But then I remembered I had asked Connie to answer the Glorianas' ad for a "personalized psychic profile." The risk was too great that they would recognize her name, and that might eliminate whatever chance I had of proving their mail order project a fraud. I decided that instead of Connie, I'd ask Meg Trumble to attend the seance with me.
What a fateful decision that turned out to be!
I returned from my swim in time to dress for the family cocktail hour-my third change of apparel that day. It was while dispensing our first martini that my father delivered unexpected news.
"Roderick Gillsworth would like to see you, Archy," he said.
I blinked. "What on earth for?"
"He didn't say. He suggested you come over this evening after dinner. I think perhaps you better phone first."
"All right," I said doubtfully. "Rather odd, wouldn't you say, sir?"
"I would. But I'd like you to take advantage of your meeting, if you feel the time is opportune, to mention the necessity of his drafting a new will. Just refer to it casually, of course. It may serve to start him thinking of his financial responsibilities."
"I'll do what I can," I said. "But I really can't imagine why he should want to talk with me."
Mother looked up. "Perhaps he's lonely," she said quietly.
Sunday dinner was a more relaxed occasion than that of the previous night. I think my parents and I were determined not to let our sorrow at Lydia Gillsworth's death affect the serenity of our household. What a cliche it is to say that life goes on, so I shall say it: "Life goes on." And Ursi Olson's mixed grill (lamb chops, tournedos, medaillons of veal) was a splendid reminder.
We finished our key lime mousse and coffee a little after eight-thirty. I phoned Gillsworth, and he asked if I could arrive around nine. He sounded steady enough. I said I'd be there and inquired if there was anything he needed that I might bring along. First he thanked me and said there was not. But then, after a pause, he asked timidly if the McNallys could spare a bottle of vodka. His supply was kaput and he would repay as soon as he could get to a liquor store.
I saw nothing unusual in this request, but I feared it might trouble my father. (Tabloid headline: "Grieving Hubby Drinks Himself into Insensibility on Attorney's Booze.") So I sneaked a liter of Sterling from our reserve in the utility room and hustled it out to the Miata without being caught.
Crime scene tape was still in place around the Gillsworth home, but there were no police cars in sight. Roderick himself answered my knock and greeted me with a wan smile. He said he was alone, finally, and thanked me for bringing the plasma.
"Have the reporters been a nuisance?" I asked as he led me to his study. (I was happy he hadn't selected the sitting room where the body was found.)
"Not too bad," he said. "Your father handled most of them, and I refused to grant television interviews. Make yourself comfortable while I fetch some ice cubes. Would you like a mix?"
"Water will be fine," I said, and when he left, I settled into a threadbare armchair and looked about with interest.
I had never before been in a poet's den, and it was something of a disappointment: just a small book-lined room with worn desk, battered file cabinet, an unpainted worktable laden with reference books and a typewriter. It was an ancient Remington, not electronic and definitely not a word processor. I don't know what I expected to find in this poet's sanctum sanctorum-perhaps a framed photograph of Longfellow or a Styrofoam bust of Joyce Kilmer.
But there were no decorative touches. That drab room could easily be the office of any homeowner: a nook too cramped and depressing to be used for anything but answering threats from the IRS.
He returned with a bucket of ice cubes, a flask of water, and two highball glasses. He placed them on the table alongside my bottle of Sterling.
"I'm a miserable bartender," he confessed. "Would you mix your own?"
"Certainly, sir," I said.
"That's another thing," he added. "Your 'sir' and 'Mr. Gillsworth,' while appreciated, really aren't necessary. I've always addressed you as Archy. If you called me Rod, my ego would not be irretrievably damaged."
"Force of habit," I said. "Or rather force of training. I may be the last son in America who addresses his father as 'sir.' "
"Your father's different."
"Yes," I said, sighing, "he is that."
I built my own drink: a little vodka, a lot of water. He mixed his own: a lot of vodka, a little water. I took the armchair again, and he lowered himself into a creaky swivel chair behind his desk.
"Rod," I said, beginning to recite a short speech I had rehearsed, "I haven't had a chance to express my condolences on the death of your wife. It was a terrible tragedy that saddened my parents and me. We shall always remember Lydia as a good neighbor and a gracious lady."
"Yes," he said, "she was. Thank you."
I sipped, but he gulped, and I wondered if he swilled in that fashion to make certain he'd sleep that night.
"It makes my poems seems so meaningless," he mused, staring into his glass. "So futile."
"It shouldn't have that effect," I said. "Surely your wife's tragic death could provide inspiration for poetry in an elegiac mood."
"Perhaps," he said. "In time. At the moment my mind is empty of everything but sorrow. I hope you're right. I hope that eventually I'll be able to express my bereavement and by writing about it exorcise my pain and regain some semblance of emotional tranquility."
I thought that rather much. In fact it sounded like a speech he had rehearsed. But perhaps poets talked that way. Or at least this poet.
He took another heavy swallow of his drink and slumped in his chair. His eyes were reddened, as if from weeping, and his entire face seemed droopy. I fancied that even his long nose had sagged since I last saw him. He was now a very gloomy bird indeed.
"Archy," he said, "I understand that you will continue investigating the poison-pen letters."
"That's correct."
"You'll be working with Sergeant Rogoff?"
I nodded.
"What do you think of him? Is he competent?"
"More than competent," I said. "Al is a very expert and talented police officer."
Gillsworth made a small sound I think he intended as a laugh. "I believe he suspects me."
"That's his job, Rod," I explained. "The investigation is just beginning. The sergeant must suspect everyone connected with Mrs. Gillsworth until their whereabouts at the time the crime was committed can definitely be established."
"Well, my whereabouts have definitely been established. I was with you and your father."
"Rogoff understands that," I said as soothingly as
I could. "But he can take nothing for granted. Every alibi must be verified."
He finished his drink and poured himself another, as massive as the first.
"What angers me the most," he said, "is that he won't give me any information. I ask him what is being done to find the maniac who killed my wife, and he just mutters, 'We're working on it.' I don't consider that adequate."
"At this stage I doubt if there is anything to tell you. And even when progress is made, the police are very cautious about revealing it. They don't want to risk raising false hopes, and they are wary about identifying any person as being under suspicion until his or her guilt can be proved."
Gillsworth shook his head. "It's maddening. Now I've got to accompany Lydia's casket up north for the funeral. Her family is sure to ask what is being done to find the killer, and all I'll be able to tell them is that the police are working on it."
"I know it's frustrating," I said sympathetically. "It's difficult to be patient, but you must remember the police have had the case for only forty-eight hours."
"How long do you think it will take to solve it?"