“Yes, it was very bad. She was tortured first. Every long bone in her arms and legs was broken. Then she was strangled with a rope noose.”
“A hanging?”
“No. Simple strangulation, if I may be excused for saying that. It probably came as a relief.”
No tears now, but the creature behind the eyes had retreated to some place he couldn’t reach. “I see,” she said. “That is an odd kind of torture, surely? There was no sexual element.”
“From my experience, it was not a sexual murder. She was tortured to obtain information, I think. Certainly the textbooks would argue no sex was involved, though sometimes I wonder how much—or how little—we know about sexual murder. Did it ever occur to you that she might be in danger?”
“Not of murder. Rape I could understand, because she invited it—so cold, so sexually uninterested. There is a kind of man who regards women like Erica as needing to be brought down a peg or two, and what more effective way than rape?”
God, this is an intelligent woman! he thought. “Did you know that she had been gang-raped as a young woman?”
“No, but it makes perfect sense.”
“She didn’t confide in you?”
“I told you, Captain. We were not on good terms.”
“Recently, yes, but at one time you were. There’s no point in denying it, Mrs. Skeps.”
“Yes, at one time we were great friends. It’s because of me that she became Desmond’s mistress—I begged her. Of course that altered our friendship, though we remained close for a long time after. Had I known of the rape, I would never have asked. I was very selfish, Captain. While Erica kept him sexually sated, Desmond left me alone. It surprised me when she said that they engaged in nothing but fellatio, but of course men love it.”
“Why did it surprise you?” Carmine asked.
“Because she was so uninterested in sex. Not disinterested, uninterested.” Philomena Skeps struck her hands together. “Oh, please! Let’s leave this sordid subject!”
“Why were you such great friends?”
“A marriage of minds. Our intellects meshed perfectly. We loved to read, we liked to discuss what we’d read—all the myriad activities, phenomena and creatures of the world fascinated us. We loved beauty in all its guises—a moth’s antennae, the iridescence of a beetle’s carapace, fish—you name it, we loved it. Neither of us had ever known such a wonderful friendship. So when it ended, I was devastated.”
“Why did it end? How did it end?”
“I still don’t know. Erica ended it out of the blue. In November of 1964, Thanksgiving Day. She was coming here to dinner with me, Tony, young Desmond. But she arrived far too early. I was in the kitchen,” Philomena Skeps said in a desolate voice, “at the counter, making the turkey stuffing. Erica came in, stood about six feet from me, and said our friendship was over. She disliked me, she said, and was sick of pretending otherwise. Desmond was making it hard for her, she said. Young Desmond detested her, and she was sick of that too. There were a dozen more reasons, all much the same as those. I was too astounded to argue, I just stood with my hands full of bread and listened. Then she turned on her heel and left. Just like that! I never really saw her again, except at functions and meetings we couldn’t avoid.”
“It must have been a sorrow for you, Mrs. Skeps.”
“No, a tragedy! Life has never been the same since.”
“How did you cope with the fact that your ex-husband gave Erica control over your son’s inheritance?”
“I was crushed, but I wasn’t surprised. Desmond would have done anything to make life difficult for me. It affected Tony worse. He couldn’t find anything in the will that would enable him to challenge it legally. Of course now that Erica is dead, things will be different.” She couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of her voice.
“Why did your son detest Erica?” Carmine asked.
Her smile was twisted. “Jealousy, of course! He felt that Erica was more important to me than he was, and in one way he was right. An intellect craves equal company, and no matter how great the love, children can never compete on an intellectual level. It is a wise child who understands that. Young Desmond isn’t wise. So he loathed Erica, who stole me from him. When the friendship ended, my son rejoiced. Which reminds me, I must stop calling him ‘young’ Desmond. He’s simply Desmond now.”
How he managed to keep his face expressionless, Carmine never after understood, only that somehow he had, while this very strange woman produced a mixture of Oedipus, Clytemnestra, Medea and about a dozen other Greeks who’d wormed their way into the psychology textbooks. I fervently hope, he thought, that by the time this terrifying amalgam explodes, I’ll be safely retired. Jesus, what a mess!