He went out with the client, and I sneaked another quick cognac. Just a small one.
My father returned and regained his throne. "Personal guards are an excellent idea," he said. "I only hope Mrs. Gillsworth doesn't refuse them."
"I don't believe she will, sir," I said. "Especially if it's explained that their assignment will not be made public. But I still think the police should be informed of the letters. Granted they cannot provide round-the-clock surveillance, but they might be able to trace the source of the paper used and identify the make of the printing machine that was used."
Father looked at me steadily. "Then you were telling the truth? You've made no progress at all?"
"That's not completely accurate," I admitted, "but what I have is so slight that I didn't want to mention it in Gillsworth's presence."
Then I told him of Hertha and Frank Gloriana, who might or might not be frauds, and how Lydia attended their seances. I said nothing about La-verne Willigan's connection with the Glorianas, nor did I mention that I believed the poison-pen letters and Peaches' ransom note had been composed on the same word processor by the same author.
Why didn't I tell my father these things? Because they were very thin gruel indeed, vague hypotheses that would probably make no sense to anyone but me. Also, I must admit, I didn't want to tell the pater everything I knew because he was so learned, so wise, so far my intellectual superior. What I was implying by my reticence was "I know something you don't know!" Childish? You bet.
He looked at me, somewhat bewildered. "You think the Glorianas are responsible for the threatening letters?"
"I just don't know, sir. But Mrs. Gillsworth gave me no other names. Apparently she's convinced that no one in her social circle-relatives, friends, acquaintances-could possibly be capable of anything like that. So Hertha Gloriana is the only lead I have."
"It's not much," he said.
"No," I agreed, "it's not. But they do say the medium is the message."
He gave me a sour smile. "Well, stay on it," he commanded, "and keep me informed. Now I must call the security-"
But just then his phone rang.
He broke off speaking and stared at it a moment.
"Now who on earth can that be?" he said and picked it up.
"Prescott McNally," he said crisply. Then:
"What? What? Oh my God. Yes. Yes, of course. We'll be there immediately."
He hung up slowly and turned a bleak face to me.
"Lydia Gillsworth is dead," he said. "Murdered."
I don't often weep but I did that night.
We later learned that Roderick Gillsworth had called 911 before phoning my father. By the time we arrived at the poet's home, the police were there and we were not allowed inside. I was glad to see Sgt. A1 Rogoff was the senior officer present and apparently in charge of the investigation.
Father and I sat in the Lexus and waited as patiently as we could. I don't believe we exchanged a dozen words; we were both stunned by the tragedy. His face was closed, and I stared unseeing at the starry sky and hoped Lydia Gillsworth had passed to a higher plane.
Finally, close to midnight, Rogoff came out of the house and lumbered over to the Lexus. A1 played the good ol' boy because he thought it would further his career. But I happened to know he was a closet intellectual and a ballet maven. Other Florida cops might enjoy discussing the methods of Fred Bundy; the sergeant preferred talking about the technique of Rudolf Nureyev.
"Mr. McNally," he said, addressing my father, "we're about to tape a voluntary statement by Roderick Gillsworth. He'd like you to be present. So would I, just to make sure everything is kosher."
"Of course," father said, climbing out of the car. "Thank you for suggesting it."
"Al-" I started.
"You stay out here, Archy," he commanded in his official voice. "We've already got a mob scene in there."
"I have something important to tell you," I said desperately.
"Later," he said, and he and my father marched into the Gillsworth home.
So I sat alone for another hour, watching police officers and technicians from a fire-rescue truck search the grounds with flashlights and big lanterns. Finally Rogoff came out of the house alone and stood by my open window peeling the cellophane wrapper from one of his big cigars.
"Your father is going to stay the night," he reported. "With Gillsworth. He says to tell you to drive home. He'll phone when he wants to be picked up."
I was shocked. "You mean Gillsworth wants to sleep in this house tonight? We could put him up or he could go to a hotel."
"Your father suggested it, but Gillsworth wants to stay here. It's okay; I'll leave a couple of men on the premises."
Then we were silent, watching as a wheeled stretcher was brought out of the house. The body was covered with a black rubber sheet. The stretcher was slid into the back of a police ambulance, the door slammed. The vehicle pulled slowly away, the siren beginning to moan.
"Al," I said as steadily as I could, "how was she killed?"
"Hit on the head repeatedly with a walking stick. It had a heavy silver spike for a handle. Pierced her skull."
"Don't tell me it was in the shape of a unicorn."
He stared at me. "How did you know?"
"She showed it to me. She brought it back from up north as a gift for her husband. He collected antique canes."
"Yeah, I saw his collection. Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
"No. Something else. Remember my asking you about poison-pen letters? Lydia Gillsworth was the person getting them."
"Son of a bitch," the sergeant said bitterly. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because she refused to let us take it to the police. And if we had, would you have provided twenty-four-hour protection?"
"Probably not," he conceded. "Where are the letters now?"
"At home."
"How's about you drive me there and hand them over. Then drive me back here. Okay? You weren't planning to get to bed early, were you?"
"Not tonight," I said. "Let's go."
I drove, and Al sat beside me juicing up his cigar.
"Tell me what happened," I asked him.
"Not a lot to tell," he said. "Gillsworth was at your place, talked to his wife on the phone, told her he'd see her soon. He says he drove directly home. Says he found the front door open although she had told him all doors and windows were locked. She was facedown in the sitting room. Signs of a violent struggle. Spatters of blood everywhere. Baskets of flowers knocked to the floor. A grandfather clock tipped over. It had stopped about ten minutes before Gillsworth arrived."
"My God," I said, "he almost walked in on a kill-ing."
"Uh-huh."
"Did he see anyone when he drove up?"
"Says not."
"Anything stolen?"
"Doesn't look like it. He can't spot anything missing."
"How's he taking it?"
"Hard. He's trying to do the stiff-upper-lip bit, but it's not working."
"She was a lovely woman, Al."
"She's not now," he said in the flat tones he used when he wanted to conceal his emotions.
When we entered the house, mother was waiting in the hallway. She wore a nightgown under a tatty flannel robe, and her feet were thrust into fluffy pink mules. She glanced at Sgt. Rogoff in his uniform, then put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
"Archy," she said, "what's wrong? Where is father? Has he been hurt?"
"He's all right," I said. "He's at the Gillsworth home. Mother, I'm sorry to tell you that Lydia has been killed."
She closed her eyes and swayed. I stepped close and gripped her arm.
"A car accident?" she asked weakly.
I didn't answer that. One shock at a time.
"Father will be staying with Gillsworth tonight,"
I said. "I came back with the sergeant to pick up some papers."
She didn't respond. Her eyes remained closed and I could feel her trembling under my hand.