Delmonico must be desperate. First, he’d denied them the hope of demanding a lawyer: to demand a lawyer was an admission of guilt, everybody knew that. Then he’d tossed them Millie as an equal suspect. End of game, stalemate for Delmonico.
The house’s interior reeked of fresh paint — why did people bother with absurdities like a coat of paint? The underlying structure was as sound as a bell, he was engineer enough to appreciate that, and the paint hadn’t even been necessary. No, Millie didn’t like the color, therefore she would change the color. This new Millie took some getting used to.
She came flying to land in his arms, kiss his lips, hug him feverishly — poor little love, she was worried.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, meeting her gaze, his own eyes filled with love. “Captain Delmonico has no one to pin these murders on, so he’s picked me because of the tetrodotoxin. It doesn’t matter, honey, honestly! All he can do is speculate. He even had to admit that the killer could as easily be you as me, except that you’re family. Seems to me like a weird way to run a murder investigation, automatically excluding suspects for no better reason than that they’re family, but …”
The tears fell. “Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry! If I hadn’t gone to Daddy and reported the stuff missing, none of this would have happened. It’s all my fault!”
“Sssh, sssh! You were right to report the theft, Millie. The tetrodotoxin was used to commit murder, so not to have reported it would have been far worse.” He gave a wry laugh. “I’d bet Delmonico is wishing I was an ordinary black man — I’d be in a cell by now, and the bruises don’t show in black skin.”
Her face grew horrified in a split second. “Jim, no! You can’t say that of Carmine or the Holloman PD! You can’t!”
“Okay, I won’t.” He followed her into the kitchen, where she was obviously making a start on dinner. “This is one of those rare occasions when I feel like a stiff drink,” he said.
“Then isn’t it lucky I started a bar in case we had housewarming visitors?” she asked, smiling. “Bourbon? Club soda? Or Coke? The new freezer makes its own ice cubes and tips them into a tray, isn’t that neat?”
“Hit me,” he said, sitting down on a good-looking chair at a good-looking table.
In answer she brought him the bottle, a bowl of ice cubes and a can of Club soda. “I went to Marciano’s butchery and got us some real lamb chops for dinner — New Zealand, can you imagine? He told me it’s better than ours because ours is raised on grain and theirs on grass — makes ours taste muttonish. I can’t make my own French fries yet, so they’re frozen, and the vinaigrette is out of a bottle, but I’ll improve. There’s a lot of you to keep up, James Keith Hunter.”
“I’m putting thirty thousand in an account in your name, Millie,” he said, drinking gratefully. “It’s payback time. Chauce says C.U.P. is happy to advance against royalties at this stage, and Vina says you should be wearing better clothes. Good quality make-up. French perfume. My fame will rub off on you, and you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He poured another drink, this time diluted with Club soda. “I have to find a tailor and have some clothes made for my own back — no more hired tuxes.”
“Call Abe Goldberg, he’ll tell you where to go.”
“Millie, are you sure you want to stop your research?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know why I love you so much?” he asked as the warm glow of liquor coursed through him.
“Tell me again,” she said, fussing at the counter.
“Because you’ve never believed for one millisecond that I stole your tetrodotoxin,” he said, and smiled. “The latest in an endless line of selfless loyalties.”
The wonderful trill of laughter she could give when utterly overjoyed erupted; her eyes went shyly to his, face beaming, cheeks flushed. “Have I really got so much money?” she asked.
“You will tomorrow, about noon. First National on the Green, and ask for the manager. He’ll do the paperwork.”
“I’ll make you proud,” she promised. “For eighteen years the world has stared at us for nothing more than our color, but in future color will be the least of why it stares.”
TUESDAY, MARCH 4
until
THURSDAY, APRIL 3
1969
TUESDAY, MARCH 4, until FRIDAY, MARCH 7, 1969
For once the judicial system had hustled. The trial of Miss Uda Savovich for the first degree murder of Mrs. Emily Ada Tunbull came on in near record time. Anthony Bera handled his share of jury selection shrewdly; when it was empaneled the jury consisted of six men and six women — four African-American and eight Caucasian-American. Their occupations ran from unemployed to a house cleaner to an accountant. Like all jurors, they were pleased at having drawn an interesting case, and as jury pay was atrocious, they were also pleased that it bade fair to be a short business.