“Well, it does so too do you good,” she countered, sitting down and sniffing. “Oh, it does smell good! Tuck in, Carmine.”
He obeyed orders and tucked in, but after they had made a gooey mess of the runny, smelly cheese and retired to the living room with a pot of tea, his mind returned to what Desdemona had said about Millie Hunter. Frustrated as well as unhappy, and beginning perhaps to think that even if there were a bestseller, all Jim’s royalties would be invested in his research, leaving nothing for Millie or the children Desdemona said she longed to have.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 9
until
FRIDAY, JANUARY 17
1969
THURSDAY, JANUARY 9, 1969
When Delia beat on Emily Tunbull’s door with the brass knocker she preferred to Beethoven’s Fifth, no one answered. How odd! Emily was the reclusive among the Tunbull women, she had been led to believe, and her smart new Cadillac Seville was parked in the garage, its door up as if she had intended driving off, but had been diverted. After five more fruitless minutes, Delia walked around the back; some crazy women, she was aware, hung their washing out on lines to freeze rather than use a dryer. But no Emily Tunbull was pinning out wet clothes to freeze.
The house was a nice one, and a peek through a window revealed a nice interior, safely beige, with classy pieces of furniture. Tunbull Printing obviously did well enough to support all its owners in considerable style. The backyard was a tidy one, partitioned off with a chain link fence, though one side and behind were vacant lots; Ivan and Lily’s equally nice house lay on the other boundary, where the fence contained a gate. Sure enough, the backyard did contain a clothesline — and two sheds besides, but their door were padlocked; the far shed looked substantial, perhaps even lined.
Delia gave up and walked down Hampton Street to the house on the knoll, where Uda opened the door.
“Is Mrs. Tunbull home?” Delia asked, face serious.
“Wait. I see.”
Cooling her heels on the stoop didn’t last long; Uda came back and held the door wide. “In,” she said.
“I imagine,” said Delia to the walls, “you understand all the nuances of the English language, Uda. You just don’t show it.”
Davina was in the living room, fully clad in a violet pantsuit and matching Italian flatties — the matriarch at home?
“Sergeant Carstairs,” she said. “Coffee?”
“Thank you, no.” Delia found a chair that was low enough to permit her to rest her feet on the carpet; Davina was quite tall and Max a tall man, so it was a Delmonico kind of house in that respect. “Mrs. Tunbull, why do you treat your twin sister like the vilest of servants?”
The blue eyes swung to her face, arrested, then their lids fell — her usual evasive trick. “I see. You have been talking to Mr. Quinn Preston.”
“Yes. In actual fact he gave the pair of you a glowing report, so you’ve no need to worry on the immigration front.”
“I certainly do not! Uda and I are American citizens!”
“Pursuant to Uda, why do you treat her so abominably?”
“That is insulting!”
“Not as insulting to you as your treatment of her is insulting to Uda.”
A snap of the fingers saw Uda turn to go.
“Kindly stay, Miss Savovich!” Delia said, voice commanding.
“This is my house!” Davina snapped.
“This is my murder investigation, ma’am. If its consequences are inconvenient to you, I am sorry for it, but that cannot alter your obligation to answer my questions. Why do you treat your twin sister like the vilest of servants?”
“That is how families work in my country,” Davina said with a pout. “Uda was born defective. I have cared for her as she cannot care for herself. She has a comfortable bed in a most luxurious apartment of her own, and all the good food she can eat. I am the family bread winner. Uda takes her bread from me. My price is her labor and her obedience.”
“How do you feel about this one-sided contract, Uda?”
“I am happy. I like work. I care for this house, I care for Vina,” said Uda, accent still thick, but grammar somewhat improved. “I am necessary, Sergeant Carstairs. Without me, my Vina could not manage.”
“Ah!” Delia exclaimed. “Then you appreciate power.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Davina asked.
“Of course. However, using it wisely is another matter. Would you say, Mrs. Tunbull, that you took a terrific risk in persuading Mr. Max Tunbull to print twenty-thousand copies of A Helical God before that was authorized by C.U.P.?”
“Pah!” spat Davina, as if people’s denseness amazed her. “I have already said that I knew Thomas Tinkerman would die at the C.U.P. banquet — where was the risk?”