Too Many Murders(134)

She sat in silence for a while, digesting the note of finality in his voice and not liking the fact that he had rebuked her as if it were she at fault. Her strength and independence rebelled, but her sense of justice said she had known when she married a cop what it entailed. What bothered her was the gap that yawned between the sexes when it came to guns. Women abominated them. Men esteemed them. And Julian would be on his father’s side.

“I wonder,” she said at last, “how do other women manage to sleep knowing their husbands have a gun under the pillow?”

“About like you, lovely lady. Out like a light for as many hours as the kids permit.”

She laughed. “Touché!”

“If I pushed papers or machined metal for a living, there would be no need for me to carry a gun,” Carmine said. “But cops are peacetime soldiers. There’s a war going on, and soldiers have to be armed. The worst of it is that the war involves civilians too. Look at you and Julian by the boat shed.”

“Then perhaps,” she said, swallowing, “I should learn to use a gun, even if I don’t carry one.”

“I think that’s sensible,” Carmine said warmly. “Shooting accidents happen through sheer ignorance. I’ll arrange for you to learn at the police range. Better fire a .38 automatic, because I’ve switched to one, though Silvestri won’t.”

Yet one more battle lost, Desdemona thought. I wasn’t able to make him see my side of it, but he worked me around to seeing his side. And what would I do if someone came after Julian? I would want to protect him.

They pottered through the incredible seaside mansions of Rhode Island, mostly converted now to institutions and rest homes, but still betraying their millionaire origins. After a good breakfast they entered the biceps of the Cape, and Desdemona marveled at the beauty.

“Better in July, when the roses are out,” Carmine said.

“I never realized how many hauntingly beautiful, Old World spots this part of America has. I thought seaside villages like Essex in Connecticut were glorious, but the Cape Cod villages are more so—no, make that differently so,” said Desdemona.

They reached Orleans in the early afternoon. Carmine set Desdemona down in the sand dunes beginning to run up the Atlantic side of the Cape’s forearm, and drove off to see Philomena Skeps.

Who was waiting, placidity unruffled. Well, I’m here to spoil that, Carmine thought, seating himself in a white chair on the patio behind her house.

“When do you move to Boston?” he asked.

“Not before September,” she said. “One last Cape summer.”

“But you’ll keep this house, surely?”

“Yes, though I doubt I’ll manage much more than an occasional weekend visit. Desmond is keen to be somewhere that he can see movies, play pinball machines, mingle with friends.”

She spoke in the same gentle, even voice, but the unhappiness ran beneath its timber like water in an underground stream. Ah! Carmine thought. She’s beginning to realize her son’s sexual inclinations.

In fact, she had subtly aged in a very few short weeks. Her eyes were starting to produce crow’s-feet at their outer edges, and two faint lines ran down her cheeks to the corners of her mouth, which now turned down a little. The most amazing change of all was a broad ribbon of stark white hair through the black curls above her left forehead; it gave her an eldritch quality, as of a medieval sorceress.

“Have you established the future of Cornucopia yet?”

“I think so,” she replied with a faint smile. “Phil Smith will continue as Chairman of the Board, the present members will all continue, and I will stay in the background as trustee of my son’s controlling interest. Provided nothing untoward happens, I don’t see why anything should change. Erica’s death leaves a vacancy on the Board that I intend shall be filled by Tony Bera.”

“It’s in relation to the composition of the Cornucopia Board that I’m here, Mrs. Skeps,” Carmine said in the same formal way. “Philip Smith will be leaving the Board permanently.”

Her deep green eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been arrested for murder and espionage.”

Her breast heaved; she clutched at her throat. “No! No, that’s quite impossible! Phil? You are mistaken, Captain.”

“I assure you, I am not. The evidence is overwhelming.”

“Espionage?”

“Oh, yes. He’s been passing secrets to Moscow for at least ten years,” Carmine said.

“Is that why—?” She broke off.

“Why what, Mrs. Skeps?”

“Why he speaks Russian when he’s alone with Natalie.”