The houses lining Golf Club Lane aren’t mansions, but try telling that to the Laotian families on the other side of the river who live fifteen to a two-bedroom duplex that doesn’t meet codes. I slowed, watching the numbers on the houses, until I got to a huge black mailbox with the Fletcher’s address in proper chrome figures.
Holy Hannah, doctors do well, don’t they? A long black driveway stretched maybe two hundred feet up a well-coiffed lawn to a three-story brick house with a chimney at each end. A screened-in front porch on the left side of the house was bigger than my whole apartment. Wrought-iron yard furniture off to the left sat in the middle of a tiny, well-kept English garden. Something the Newport crowd would appreciate.
There were a half-dozen cars in the jet-black driveway, not a single one of them a six-year-old, oil-burning Ford Escort. The tackiest car in the lot-mine excepted-was about a twenty-five-thousand-dollar Buick. Probably the cleaning lady’s.
I wondered if they’d call the police before I had a chance to identify myself. I pulled all the way up the driveway, figuring they’d be less upset if I parked behind the house where my car wouldn’t be visible from the street. I only hope I didn’t drip too much crankcase oil on the asphalt; that would be the automotive equivalent of breaking wind on a crowded elevator.
Then I saw it, a white Crown Victoria, one with unmarked car written all over it. If they wanted to call the cops on me, they wouldn’t have far to go.
The Ford’s door made a screeching sound as I pushed it open. I looked back over the wooded back lot, maybe twenty yards to an eight-foot-high fence that ran around the back. A combination carriage house-garage-office was just behind the house, with a stone and brick courtyard between it and the back door to the main house. All in all, some mighty nice digs.
I debated going around front, then decided it would be okay to enter through the kitchen. I jumped the two steps to the door and knocked once. The huge wooden door with stained-glass insets swung open to reveal the glowering stare of a Green Hills dowager.
“And what do you want?” she demanded. She had a deep aristocratic Southern accent, a faint hint of orange in her thinning hair, and makeup caked on so thick it was cracking in places. She stood tall, though, and was determined to put me in my place.
“I’m Harry Denton,” I explained. “I came to see Rachel.”
“Mrs. Fletcher is not speaking to the news media today. You could have saved yourself a trip by phoning first.”
“I did, and you hung up on me. But I’m not with the newspaper. I’m a friend of hers. She left a message on my answering machine.”
A painted-on eyebrow rose. Diamond earrings bobbed. “I’ll go see if Mrs. Fletcher is willing to see you. Step in here.”
I stepped into the kitchen. “Stay right there,” Madame Dowager ordered.
I stood at attention. “Yes ma’am.”
My maternal grandmother had that effect on people; could, in fact, drop you in your tracks with a change in tone. It gave me a shudder to think about it.
I looked around the kitchen: Garland stove taking up a good part of one wall; stainless-steel restaurant refrigerator just short of walk-in; butcher’s block island the size of a twin bed; polished Mexican clay tile on the floor. This was a lifestyle that would be hard to support on the income of an established surgeon late in his career. Wonder what it was like for a guy my age? Conrad was doing all right, but how was he managing to pay for all this? Especially with a so-called gambling problem.
My questions were interrupted by Rachel’s entrance. Her face was drawn, her hair pulled behind her tightly. Madame Dowager hovered behind her, like she expected me to run up and hump Rachel’s leg. And she had the wadded-up newspaper ready.
“Harry,” she said, her voice tense, strained. “Where have you been? The police are here. It’s been awful.”
She lunged and was in my arms in a second. I hugged her close, tighter than I would have expected. Her hair was freshly shampooed; everything about this woman was clean, scrubbed, still young after all these years.
“I saw their car. Sorry it took me so long to get here. The police kept me most of the night, and I’ve been putting out fires ever since.”
She pulled back, looked me directly in the eyes. “Are you all right?” She tipped my head toward her. “I heard you got hit.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay. No stitches or anything. It was just a long night.”
Rachel looked at the back of my head. “God, it’s a nasty cut. But it looks like you’ll be okay. I’m so relieved.”
I stepped back, put my hands on her shoulders. “Rachel, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Conrad. If there was anything I could have done to stop it, I would have. But it was too late when I found him.”
Her eyes welled, as if for a moment she’d been able to stop thinking about him, and now I’d brought it all back. “You did everything you could have, Harry. I realize that.”
“Rachel, there are a few matters we need to discuss.”
“Later,” she whispered. “After the police leave.”
She turned around to the dowager and held out a hand toward her. “Harry, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Goddard. She’s a good friend and has been helping me out today, keeping the reporters off the property. Mrs. Goddard, this is Harry Denton, an old friend. We were all in college together.”
“Hello, Mrs. Goddard,” I said, extending a hand to her. The dowager took it gracefully and rocked it ever so gently.
“I didn’t mean to be so cold to you out there, Mr. Denton. For all I knew, you might have been another of those blamed reporters.”
“No, ma’am. Not me, but I imagine you’ve had them around all day.”
“Like flies to a chamber pot, son.” She gave me a sharp grin. Maybe Mrs. Goddard the dowager had a wicked side to her, or at least naughty.
I heard voices far off in the living room, female voices melded into high-pitched insensibility.
“God,” Rachel said, “the neighbors. The police. I swear, I can’t take much more.”
“Where’s Spellman now?”
“I’ve got them in the den. They’re questioning me about where I was, Harry. As if I had something to do with Conrad’s death.” There was fear in her voice, desperation, exhaustion. Her skin was pulled tight over cheekbones, her eyes tense, the purplish hollows under them deep.
“Rachel, maybe you should have a lawyer here.”
Her eyes darkened even further. “You, too, Harry?”
“Rachel, I-”
“I don’t need a lawyer, damn it.”
She turned and charged past Mrs. Goddard into the hallway. I followed her to the den. Spellman and some other investigator I didn’t recognize stood about awkwardly.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” I said.
“Denton,” Spellman said, nodding.
“Harry, these gentlemen presume I had something to do with my husband’s death,” Rachel said, straining to maintain control.
“That’s not what we said, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s just routine in cases like thus to check the whereabouts of all the parties involved.”
“As Mrs. Goddard has confirmed, I was here all night. I never left the house.”
“That’s right, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Goddard said from behind him. I turned. The dowager didn’t seem the kind of woman who’d lie to save anybody’s butt. “We played bridge until eleven. When Mrs. Russell, Mrs. Winters, and the other table left, I stayed until eleven forty-five helping Mrs. Fletcher wash dishes and clean up because I only live two doors away.”
Her voice was stern, solid. If this lady said she was playing bridge with Rachel until almost midnight, you could put it in the bank. I felt something inside me loosen, and it became a bit easier to breathe.
“So you see, Lieutenant,” the dowager continued, “there were seven of us here with Mrs. Fletcher all night. She couldn’t possibly have been in two places at once. Even you can understand that, can’t you?”
“Now, Lieutenant,” Rachel said, “if you’ve finished accusing me of murder, I’d like to get on with grieving my husband’s death.”