“Would you like a lawyer present?” he asked, nodding to the woman cop to move her chair into the far corner.
“Not yet,” she answered, then gestured irritably at the cop. “Must that poor girl be here? I’d rather talk to you in private.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, she has to stay. She’s a chaperone, she ensures that I do nothing untoward.”
“You’re a puzzle, Captain. One moment speech larded with colloquialisms, the next the speech of a well-educated man.”
“But colloquialisms are wonderful, Dr. Denbigh! They prove that English is a living language, always moving on.” He sat down and turned the tape recorder on, gave it the details.
“We found your cache inside a concealed cupboard in the Dean’s apartment kitchen, Dr. Denbigh.”
The yellow eyes went wide. “Cache? Cupboard? I know nothing of either.”
“Your fingerprints say differently, ma’am. They’re all over every printable item in the bag, as well as on the pipe and the door. We have you, Dr. Denbigh,” Carmine said.
She didn’t cease to fight; rather, she changed her tactics. “After they hear my story, Captain, I don’t think there’s a jury alive would condemn my actions.”
“You want a jury trial? That means pleading not guilty, but you’ve virtually confessed. Confession means no jury trial.”
“I haven’t confessed to murder! I acted in self-defense.”
Carmine leaned forward. “Dr. Denbigh, this was a premeditated crime! Carefully planned and executed. Premeditation negates self-defense.”
“Nonsense!” she said with a snort of contempt for his density. “Fear for one’s life, sir, engenders different reactions in people because all people are different. Were I some battered housewife, I would have used a hammer or a hatchet. But I am an associate professor at Chubb University, and my husband, the source of my terror, was a dean of that same institution. Naturally I hoped that my participation in his death would not be discovered, but the mere fact that it was does not make me a cold-blooded murderer. I lived in fear for my life through every day of it because I was the only person who knew of John’s sexual activities. If I was plotting to save my life, Captain, he was plotting to end it! The story I told you just after John’s death was true, but it merely touched the peaks of mountains of sordid details and six—yes, six!—attempts my husband had made to kill me. A car crash, a skiing accident, three attacks of food poisoning, and a shotgun accident while we were in Maine. John liked to shoot hapless deer, then actually eat them!”
Carmine stared at her, rapt, and thanked God that not many murderers were this smart, or this good-looking. At thirty-two years of age, she was in her prime. “I hope you can produce proof of these attempts on your life,” he said.
“Witnesses, certainly,” she said coolly.
“What made you decide on saving your life with a dose of cyanide in a tea bag?” he asked.
“The cyanide, actually. I found it sitting on a shelf in the freshman common room. I’d gone hunting for one of my books I knew a freshman had borrowed—most irregular! He didn’t ask my permission, of course, but I suspected him because few in their first year are interested in Rilke. I removed the cyanide, of course—so dangerous! Then it occurred to me that I had found the ideal way to get John out of my life forever, provided I could find a way of administering it that did not imperil any other person. And that led to the jasmine tea at his idiotic Monday fortnight sessions. After that”—she shrugged—“it was easy. The shop was in Manhattan, but the place where the tea bags were made was in Queens.”
“You haven’t made a satisfactory case against the Dean, Dr. Denbigh,” Carmine said.
“Here? Now? Why should I even bother? I will plead my case in court. Mr. Anthony Bera will conduct my defense,” said the lioness, licking her chops. “And that is all I have to say before Mr. Bera arrives. I think it is very fair of me to—er—show my hand, so to speak. You know how I will plead, and what my defense will be.”
Carmine stopped the tape recorder. “I thank you for your frankness, Dr. Denbigh, but I warn you, the prosecution will prove murder, and ask for the maximum penalty.”
“Any bets she slips the net?” he asked Silvestri a few minutes later. “That’s one helluva smart woman, sir.”
“Depends how well Bera picks his jury,” Silvestri said, his cigar rolling from one side of his mouth to the other. “He’ll ask that the case be heard in a different jurisdiction, and that’s in the lap of the gods. But it’s always been hard to get a conviction when the defendant is a looker. You’d think the women jurors would take against them, but they don’t, and the men are putty. So yeah, Carmine, you could be right.” His sleek cat face bore an expression of content despite the uncertain outcome of Pauline Denbigh’s trial. “Ask me, do I care? Not much. The important thing is that Dean Denbigh’s murder is one hundred percent solved.”