“Missing Myron?” he asked.
“Very much,” she answered. “But I’m sure you’re not here to pay condolences, Captain. What do you want?”
“All eleven of the people whose murders I am investigating were closely attached to the table sponsored by the Fourth National Bank at a function held more than four months ago,” he said, watching her so intently that he hated needing to blink. “December third of last year, a Saturday night. It was a banquet held by the Maxwell Foundation.”
“Yes, I remember it,” she said, composed now. “I went with Gus Purvey and we sat at Phil Smith’s table.”
“Do you know where Desmond Skeps sat?”
Her smooth brow creased, her lids fell. “He was in an odd mood, I remember that. Not that it was unexpected. I had been informed that my amorous services were no longer wanted. His table was at the other end of the hall, and the people at it were unknown to me.”
“Yet you visited the table.” Say yes, Erica, say yes!
“Yes, as a matter of fact I did.” She grimaced. “It was unpleasant, but I should have known it would be.”
“How, unpleasant?”
“Des was drunk.”
“Yet according to your own statement, Mr. Skeps had limited himself to one drink a day for many years. At the time you gave that statement, you didn’t mention his lapse from grace at the Maxwell banquet.”
“It only happened the once, Captain.”
“Why?”
“Why the lapse from grace, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea, but if you think it was because he had done with me, you’re mistaken, Captain. There was no love lost between us.” She thought a moment, then said, “Nor liking.”
“What about the woman with him at the table?”
She looked genuinely puzzled. “What woman? He was alone.”
“A woman who stood six feet tall, and would have seemed tall even seated. To your eyes, very common. Some black blood, handsome face, bottle-blonde hair, a lot of makeup, busty. I think she probably wore a tight satin dress in a bright color—emerald green or shocking pink. Not scarlet. There may have been a white mink stole, the real thing.”
Her face had cleared. “Oh! She was at the table, but she was sitting between an attractive young woman and an old lady with white hair who had trouble breathing. She didn’t pay Des any attention, and he ignored her. Well, he was too drunk to see across the table—sloppy drunk. I couldn’t understand a word he said, so I didn’t stay long.”
“If you sat next to Desmond Skeps, was there anyone on his other side?”
“Yes, a very fat man who overflowed his chair.”
“And beyond him?”
“I couldn’t see. The fat man blocked my view.”
“Who sat next to you besides Skeps?”
“A rather repulsive young man who tried to put his hand on my leg. The women were all bunched together, and I didn’t blame them. Even Dean Denbigh was unpleasant.”
Carmine kept at her for some time, but learned nothing new. When he left, it was with a sense of failure.
Before the elevator arrived, he was joined by the male secretary, Richard Oakes, in the company of a man at least ten years his senior. When they all got in and wanted the first floor, Oakes shivered and drew as far away from Carmine as he could.
“Who’s your companion, Mr. Oakes?” Carmine asked.
When Oakes proved too petrified to reply, the stranger did. “I’m not Mr. Oakes’s companion,” he said, sticking his jaw out. “I’m Lancelot Sterling of Accounting.”
“Oh, the lovely boss! A tormentor as well as a gossip.”
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it,” Carmine said, and rode down the rest of the way in silence. Sterling gave him several nasty glances, but the look on Richard Oakes’s face said aggression would be a mistake. No one at Cornucopia had talked, least of all Special Agent Ted Kelly, but somehow the story of the fisticuffs outside Malvolio’s had reached the executive floors. No doubt Accounting would be next, if Oakes’s expression was anything to go by.
On the first floor Oakes and Sterling, heads together, went to wait for an elevator down to the parking levels. Carmine walked outside to his Fairlane, which no traffic cop would have dreamed of ticketing.
Several days passed, during which Carmine, Abe, Corey and Delia strove to find a table hopper who had visited table 17.
Coming up with nothing, Carmine went back to Silvestri.
“I need one of your television news bulletins,” he said to the Commissioner. “Something to the effect that anyone who had contact with Mr. Desmond Skeps at the Maxwell Foundation banquet four months ago should come forward, as vital information might be forthcoming.”