She embarked on a logical explanation. “Tinkerman had made a fetish out of studying A Helical God, and extended his study to Jim’s two earlier books, as well as all his published papers. He concluded that Jim hadn’t written A Helical God at all, and wrote an essay for splashy publication that discussed the book, comparing its style to every other thing Jim had written. He proved the book wasn’t Jim’s, and he would have been believed.”
“Is that where Edith Tinkerman comes in?” Delia asked.
“Yes. She found her husband’s essay and a covering letter addressed to Jim. With them were pages and pages of his notes. Tinkerman was the kind of man who liked to rub salt into people’s wounds, so he was sending Jim a copy of the essay. When Mrs. Tinkerman saw the letter addressed to Jim, she called him. He killed her and took the essay, which hadn’t been submitted for publication yet. The .22 went into Long Island Sound.”
“So the threat of exposure wasn’t a contributing factor to Tinkerman’s murder?” Carmine asked.
“No. Jim knew enough to understand that Tinkerman wouldn’t rest until he’d destroyed Jim’s career, he died for that alone rather than specifics,” Millie said.
“You speak as if he confided in you,” Delia said.
“He didn’t need to. I was Jim’s other half — his wife, his friend, his lover for nearly nineteen years. I loved him, and every person who died had tried to ruin him. Killing for Jim was an act of desperation. I was his for better or for worse, as our marriage vows said, and I would have protected him to my grave.” Her voice changed, became high and shrill. “Then I saw his child, the child he never gave me permission to have. And suddenly my love turned to hate. He took my youth as if it counted for nothing. He adamantly refused to have children during the years when we should have been having them. Then after denying me, he informed me that Davina — Davina — thought I should have a child. He spoke to me like a king to a subject. To me, his wife!”
“Millie, it is very possible that Jim didn’t father Alexis Tunbull,” Carmine said.
“Yes, he did,” she said scornfully. “The moment I saw that baby, I knew everything.”
A futile line of questioning: Millie wouldn’t back down.
“Who wrote A Helical God?” he asked.
“I did,” said Millie. “When the idea occurred to me, I knew that Jim had no gift for expressing his thoughts on paper. Well, biochemists don’t really need to be able to write, it’s jargon combined with basic English. Whereas I can write, and I have a more metaphysical mind than Jim. I sat down at our typewriter and pounded it out in six weeks. Four more drafts, and it was finished. It had to be published as Jim’s book — who would take it seriously if it were known to have been written by a kewpie doll? If it hadn’t been for carrying the additional work load, I would have enjoyed the experience.”
“You realize you can’t profit from it now?” Delia asked.
Millie looked stunned. “Why?”
“No murderer can profit from murder. Jim’s royalties will go to his family, I imagine.”
“Those bastards?” Millie asked incredulously. “They dropped Jim like a hot potato when he took up with me!”
“It’s the law, Millie,” said Delia. “You’re guilty.”
“Jim was guilty,” said Millie, tight-lipped. “He killed three times to profit from his royalties. I killed out of my mind.”
“That’s for a court to establish,” Delia persisted.
“I must be found guilty,” Millie said, “and I am not guilty. Killing is not in me. I’m one of Jim’s victims.” She began to weep, her hands threshing. “Stop, please stop! No more!”
Carmine terminated the interview at once.
“Was that real, or feigned?” he asked Delia once Millie was gone, still weeping.
“I wish I knew, chief, but I don’t. She’s not a killer.”
“I agree. Desdemona called her an abused wife, and a small number of them do reach a breaking point that sees them do murder. No, what I wish I knew was how long this alternative has been in her mind. The single day between setting eyes on Alexis Tunbull and the book launch, or extending back at least to the beginning of last year, when Jim and Davina were cementing a friendship?” Carmine grimaced. “Did she snap, or did she plan?”
“Unsound mind or premeditation? I don’t know,” Delia said.
“It’s going to be up to a jury to decide.”
That morning saw two other developments. Millie was denied bail pending psychiatric examination, and a slavering Anthony Bera appeared to offer Millie his services.