“Then we absolutely must figure out who did.” I was speaking no more than the God’s truth. I wouldn’t survive many more of Helen Trudeau’s dictated memos, and I doubted that Mr. P would survive a trial.
“You don’t go along with the official theory?” he asked. “After all, my fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”
“Oh, pish!” I said. “You didn’t do it, so somebody else did. Now, who? How about Charlie Potter?”
“I wondered about that,” he replied. “But why? He doesn’t inherit from Patsy; I do. That’s only fair, I guess, since it was all mine to start with.”
I told him about Charlie’s efforts to get me to lie to the police — which, I should mention, I hadn’t done. “Now that,” I said, “is suspicious.”
Mr. P smiled again. “Not really. Poor Charlie. His new advertising campaign is based on shots of the company president demonstrating interest and competence, on site, in Allied’s branch offices and plants from Paris to Pago Pago. Charlie was all set up for three weeks with a camera crew and me. Now he’s facing three weeks with a camera crew and Helen Trudeau.”
“Ah,” I said. So that was it. I was surprised it hadn’t been his throat he’d cut while shaving. “Well, then, how about Helen Trudeau? She might have had it in for Patricia.”
He shook his head. “Motive, Richard, motive. What was her motive?”
“She’s in love with you,” I said. “She certainly tried her best to get the police interested in some other suspect.” I told him what I’d overheard.
“Well, I’m flattered,” he said. “But, believe me, Helen Trudeau has never been in love. She’s certainly not in love with me.”
I wasn’t so sure. She had been sitting, as the most important guest would, on his right during dinner and I’d noticed her leaning in his direction. This, however, was hardly proof of anything, and Mr. P’s tone had been adamant.
“Fine,” I said. “Charlie had no motive; Ms. T had no motive. Who did? Who had a reason to want to get rid of Mrs. P? How about the cook?” I liked the cook, but somebody did it. “How about her? I notice she’s not here.”
“Of course she’s not here,” he said. “What use could one person possibly have for a cook? I haven’t exactly been entertaining large groups of people. What’s her motive, Richard? She disliked her job but didn’t have the nerve to quit?”
I sighed. I could think of only one more person. I didn’t want to bring up the tennis coach, but I steeled myself.
“Uh,” I said. “I’ve heard some rumors about Mrs. P and her tennis coach...”
Mr. P threw me a horrified look. “You think Patsy and her tennis coach were having an affair? And maybe it went sour?”
I looked prim. “I didn’t say that.” (Of course, it was what I’d been thinking.)
“But her tennis coach is gay!” he said. “Couldn’t you tell?”
This flustered me. Usually I can tell. “I only saw the man once,” I said. “And I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t tell. Besides, that doesn’t mean he isn’t a murderer.”
“Maybe not. But it does mean he wasn’t having an affair with Patsy. So, why would he kill her?”
That’s what we kept coming back to. Why? And, even if we could answer that, then how?
I don’t know if I would ever have figured it out if it weren’t for my wife. When I turned down the covers that night, I noticed the pillowcases. They were beautiful. Hand embroidered and made of cotton so fine and smooth, it felt like satin.
“Wherever did these come from?” I asked. “You haven’t taken up needlework, have you? Where are you hiding your embroidery hoop?”
Sandra laughed. “No, silly!” she said. “Some old lady with a lot of time made them, probably about thirty years ago. They’re from the AmVets Thrift Store.”
I dropped the pillow I had been rubbing against my cheek. “You mean other people have put their heads on these?”
She laughed again. “Uh huh. Just like in hotels and motels and inns and on overnight trains. Why, if it weren’t for detergent and washing machines, there might be something to be concerned about. But, you know, Richard, people can wash things.”
She grinned wickedly. “Now, get in bed.”
I abandoned my resistance to the pillowcases. She was right. People can wash things and she had. Besides, when Sandra tells me to get in bed in that tone of voice...
Then, of course, I was distracted for a while, but before drifting off an idea started to form in my mind, and sometime during the night all the little bits and pieces came together. They must have, because when I woke up, I knew precisely what had happened. Therefore, I also knew precisely what to do.
I got to the office a bit late. I marched directly to Ms. T’s door, knocked sharply, and opened it.
She took a dramatic look at her watch and lifted one eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I was at Mr. Prescott’s yesterday,” I said. “We talked about a lot of things, including the dinner party. This morning, I couldn’t decide whether to go to the police station or come to work, but I decided — at least for today — to come to work. I’d like an extremely large raise.”
I set my briefcase on her desk. “Look,” I said, demonstrating with exasperation. “The clasps don’t work smoothly, and it isn’t even made out of real leather. And I’ve got my eye on a truly fetching little Mercedes. Yes, the raise will have to be sizeable.”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Sizeable,” I said firmly. “Or I will feel it necessary to tell the police about your stealing a lovely damask napkin from the Prescotts’ home.”
“Stealing a...” She gaped at me.
“Lovely damask napkin,” I said. “It was peeking out of your purse — your sweet little beaded purse. The one that was carrying more than an evening bag is meant to carry.”
I had noticed the purse because it looked almost exactly like the one Sandra had been carrying. Sandra had gotten hers at AmVets. Ms. T, I was sure, hadn’t. I had not noticed a damask napkin peeking out of it, but Ms. T couldn’t know that.
I regarded her and smiled conspiratorially. She decided to brazen it out.
“I had not cared for the candied fruit in the torte,” she said crisply. “I got rid of it the way one is supposed to — in my napkin. I didn’t want to offend the cook, so I took the napkin away with me to wash and iron and return at a later date. I intended to confess to accidentally carrying it off. Now, if you would like to tell the police about this, you go right ahead. I very much doubt that they’ll be interested.”
She turned away and took a stack of folders off the credenza behind her. “There is a lot of work to be done today,” she said coldly, rising to her feet and putting a hand on one lovely hip. “I suggest you start on it.”
“Oh, I would, I would,” I said. “Except that I’m just so confused! See, I keep wondering why Mr. Prescott would take the knife he had just used to stab his wife to death all the way out to a dumpster half a block away.”
She was no longer pretending shock at the suggestion that Mr. P had, indeed, done the foul deed. “To get rid of it, of course,” she said, frowning at me again. If she kept this up, her perfect brow was going to develop unfortunate little lines. “He didn’t have time to hide it better.”
“Why hide it at all?” I asked. “Why not wash it?”
She stared at me.
“Why not wash it?” I asked her. “And then dry it? And then put it back in the drawer with all the other knives? The blood would be gone. His fingerprints would be gone.” I shrugged. “Not that they’d matter on a knife in his own kitchen.”