The Prodigal Son(17)

“Sure, Doctors. Just don’t leave the house.”

Abe kept his questions to the dinner guests brief and to the point: just events at the dinner, in the study, trips to the toilets, John’s sudden illness. The only one he suspected of real duplicity was Mrs. Davina Tunbull, who had retreated into hysterics Millie whispered were fake. They were always bad news, those women, even though mostly they had nothing to do with the commission of the crime. They muddied the waters simply to be noticed, treated specially, fussed over. And there was no way he was going to get to see her or the servant, Uda, tonight.

With their details written down in his notebook and John Tunbull’s body gone to the morgue an hour since, Abe wound up his investigation shortly after midnight and let people go home.

“Though that’s really only us,” said Millie, wrapped against the cold as she and Abe stood on the crunchy doorstep. “The rest are close enough to walk home. Oh, dear, there’s Muse vomiting in the garden. I daresay she does have a sensitive liver after all. Her husband’s very kind to her, I see.”

“Where do you live, Millie?”

“On State Street. Caterby is the next intersection.”

Jim drove up in their old Chevy clunker; Abe opened the passenger door to let Millie slide in, then watched them drive away, the white fog issuing from their tail pipe telling him that the temperature had dropped below 28°F. This was a cold winter.

Those two unfortunate people, Abe thought, mind on the Doctors Hunter. Still dirt-poor, to be living out there on State. Paying back the last of their student loans, no doubt. Just as well Dr. Jim is the size of a small mountain. If he were a ninety-pound weakling, that neighborhood would be hell for a mixed-race couple, full of poor whites and an occasional neo-Nazi.





SATURDAY, JANUARY 4, 1969


Desdemona took the tuxedo by its shoulders and shook it out.

“There, Millie! It will not only hold throughout tonight’s boring festivities, it will actually feel reasonably comfy.”

Beaming in pleasure, Millie hugged as much of Desdemona as she could reach. “Thank you, thank you!” she cried. “Aunt Emilia said you could do anything with a needle, but I hated invading your privacy, the busy mother. However, unless Jim’s book is a big seller, we can’t possibly afford a tailor-made dinner suit for him.”

“Looks to me as if he’s going to need one in the years to come. When you can afford it, ask Abe Goldberg where to go, his family has more tailors than detectives. Carmine can’t buy his suits off the rack either — clothing manufacturers don’t cater for men who are massive in the shoulders and chest, but narrow in the waist.” Desdemona turned her sewing machine upside down and watched it disappear into its cradle. “There! Come and have a cuppa with me — tea or coffee, your choice.” A hand reached down to scoop Alex out of his daytime crib. “Yes, sweet buggerlugs, you’ve been very patient,” she said, balancing him on her left hip.

“You manage so effortlessly,” Millie said, watching Desdemona make a pot of tea and shake chocolate chip cookies on to a plate, all while holding Alex.

“Oh, Alex is easy. It’s the first one causes the headaches,” Desdemona said, settling into the breakfast booth — a new addition to the kitchen — with Alex on her knee. She dunked the edge of a cookie in her rather milky tea and gave it to Alex to suck. “I would have been horrified at the thought of giving a sugary cookie to a nine-month-old baby when I had Julian, but now? Anything that shuts them up or keeps them happy is my motto.”

Such a beautiful child! Millie was thinking as she watched enviously. I want to be her — I’m sick of laboratory experiments! I want a delicious little baby Hunter, some shade of brown, with weirdly colored eyes and a brain as big as his or her daddy’s …

“Where are you?” Desdemona asked, snapping her fingers.

“Putting myself in your place. Wanting to be a mother.”

“It’s not always beer and skittles, Millie,” Desdemona said wryly. “I’m still recovering from a post-partum depression.”

“But you’re okay, right?”

“Yes, thanks to an understanding husband.”

In came Julian, toting a huge orange cat that was giving him all its considerable weight. Desdemona handed a cookie down.



“Ta, Mommy.”

“Julian, you’re developing your muscles splendidly, but how is Winston going to get any exercise when you carry him everywhere? Put him down and make him walk.”

Down went the cat, which began to wash itself.

“See? That’s why I carry him, Mommy. Every time I put him down, he washes himself.”