The Prodigal Son(57)

“No one’s mentioned it to me,” he said, “including her.”

“She’s aiming to sell the pieces to gift shops once she’s glazed and fired them,” Carmine said, “and she was disliked in the family. I think she was waiting to shock them, take some of the wind out of Davina’s sails.”

The portrait busts were probably not for eventual sale, and perhaps would never be fired, but they showed a talent the other pieces didn’t. Emily could suggest character in her portraits, as in the bust of Max — a tired old man trying to be young. And, had Millie Hunter only set eyes on it, she would have agreed with Emily’s interpretation of Davina: Medusa, down to the last snake on her head.

The body had been removed, but the mess that hadn’t stuck to Emily was still there, and a faint suggestion of putrefaction.



“Did Gus say how long she’d been dead?” Carmine asked.

“The best part of twenty-four hours,” Abe answered. “He thought yesterday afternoon, some time after four.”

“No food in here?”

“None. Just a carafe of water and a glass. Paul took both of them,” said Abe. “I hear Delia was upset?”

“Very. The obscenity of the act really got to her.”

Abe looked slightly displeased. “I wish Gus hadn’t moved the body before I got here,” he said.

“At my orders, Abe. I saw it, and it couldn’t have told you a thing beyond obscenity. The poor creature had torn off all her clothes during her agony, and died twisted into a pretzel. Delia asked that no one should see, and I obliged her. You’ll get the photos, but keep them to yourself. Liam and Tony don’t need to see them. It’s a female thing, and I respect it.”

“Fine by me.” Abe had turned to go when his eye lit upon a small box sitting on a shelf between a curled up cat and a cat with its paws tucked under. He picked his way across the soiled floor and took the box down. “Funny place for it,” he said, opening it, then holding up its contents: a home-made glass ampoule containing about as much white powder as would thinly cover a dime. Even gloved, his grasp was delicate; then he put it back in the box and put the box back on the shelf. “I have to wait for Paul,” he said.

“Padlock the shed and put a uniform on guard, Abe. We need to go through the kitchen before the husband gets home.”





Val Tunbull arrived escorted by a squad car; he had not been told of Emily’s fate, just that his presence was required at home.

Abe met him at the front door and escorted him into his own living room; the kitchen was a hive of activity, and they dared not offer coffee or tea. An unopened bottle of bourbon stood on the bar cart; that would have to do when the time came.

A man in his middle fifties, Val Tunbull had a pleasant, open and good-looking face crowned by a mass of brassy yellow hair Abe and Carmine had come to associate with the Tunbull men.

“What’s up?” he asked, puzzled, but without aggression; he was the second-string man in a family business, and it wasn’t his place to bluster or bully.

The news of his wife’s death visibly shook him, but he refused the liquor. “Tea, I’d like some tea,” he said, tears rolling down his face.

Abe made up his mind. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Tunbull,” he said, “but we’ve had to confiscate every kind of food and drink in your house. Your wife was poisoned, and we don’t know where she got the poison. Is your son home?”

“Yes. When the cops came for me, he followed.”

“Then how about you and I walk to your son’s house? You can have your tea there, and company as well.”

Val Tunbull rose at once. “Yes, please. I have to tell Ivan — it will break his heart.”

Abe guided him out the front door. “Did your wife have any enemies, sir?” he asked, putting a hand beneath Val’s elbow.



Val’s footsteps faltered; he leaned on Abe a moment. “I guess so. She — she hated Max’s first wife, Martita, and that led to big trouble.” He stopped, wiped his eyes, blew his nose. “Max found it hard to forgive her, but it’s such an old business now that I can’t see how it figures. Emily disliked Davina too, but Davina put her in her place. Martita could never have done that. That’s why I didn’t worry about Emily’s campaign against Davina. She’s a tough cookie.” He was talking fluently, as if much of this had been bottled up for want of a willing ear to listen. “And Emily had discovered sculpting in clay — she loved it, just loved it! I thought some of her work was great, and I encouraged her. She’d be out in her shed day and night — I had it lined, made real comfortable — having a ball — she was so happy at last.” He cried desolately.