Too Many Murders(51)

“Not if you hire coaches and he goes to summer school,” said Carmine, whose own health had always been rude.

“Only if he feels up to it,” Philomena said, tone steely.

Uh-oh! An overprotective mom! Carmine changed the subject. “Tell me about Erica Davenport, Mrs. Skeps.”

“I detest her as a person, but she deserved her seat on the Board, which is more than I can say for those other slugs. Oh, not Wally Grierson! That man’s a treasure. When old Walter Symonds headed the legal division, it was pathetic. Cornucopia was forever making contractual errors and settling out of court for big sums on damage lawsuits. But after Erica took control, all that gradually stopped. Desmond adored her because she saved the company so much money.”

At that moment someone shouted from the front regions of the house, answered by the hoarse, light voice of a boy. Quick talk passed, but when the newcomer entered, Desmond Skeps III was not with him. The fellow might have passed for Carmine’s brother, cast in the same muscularly tall mold, with the same olive skin, broad facial bones, and extremely intelligent eyes; the differences lay in the hair, his worn fashionably long, and the color of the eyes—in his case, dark brown. He wore bell-bottomed jeans, a white sweater and denim jacket, but contrived to make the clothes look formal, and with him he brought an air of ownership that wasn’t lost on Carmine.

“Tony Bera,” he said, extending his hand.

“Carmine Delmonico.”

“You all right, Philomena?” Bera asked Mrs. Skeps.

“Perfectly, thank you.” She turned to Carmine. “Tony seems to think the whole world is out to get me.”

“Don’t decry a good watchdog, Mrs. Skeps. I wouldn’t be visiting you if there weren’t a murderer on the loose. Not that I think you’re in danger—I don’t. Just the same, I’m happy to see Mr. Bera. Do you live hereabouts, sir?”

“Yes, just down the lane.”

“Good. According to Desmond Skeps’s will, Desmond Skeps the Third inherits everything. I was supposed to get a full copy of the document, but so far it hasn’t materialized. Dr. Davenport called Captain Marciano and said your son was the full heir, but gave no further details. Maybe you can fill me in, Mr. Bera?”

“I wish I could,” the lawyer said, frowning, “but so far, we haven’t even heard that much.”

“I thought there had to be a reading, especially in the presence of the heir,” Carmine said.

“Not necessarily. It all depends what the will itself directs be done. Mr. Skeps’s lawyers in New York City will have known the contents. If young Desmond is the heir, I’m entitled to see the will in its entirety because I act for his mother, and therefore for him.”

“Is that ironclad, sir?”

“Well, no, but she’ll be his guardian!”

“Yes, of course.” He looked at Philomena Skeps. “There are still a few things I need to know, ma’am. Can you give me an actual date for your first overture to your ex-husband about the possibility of reconciliation?”

“We talked about it on the phone on the Monday of the third week of last November.”

“And when did Mr. Skeps hand Dr. Davenport her marching orders?”

“Very soon afterward. That same week, certainly.”

So Erica Davenport had known of the reconciliation for four months, give or take a few days. Not much reason for murder now. A woman scorned with murder in mind wouldn’t have waited this long. It looked more as if, the Skeps fish having slipped her hook, she baited it again and caught Myron. The diamonds were a gift from Myron, the most generous of men. Given that they totaled about eight carats, the price tag must have been somewhere between a quarter and a half million dollars. No chunks of Coke bottle for Myron Mendel Mandelbaum! And he was serious. The last time he threw gems like that around was for Sophia’s mom.

“Now tell me about the—er—slugs, Mrs. Skeps.”

She sneered, an expression that didn’t suit her face. “Oh, them! Desmond called them his yes-men, with good reason. Phil Smith admits it freely—he can’t even be bothered heading up a specific company, which I guess means he’s landed on his feet as usual. He’ll step into Desmond’s shoes, chair the Board, you name it. Hypocrite! Anyone would think he was royalty.”

“What about their past histories? Shady activities? Shady deals? Shady women?”

“Not that I know of, apart from Gus Purvey, who pretends to be a man’s man—and is, in the one respect men’s men don’t aspire to. Namely, that he is a homosexual with a penchant for youths dolled up as women.”