Bleeding Hearts(98)
“Try using common sense,” Gregor told him. “The wound in Jacqueline Isherwood Hazzard’s body was deep enough and definite enough so that the medical examiner was able to take a cross-section that looked like this.” He pointed to his first drawing. “I’ve seen the picture. It was unbelievably clear. Do you honestly think, if the wound was that deep and that well defined, that there wouldn’t also have been traces of that left side of the handle?”
“Maybe,” Russell Donahue said reluctantly. “But Mr. Demarkian—”
“No buts,” Gregor told him. “Where’s Roger Stebbins?”
“Here,” Roger Stebbins said. “I’ve been right behind you the whole way. I’ve been listening.”
“Good.” He turned to Roger. “Have your people searched this room? Have they searched the house?”
“They’ve done a once-over,” Roger said. “They wouldn’t do a full shakedown until later in a situation like this. What are you looking for?”
“An envelope addressed to Candida DeWitt. With Hannah Krekorian’s return address on it. Probably on the back flap.”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Russell Donahue said. “You want to see the envelope her invitation to Hannah Krekorian’s party came in. But would she have kept something like that?”
“I think she would have,” Gregor said. “Candida was a very formal woman. Old-fashioned in a lot of ways. She would have expected to write a thank-you note after the party was over.”
“After that party was over?” Russell Donahue was incredulous.
“Habit is a powerful thing,” Gregor told him. “My friend Bennis Hannaford always saves the envelopes, except where she knows the person who invited her very well. Did Candida DeWitt have a maid?”
“She must have had, living in a house like this,” Roger Stebbins said, “but maybe it’s someone who comes in during the day. There’s no one here now except Fred Scherrer. And the body.”
“Get me Fred Scherrer,” Gregor said. “Maybe he knows.”
The two police officers looked at each other in a way Gregor had become used to. They were telegraphing a thought that could be paraphrased: I don’t care what his reputation is, I think he’s nuts. Roger Stebbins left the room anyway, in search of Fred Scherrer. He came back a couple of minutes later with Fred in tow. Fred kept looking sideways at the body and going a little green. Finally, he turned his back to it, squared his shoulders, and folded his arms. Gregor had the distinct feeling that he would refuse to turn around for any reason whatsoever. They could walk around to the back of him and start talking from there. They could sneak up behind him and yell boo. It wouldn’t matter.
Gregor couldn’t really blame Scherrer for not wanting to stare for minute after minute at the corpse of a woman of whom he had been fond. He sat down on the couch so that Fred didn’t have to turn to look at him and said, “Mrs. DeWitt said something at Hannah Krekorian’s party last night about consulting you on the subject of libel. Was that true?”
“To an extent,” Fred answered. “There had been an… incident here. Somebody had gotten into the house and spray-painted some graffiti on the fireplace. Nasty stuff. Threatening death. Candida was in the middle of writing a book about her life. A lot of it was going to have to do with the murder of Jacqueline Isherwood Hazzard. Naturally. She thought—”
“—that one of the Hazzards was trying to warn her off,” Gregor finished for him. “This incident wasn’t reported?”
“No, it wasn’t. I told Candida it should have been. I warned her those people were dangerous. Now one of them’s killed her.”
“You’re sure it was one of the Hazzard children?”
“I find it difficult to think of them as children,” Fred Scherrer said, “but yes, I’m sure. From what Candida told me, the house wasn’t broken into. She locked up when she left and put the alarm on, and when she got back, the fireplace had been defaced. The doors were locked. There weren’t any broken windows. The alarm had been reset. It had to have been someone who knew what they were doing.”
“There must have been other people who fit that description besides the Hazzard children,” Gregor suggested.
“There must have been plenty,” Fred agreed, “but Candida couldn’t think of any who might have had a motive. And neither could I.”
Motive, Gregor thought. Motive, motive, motive. The classic motives were love, hate, and money—and he would bet on money every time.