“Mildred was probably passed out on gin. She likes her libations too,” said King.
Joan added, “And this nurse obviously had learned the routine of the house, that both of them drank and didn’t sleep together. Once she learned he was a Scotch drinker and had his own stash, and also that Mildred never touched the stuff, she had her method of murder. She’d appear to be long gone before the deed was done.”
Reynolds nodded. “He could have been killed any number of ways, but it had to be in a manner that wouldn’t require an autopsy, because that would have messed up the timing. Martin had to die in his bed. So he did, and Mildred found him there and assumed he died naturally, although the docs tell me death by methanol is by no means peaceful. And methanol metabolizes into formaldehyde, which is toxic, but then it’s oxidized into formic acid. That’s six times more lethal than methanol.”
“So Martin was basically pickled before he got to the funeral home,” said King.
“That’s right. According to Bruno’s staff, their boss was scheduled to be in the area that day and the next at a number of events. The procedure at the funeral home was for a body to lie in the viewing area for a couple of days. Martin died on a Monday, and he went to the funeral home Monday night. His body was laid out on Wednesday and Thursday, with burial scheduled for Friday. Bruno came by on Thursday.”
“Still tight timing,” said Joan.
Reynolds shrugged. “Probably the best they could do. Otherwise, how else could they get him to the funeral home? They couldn’t very well invite him to Martin’s house. It was probably the funeral home or nothing. Sure it was risky but it worked.”
“And none of the woman’s background checked out, right?” said Joan.
Reynolds nodded. “To use a cliché, she’s completely disappeared without a trace.”
“Description?”
“Older woman, at least fifty, medium height, a little stout. She had mousy brown hair with some gray in it, though that could have been dyed. And get this: she told Mildred her name was Elizabeth Borden.”
King exclaimed, “Elizabeth Borden, as in Lizzie Borden who gave her mother forty whacks?”
“And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one,” added Joan.
“So we have some people with a real warped, macabre sense of humor,” said Reynolds.
Joan eyed him intently. “Okay, they’re intelligent killers who read their criminal history. They’re still killers.”
“Well, thanks again for your help. I don’t know where this leads us, but it’s more than we had before.”
“What’s going to happen to Mildred?” asked King.
Reynolds shrugged. “You can’t arrest someone for being stupid; otherwise, you’d lock up at least half the population. Unless we dig up something incriminating, nothing will happen to her. But if she was in on it, seems like she’d have gotten rid of the Scotch.” He turned to Joan. “I heard you were investigating Bruno’s disappearance on behalf of the family. That’s cool. I know you won’t do anything stupid, and you’ve already found something we missed, so if you need something, just let me know.”
“Funny you should mention that—I have a list right here,” replied Joan.
As Joan and Reynolds talked business, King watched Mildred Martin emerge from the interrogation room. She didn’t look like the same woman. Gregarious, salty, full of punch when he first met her, she now looked like she’d soon be joining her dead husband.
After Reynolds walked off, Sean looked at Joan. “Now where?” he asked.
“We go to the funeral home.”
“The feds already picked that field clean.”
“Yeah, just like they did with Mildred Martin. Besides, I like funeral homes. You hear the most delicious gossip about the dearly departed, usually from their friends.”
“Joan, you really are a cynic.”
“Admit it. It’s one of my most attractive qualities.”
42
The police dropped off Mildred Martin at her house and then left. Down the street, at the end of the block, a black sedan melded into the darkness, a pair of alert FBI agents inside.
The old woman staggered into the house and locked the door behind her. She needed a drink so badly. Why had she done what she’d done? It was all so perfect, and she’d gone and messed it up, but then she’d recovered. Yes, she had. Everything was okay. She reached for the gin and filled her tumbler, using barely any tonic.
She drank down half the glass; her nerves began to steady. It would be okay; everything was fine. She was old, what could the FBI really do to her? They had nothing really; she was going to be okay.
“Mildred, how are you?”
She dropped her tumbler and let out a shriek.
“Who’s there?” She backed up against the liquor cabinet.
The man came forward a little but remained in the shadows.
“It’s your old friend.”
She squinted at him. “I don’t know you.”
“Of course you do. I’m the man who helped you kill your husband.”
She lifted up her chin. “I did not kill Bill.”
“Well, Mildred, the methanol you put in his body certainly did. And you made the phone call to Bruno, just like I asked you to.”
She looked more closely. “That… that was you?”
He moved forward some more. “I let you get your revenge on John Bruno and become rich with life insurance in the bargain, and found a way for you to put your poor, sick husband out of his misery. And all I asked was for you to play by the rules. That was all I demanded and you’ve disappointed me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a quivering voice.
“The rules, Mildred. My rules. And those rules didn’t include another trip to the police station and further interrogation by the FBI.”
“It was those people who came here asking questions.”
“Yes, King and Dillinger, I know. Go on,” he said pleasantly.
“I… I was just talking to them. I told them what you said to say. About Bruno, I mean. Just like you said.”
“You were obviously more than candid. Come now, Mildred, tell me everything.”
The woman was shaking badly.
He said soothingly, “Calm down, pour yourself another drink.”
She did so and downed it. “I… we were talking about Scotch. I told him Bill liked his Scotch, that’s all. I swear.”
“And you put the methanol in the bottle of Scotch?”
“Yes, in Bill’s special Scotch. The Macallan’s.”
“Why did you do that, Mildred? We gave you the methanol. You were supposed to just put it in a syringe and shoot it into his feeding tube. Nice and simple. All you had to do was follow instructions.”
“I know, but… I just couldn’t do it that way. I couldn’t. I wanted it to seem like I was just giving him his Scotch, just like regular. See? So I mixed it in the bottle and then put that into him.”
“Fine, so afterwards why didn’t you pour the Scotch down the sink, or throw out the bottle?”
“I was going to, but I was afraid somebody might see me. I throw out lots of empty bottles of booze, but I also know some of my neighbors thought I’d killed Bill for the insurance money. They might go through my trash. And even if I washed out the bottle and even broke it into pieces the police can still find things from little bits of glass. I watch those TV forensic shows—I know! I figured it’d be better if I just left it where it was. And then I just didn’t want to go near it. I… I was feeling guilty, about Bill.” She started to quietly sob.