The Prodigal Son(74)

Carmine lifted his head as though someone had speared him through the chest. “Yes, Deels, of course I have.”

“She could have done all three, Carmine. She knew John was in town because he visited her and Jim out on State Street, and she could have lain in wait for him immediately before the men went into Max’s study. She could have laced Emily’s water carafe, and tell me who better to substitute the B-12? The tetrodotoxin belonged to her.”

“Then, first of all, why did she declare the tetrodotoxin missing? And did she — or Jim, for that matter — know about Tinkerman and his problem absorbing B-12?” Carmine asked.

“Let me see Mrs. Tinkerman,” Delia said eagerly.

“Sure, whenever you like.” Carmine got to his feet. “I think it’s time I saw Dean Wainfleet.”

“Who’s he?”

“Dean of Divinity. Therefore Tinkerman’s old boss.”





If I have any complaints about Carmine Delmonico, Delia thought as she drove to Busquash, it is that he fails to see that some women witnesses should be questioned by a woman — me! The moment Mrs. Tinkerman told him about the B-12, he was out the door. Whereas I would have stayed for a cup of tea and a chat: those who drop one bombshell sometimes have two tucked in their bomb bays. Mrs. T. strikes me as the two-bomb type.

Though she had never set eyes on Edith Tinkerman before, one look told Delia that a weekend contemplating a future minus her husband and plus a quarter of a million dollars to spend had benefited the lady greatly. The home perm was still there and the clothes still made by her own hand, but the brown eyes sparkled and the face held no care-lines. A week ago, Delia divined, the eyes would have been dull and the care-lines many.

“I hope I don’t intrude?” Delia asked in her very poshest Oxford accent. “There are just one or two things to clear up.”

Nothing had the power to frighten Mrs. Tinkerman now that Tom was no more: she smiled. “Tea?” she asked, taking a punt on the accent.

“Oh, lovely! Yes, please!” Delia gazed around the kitchen. “How nice you’ve made it look. I always think that of all the rooms a house possesses, the kitchen gives its mistress away best. Oh, a choice! Twinings, too! Thank you, Earl Grey.”

The table, she was interested to see, had been cleared of the dressmaking impedimenta Carmine had described; Delia sat down, content to wait until the tea and her hostess arrived.



The Earl Grey was accompanied by sugar cookies — pounds to peanuts, thought Delia, that Mrs. T. hasn’t been allowed to make sugar cookies. She’d gone on a baking spree at the weekend.

“How long were you married?” Delia asked after expending sufficient effort on making Mrs. Tinkerman feel at ease.

“Twenty-four years.”

“All spent at Chubb?”

“Yes, at the School of Divinity. Tom was an ordained and fully functioning Episcopalian bishop, though his diocese was just Chubb and the Divinity School. He was also a prominent scholar of the Middle Ages. Dean Wainfleet’s interests lay elsewhere, so Tom was the school’s expert in his field.”

“You call him Tom. I would have thought your husband the kind of man who preferred to be addressed as Thomas.”

“Oh, he was! But I called him Tom.” She cleared her throat. “I’d feel more comfortable if you called me Edie, Sergeant.”

“Only,” said Delia with a magnificent gesture, “if you call me Delia. What did Tom call you?”

“Edith.”

“And was Tom potty about his work?”

Edith Tinkerman blinked. “Er — potty?”

“Nuts. Insane. My papa was an Oxford don before he retired — quite, quite potty, poor old dear! He has an atom bomb shelter in the backyard. My mother’s having a frightful time persuading him that he doesn’t need to shut himself up in it now that Mr. Nixon is President.”

“Your papa sounds interesting, at least. I’m afraid that Tom wasn’t interesting. He was very boring.”



“How long had he suffered from the B-12 business?”

“A long, long time,” said the widow vaguely. “I always thought it was Tom’s attempt to be interesting. Certainly he made no secret of it anywhere.”

“Did he not, now? That is interesting! Wasn’t he worried that when people knew he was shooting up, he’d be thought an addict to some nefarious drug?”

“No. B-12 is such a striking color, and he always waved the syringe around, or the ampoule, and it looked legitimate — or he thought it did, anyway. He made such a production out of needing his B-12 shot — had to sit down, fan himself, gasp a lot, complain of feeling faint. My guess is that most of those who saw him were convinced he had some malign disease, and he loved that. Then the minute he was given his shot, he’d jump about as if he’d been cured by Jesus Christ.”