The obit on Gregory Craig told Carella that the man had written a best-selling book titled Deadly Shades, which presumably had been based on his own experiences with ghosts in a house he’d rented in Massachusetts three summers ago. The book had topped the nonfiction best-seller list for a full year and had been reprinted six months ago, garnering a paperback advance of $1.5 million. The motion picture was currently being filmed in Wales, of all places, with a British star playing Craig and a galaxy of fading well-known actresses in cameo roles as the shades who’d plagued his hoped-for vacation. The obit went on to say that he’d written a half dozen novels before turning out his nonfiction blockbuster, listing them all by title and quoting some of the reviews the newspaper had given him over the past twelve years. There’d been a hiatus of five years between his last novel and the ghost book. His sole survivor was listed as Miss Abigail Craig, a daughter. The obit did not mention the murder of Marian Esposito, Companion Case R-76533.
“What do you think?” Hawes said, and crumpled the paper cup he was holding, and tossed it at Carella’s wastebasket, missing.
“I think they saved us some legwork,” Carella said, and opened the Isola telephone directory.
When Abigail Craig opened the door for them at 11:20 that morning, she was wearing an expensively tailored suit over a silk blouse with a scarf tied at the throat, brown high-heeled boots, gold hoop earrings. They had called first to ask if they might come over, and she had seemed a bit reluctant on the phone, but they chalked this off to the natural grief and confusion that normally followed the death of an immediate member of the family. Now, sitting opposite her in a living room dominated by a huge and lavishly decorated Christmas tree, they weren’t sure whether she was at all grieved or confused. She seemed, in fact, more interested in getting to her hairdresser than in telling them anything about her father. Her hair looked fine to Hawes. All of her looked fine to Hawes.
She was one of those creamy blondes with a flawless complexion usually attributed to British women who ride horses. Her eyes were a brilliant green fringed with lashes as blonde as her hair; her face was somewhat narrow, with high cheekbones and a generous mouth that looked richly appointed even without lipstick. Her upper lip flared a bit, showing perfect white teeth even when she wasn’t speaking. Hawes loved the ones with an overbite. Hawes wished they were here to exchange Christmas gifts instead of to ask questions about a dead man who seemed to hold little or no interest for the cool beauty who sat opposite him in brown high-heeled boots, her legs crossed.
“I’m sorry I have to rush you,” she said, “but my appointment is at noon, and Antoine is clear across town.”
“We’re sorry to break in like this,” Hawes said, and smiled. Carella looked at him. They hadn’t broken in at all. They had called a half hour ago and carefully prepared her for their visit.
“Miss Craig,” Carella said, “when did you last see your father alive?”
“A year ago,” she said, startling him.
“And not since?”
“Not since.”
“How come?”
“How come?” Abigail said, and arched one eyebrow. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Her voice was Vassar or Bryn Mawr out of Rosemary Hall or Westover. Her manner was irritated and impatient. Carella had never felt comfortable with these long, cool, poised types, and she was doing little now to ease his distress. He looked at her for a moment and debated his approach. He decided to lay it on the line.
“I mean,” he said, “isn’t that a bit unusual? An only daughter…”
“He has another daughter,” she said flatly.
“Another daughter? I was under the impression…”
“More or less,” Abigail said. “She’s young enough to be his daughter anyway.”
“Who’s that?” Carella asked.
“Hillary.”
“Do you mean Hillary Scott?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” Abigail said, and reached for a cigarette in an enameled box on the end table. Lighting it, she said, “Let me put it to you simply,” and blew out a stream of smoke, and then put the gold lighter back on the table. “Ever since the divorce my father and I haven’t got along. When he took up with the Spook, that was the end. Period. Finis. Curtain.”
“By the Spook…”
“Hillary.”
“And when did he…take up with her, Miss Craig?”
“Shortly after Shades was published—when all the creeps in the universe were coming out of the woodwork with ghosts of their own.”
“You’re referring to Deadly Shades?”
“My father’s big moneymaking masterpiece,” Abigail said, and crushed out the cigarette.
“It was published when?”
“The hardcover edition? A year and a half ago.”
“And he met Hillary Scott shortly after that?”
“I don’t know when he met her. I didn’t find out about them until Thanksgiving a year ago. God knows how long they’d been living together by then. Invited me over for the big turkey dinner. ‘Hello, darling,’” she said, mimicking broadly, “‘I’d like you to meet Hillary Scott, my lady friend.’ His lady friend!” she said, her eyes flashing.
“Fucking little twenty-two-year-old spook hunter.”
Carella blinked. He was used to all sorts of language in the squadroom and on the streets; you couldn’t be a cop for as long as he’d been one and still expect people to say “darn” and “shucks.” But the obscenity had sounded completely out of place in this festively decorated living room on Hall Avenue. Hawes, on the other hand, was watching Abigail with an intensity bordering on instant obsession; he loved the ones who said “fuck” through their overbites.
“So, uh, the last time you saw your father,” Carella said, “was…”
“Thanksgiving last year. When he introduced me to the Spook. That was it. The last straw.”
“What were the other straws?”
“The divorce was the big thing.”
“And when was that?”
“Seven years ago. Right after Knights and Knaves was published.”
“That’s one of his novels, isn’t it?”
“His best novel. And his last one.” She took another cigarette from the enameled box, held the lighter to it, and blew out a stream of smoke in Hawes’s direction. “The critics savaged it. So naturally, he took it out on Mother. Decided that Stephanie Craig, poor soul, was somehow to blame for what the critics had said about his book. Never once realized that the book was truly a marvelous one. Oh, no. Figured if the critics said it was awful, why, then, it had to be awful. And blamed Mother. Blamed her for the lifestyle—one of his favorite words—that had caused him to write his universally panned novel. Said he wanted out.” Abigail shrugged. “Said he needed to ‘rediscover’ himself—another favorite Gregory Craig utterance.” She dragged on the cigarette again. “So he rediscovered himself with a piece of crap like Shades.”
“Is your mother still alive?” Hawes asked.
“No.”
“When did she die?”
“Three summers ago.”
“How?”
“She drowned. They said it was an accident.”
“They?”
“The Coroner’s Office in Hampstead, Massachusetts.”
“Massachusetts,” Carella said.