Death Likes It Hot (7 page)

“You might call it that. See you later.”

As I hung up, Mrs. Veering sailed slowly into view, gliding down the staircase with a priestess-smile on her lips. She was loaded to the gills.

“Ah, there you are, Peter.” For some reason her usually strong voice was pitched very low, gently hushed as though in a temple. “I understand we’ve been besieged by members of the press.’

“Quite a few. More than you’d expect for a run-of-the-mill accident.”

Mrs. Veering, catching a glimpse of Mary Western Lung in the drawing room, indicated for me to follow her out onto the porch where we could be alone with the twilight. The beach looked lonely and strange in the light of early evening.

“Do you think I should give an exclusive interview to Cholly Knockerbocker or one of those people?” She looked at me questioningly; her face was very flushed and I wondered if she might not have high blood pressure as well as alcohol in her veins.

“Has he … or they asked you for one?”

“No, but I’m sure they will. We’ve been getting, as you say, an unusual amount of attention.”

“I don’t see it’d do any harm. I’d say that Knickerbocker would come under the heading of the right sort of publicity.”

“So should I. My only fear is people will think me heartless in giving a Labor Day party so close to my niece’s death.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I said soothingly: I had a pleasant week or two around Easthampton not to mention a salary to think of. I had no intention of letting Mrs. Veering give up her party at this stage of the game. “They’ll all understand. Also, they’ll be impressed by the publicity.”

“Poor Mildred.” With that eccentric shift of mood which I’d noticed earlier, Mrs. Veering had changed from calm rational matron to Niobe, weeping over her children, if that’s the one who wept over her children. She stood there beside me, quite erect, the tears streaming down her face. It was unnerving. Then, as suddenly as it’d started, her weeping ended and she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and in her usual voice said, “I think you’re absolutely right. I’ll have the invitations sent out Monday come hell or high water.”

Considering the nature of her niece’s death, I thought “high water” inapt but what the hell. “There’s one thing I think I should tell you,” I said, stopping her as she was about to go into the house.

“Yes?” she paused in the doorway.

“Your friend Miss Lung told the police she thought Mrs. Brexton drowned herself on purpose.”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Veering was shocked into some semblance of normality. “She didn’t! She couldn’t!”

“She did and she could. I found out when she cornered one of the newsmen a little while ago.”

The angry alcoholic flush flickered in her cheeks, mottling them red and white. “How could she?” She stood weakly at the door.

I was soothing: “I don’t suppose it’ll do much harm. Nobody can prove it one way or the other unless of course there was a last message of some kind.”

“But to have people say that … to say Mildred … oh, it’s going to be awful.” And Mrs. Veering, having said that
mouthful, made straight for the drawing room and Miss Lung. I went upstairs to change for dinner.

I have my best ideas in the bathtub … at least those that don’t come to me unheralded in another part of the bathroom where, enthroned, I am master of the universe.

As I crawled into the old-fashioned bathtub, a big porcelain job resembling an oversize Roman coffin, I thought seriously of what had happened, of the mystery which was beginning to cloud the air.

It’s a temptation to say that, even then, I knew the answer to the puzzle but honesty compels me to admit that I was way off in my calculations. Without going into hindsight too much, my impressions were roughly these: Mildred Brexton had had a nervous breakdown for reasons unknown (if any); there was some relationship between Claypoole and her which Brexton knew about and disliked; there were indications that Brexton might have wanted his wife dead; there was definite evidence he had attacked her recently, bruising her neck … all the relationships of course were a tangle, and no concern of mine. Yet the possibility that Mildred had been murdered was intriguing. I am curious by nature. Also I knew that if anything mysterious
had
happened I would be able to get the beat on every newspaper in New York for the glory of the
N.Y. Globe
, my old paper, and myself. I decided, all things considered, that I should do a bit of investigating. Justice didn’t concern me much. But the puzzle, the danger, the excitement of following a killer’s trail was all I needed to get involved. Better than big-game hunting, and much more profitable … if I didn’t get killed myself in the process.

I made up my mind to get the story, whatever it was, before the week end was over. I nearly did too.

I dressed and went downstairs.

Our doughty crew was gathered in the drawing room, absorbing gin.

To my surprise Brexton was on hand, looking no different than he had the night before when he made martinis. In fact, he was making them when I joined the party.

Everybody was on his best graveyard behavior. Gloom hovered in the air like a black cloud. I waded through it to the console where Brexton stood alone, the noise of the cocktail shaker in his hands the only sound in the room as the guests studiously avoided each other’s gaze.

“What can I do you for?” were, I’m afraid, the first words the bereaved husband said to me when I joined him. For a moment I had a feeling that this was where I came in: his tone was exactly the same as the night before.

“A martini,” I said, reliving the earlier time. I half expected to see his wife examining art books on the table opposite but tonight her absence was more noticeable than her presence had been the evening before. He poured me one with a steady hand. “I want to thank you,” he said in a low voice,” for handling the press.”

“I was glad to.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t in any shape to talk to them. Were they pretty bad?”

I wondered what he meant by that, what he wanted to know. I shook my head. “Just routine questions.”

“I hope there wasn’t any talk of … of suicide.” He looked at me sharply.

“No, it wasn’t mentioned. They accepted the fact it was an accident.” I paused: then I decided to let him in on Miss Lung’s dereliction.

He nodded grimly when I told him what she’d said to the police. “I already know,” he said quietly. “They asked me about it and I told them I sincerely doubted Mildred had any intention of killing herself. It’s not a very sensible way, is it? Drowning in front of a half-dozen people, several of whom are good swimmers.” I was surprised at his coolness.
If he was upset by her death, he certainly didn’t show it. A little chilled, I joined the others by the fireplace.

Dinner was not gala. Because Brexton was with us we didn’t know quite what to talk about. Everybody was thinking about the same thing yet it would’ve been bad form to talk about Mildred in front of her husband; he of course was the most relaxed of the lot.

It was interesting to note how the different guests reacted to the situation.

Mary Western Lung was deliberately cheery, full of “Book-Chat,” discussing at some length a visit she’d once paid Francine Karpin Lock, another noted penwoman, in the latter’s New Orleans’ house. “The spirit of graciousness. And her table! Ah, what viands she offers the humblest guest!” This was followed by a close new-critical analysis of her works as compared to those of another great authoress, Taylor Caldwell. I gathered they were neck and neck, artistically speaking, that is.

Mrs. Veering spoke of the Hamptons, of local gossip, of who was leaving her husband for what other man: the sort of thing which, next to children and servant troubles, most occupies the conversation of Easthamptoners.

Fletcher Claypoole said not a word; he was pale and intense and I could see his sister was anxious. She watched him intently all through dinner and though she and I and Brexton carried on a triangular conversation about painting, her attention was uneasily focused on her brother.

Out of deference to the situation, Mrs. Veering decided against bridge though why I’ll never know. I should’ve thought any diversion would have been better than this glum company. I began to study the clock over the mantel. I decided that at exactly ten o’clock I’d excuse myself; go upstairs; change, sneak back down and walk the half mile to the Club and Liz and a night of sexual bliss as Marie C. Stopes would say.

My sexual bliss was postponed, however, by the rude arrival of the police.

The butler, quite shaken, ushered a sloppy small man, a detective Greaves, and two plain-clothes men into the drawing room.

Consternation would be a mild word to describe the effect they made.

“Mrs. Veering?” Greaves looked at Miss Lung.

“I am Rose Clayton Veering,” said herself, rising shakily from an armchair and crossing the room with marvelous control: I’d counted her drinks that evening: she was not only loaded but primed.

“I’m detective Greaves, ma’am. Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”

Miss Lung squeaked disconcertingly; it sounded like a mouse and startled us all. I glanced at Brexton and saw him shut his eyes with resignation.

“Pray, follow me in here, Mr. Graves.”

“Greaves.” He followed her into the alcove; his two men withdrew to the hall. The guests, myself included, sat in a stunned circle. No one said anything. Claypoole poured himself a drink. Miss Lung looked as though she were strangling. Allie watched her brother as usual and Brexton remained motionless in his chair, his face without expression, his eyes shut.

From the alcove there was a murmur of talk. I could hear Mrs. Veering’s voice, indignant and emphatic, while the detective’s voice was stern … what they said, though, we could not hear. We found out soon enough.

Mrs. Veering, her face flaming with anger, appeared in the door of the alcove accompanied by the policeman who looked a bit sheepish.

“Mr. Graves has something to say to us … something so ridiculous that …”

“Greaves, ma’am.” He interrupted her pleasantly. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating a chair. She did as he directed, controlling herself with some effort.

The detective looked at us thoughtfully. He was a sandy-haired
little man with red-rimmed eyes and a pale putty face: he looked as though he never slept. But he seemed to have the situation, such as it was, well in hand.

“I hate to come barging in on you like this,” he said softly, apologetically. “I’ve got a list of names and I wish, as I read them off, you’d answer to your name so I’ll know which is which.” He ran through our names and we answered, Miss Lung startling us again with her shrill mouse-in-terrible-agony squeak.

“Thanks a lot,” he said when he’d finished roll call. He was careful not to stare at any one of us too hard or too long. He kept his eyes for the most part on the doorway to the hall.

“Now I won’t keep you in the dark any longer. There is a chance that Mrs. Brexton was murdered this morning.”

Not a sound greeted this news. We stared back at him, too stunned to comment.

He was disappointed not to have made a different effect. I could see he’d expected some kind of a rise, a significant outburst; instead he got deep silence. This gang was smarter than he’d thought, than I’d thought. I glanced rapidly at the faces but could see nothing more than intense interest in any of them.

When this had been allowed to sink in, he went on softly, “We’re not sure of course. It’s a queer kind of case. This afternoon an autopsy was performed and it was discovered that the deceased died by drowning; there was no question of a heart attack or of any other physical failure. Her internal organs were sound and undiseased. She was apparently in good physical condition.…”

“Then how could she’ve drowned like that since she was a first-rate swimmer?” Claypoole’s voice was tense with strain; it came surprisingly clear across the room.

Greaves looked at him with mild interest. “That’s why we’re here, Mr.… Claypoole. There was apparently
no
reason for her to drown so quickly so near shore with three people attempting rescue.…”

“Unless she wanted to.” Miss Lung’s voice was complacent; she was beginning to recover her usual composure and confidence.

“That is a possibility … I
hope
a probability. It is the alternative we’d like to accept. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’re stuck with a murder by party or parties unknown.”

There it was. Mrs. Veering rallied first. “Mr. Greaves, this is all supposition on your part, and very dangerous too. Regardless of what you might think, there is no evidence that my niece wanted to drown herself nor is there the faintest possibility anybody murdered her. She was in a peculiar mental state as the result of a nervous breakdown.… I told you all that a few minutes ago … in her condition she was quite apt to lose her head, to drown in that terrible undertow.” I was surprised at Mrs. Veering’s sharpness. She was completely sobered now and all her usual vagueness and nonsense had been replaced by a steely clarity, and anger.

“An intelligent analysis.” Greaves nodded approvingly, as though a favorite pupil had come through. “That was our opinion too when the death was reported this morning. Almost every day there’s something like this in these parts, a sudden drowning. Unfortunately, the autopsy revealed something odd. It seems that before going in swimming, immediately
after
breakfast, Mrs. Brexton took four sleeping pills … or was given four sleeping pills.”

This time the silence was complete. No one said anything. Mrs. Veering opened her mouth to speak; then shut it again, like a mackerel on dry land.

“With Mrs. Veering’s permission, I’d like to have the house searched for the bottle which contained the pills.”

Our hostess nodded, too dazed for words. Greaves poked his head into the hall and said, “O.K., boys.” The boys started their search of the house.

“Meanwhile,” continued the detective, “I’d appreciate it if everyone remained in this room while I interview you all, individually.” He accepted our silence as agreement. To my surprise, he motioned to me. “You’ll be first, Mr. Sargeant,”
he said. I followed him into the alcove. Behind us a sudden buzz of talk, like a hive at swarming time, broke upon the drawing room: indignation, alarm, fear.