily? At my party?” The question from Cecil had disappointment buried at its heart.

I nodded.

“In the middle of everything going on here? With all my guests in costume? And you still think it was the man you saw once before, on my front porch? Maybe a salesman? Maybe some down-and-outer needing a job?”

“I’m pretty sure it was the man Lila called ‘Toomey.’”

“And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Besides that, can you tell me just what’s going on? I thought you worked for me. I didn’t know I was harboring a spy at my bosom. And, on top of everything, you bring your friend, a policewoman, to my party. Really, Emily.” He clucked his tongue at me. “I’m disappointed, though I suppose you did what you thought you had to do.”

Jeffrey jumped in. “Sorry to bother you with this right now,” he said to Cecil, “but this means there could be a connection between the two murders.”

“So far-fetched.” Cecil shook his head at me.

I tried to look truly sorry, but wasn’t. Murder was murder.

“Could this Toomey have come to call on your wife?” Jeffrey asked.

“Many come.” Cecil wiped hard at his eyes. He deflated in front of me. “She is … was a very social woman, as Emily well knows.”

“Would you have any idea why a man named Toomey, who Emily said looked like a worker here on the farm, would be calling on her?”

Cecil shook his head.

“Maybe a family member …”

“She has no family.”

“Do you know all the men who work for you?”

“No. Just the ones who report to me.”

“No one named Toomey.”

“Not that I recall.”

“Could I nose around the farm? With your permission, of course. I’d like to talk to the guys who take care of your sheep. Maybe they’d know …”

Cecil sat up straight. His body was stiff. The smell he gave off now was oddly not of his thick cologne but a mixture of dying flowers and sweat. His hands gripped then ungripped the chair arms. For a moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them they flamed with annoyance.

“This is outrageous!” He threw one hand into the air, waking Freddy, who got up and ambled out of the room. “I lost my wife this evening. The love of my life. And you badger me about my farm hands? You have to leave. Now! All of you. In fact, I want you off my property. And no, it isn’t all right to bother my workers. They have their hands full with our flocks.” He tried to stand but fell back in his chair. “Go! Go!”

“I wouldn’t bother anyone.” Jeffrey kept his voice low. “I don’t want to have to get a search warrant …”

“On what grounds?” Cecil demanded, half out of his chair.

Jeffrey looked hard at the man. “I can see you’re upset …”

“You can, can you? How astute of you! And now you want to bother my workers? You just wait and see if I don’t put up a fight. I’ll call my lawyers immediately …” He was blustering, trying to stand again. “Now, would you please go? The house is overrun with policemen as it is. You’re not needed, nor wanted here.”

Jeffrey got up, pushed his chair back to the wall, nodded to me and Dolly, turned, and left.

Cecil had worked himself into a manic state of mourning. He stood and held his arms out to me, child-like and needy. “You must help me to my room, Emily. Here I thought you were my friend, and now look at what you’ve done. Sicced a federal agent on me. I would never have believed it.”

I took his arm with no clue as to what was expected next.

“Please—up to my room,” he whispered as I guided him carefully into the hall. “You must stay the night. You simply have to. I need you. There’s no one left to me now. If you’re my friend, please, let me rest and then we can talk …”

Dolly, coming out of the room behind us, said, “I’ll call somebody if you need a nurse …”

“Absolutely not! You’ve done enough, Officer. I want Emily here. She knows more about me than anyone.” He waved his hand with the missing knuckle in her face. “My life has been one of eternal strife. Tonight, is the worst of any. Emily must stay.”

I looked hard at Dolly, begging her to get me out of what he was planning. Staying in that house of mirth, in that house where a murder had just been committed—with Cecil Hawke—was like asking me to spend the night alone in a morgue. Maybe worse.

“We’ll all be here, Mr. Hawke. I have to interview Jackson Rinaldi.”

“That evil man’s still in my house?” Cecil was outraged.

“And Emily’s had a rough night …”

“Brought on herself. She’s the cause of some of this misery. You owe me, Emily.” The eyes he turned on me weren’t friendly. “As for Mr. Rinaldi, the sooner he’s taken off to jail the better. He’s the most obvious suspect. You won’t miss the obvious? Will you, officer?”

Dolly puffed her chest out to amazing proportions. She was ready to come down hard. I got in between them.

“I’ll stay for a little while,” I said.

“We have to talk.” He took my hand and pulled me toward the hall. “After I’ve rested. Maybe later …”

“You know what, Emily?” Dolly called after me. “This is like one of those crazy English mysteries. You know—we got all the suspects in the library …” She shook her head and went back to her interrogations.

_____

Cecil’s bedroom was exactly as I would have pictured it. Mostly feminine. Ruffles. Canopy bed with red bed hangings. White carpeting. Lila’s dressing table was strewn with fancy spray bottles, make-up, and creams for every part of her body. The room looked not just overdone, but silly.

Cecil collapsed on the bed and motioned for me to cover him with the sheet. As I did, his head popped up. “May I say one thing about your friend, down there? The police officer. You put entirely too much trust in her. As Noel Coward was heard to say about a person who looked much like your Dolly—well, I’m paraphrasing now: Never trust a woman with short legs. Brain’s too near their bottoms.”

He snickered, threw his arm over his eyes, and asked me, in a weak voice, to dim the lights.

“Don’t leave,” he begged from the bed. “When I’m stronger, we’ll talk. There are things about Lila, well, I want you to understand.”

He waved a limp hand in the direction of a fussy boudoir chair against the wall.

I looked at the silk-covered, uncomfortable-looking chair and shook my head. No way. I wasn’t Freddy, already stretched out on the floor beside the bed.

“I’ll be downstairs,” I said. “Whenever you feel like coming down …”

“Only what I expected.” He made a broken sound halfway between disgust and agony; then wiggled his fingers at me, motioning me out of there.

I was dismissed.