In another life she must have done something especially wonderful to end up in this one with a friend and neighbor like Pix, Faith thought. If the Millers ever moved, she'd have to go too.
No one in the bar had looked up when she had come in and no one looked up as she left. Out on the street it was as cold as a witch's—she paused mentally; she was a minister's wife after all—finger, and she hugged herself to keep warm as she sped to the car and its heater.
It didn't take long to get to Byford, and she was there before Dunne.
She waited in the parking lot and thought about the case. She'd been right. James Hubbard was the key. He must know all about both Russells' operations. f it hadn't been so obvious that he didn't know Eddie was dead—and was also clearly unable to negotiate a trip to Byford even in good weather—she might have put him on the list of possible murder suspects. She'd decided to add Stanley Russell Senior. He might not have had much paternal feeling for a son he hadn't watched grow up, especially if that son was starting to cut into his profits or threaten him with blackmail. Eddie was certainly dumb enough to do that. Wasn't that what Scott Phelan had pointed out—that he was stupid enough to get himself killed? If Stanley himself hadn't wielded the knives, someone in his employ might have. But the timing and locale didn't make any sense. Why not just wait for him to try to cross the street in Boston? Under ordinary circumstances, the car would have been long gone before anyone had tried to get the number. It was Stanley Russell's very unlucky day that Faith was there watching.
She thought some more about James. He knew about the Russells. What else did he know about Hubbard House? Maybe Dunne would be able to question him today. And where was the lieutenant anyway? She looked at her watch. She wanted to know what he knew and was willing to trade information. She looked in her rearview mirror, saw his car pull up, and stepped out to meet him.
He looked at her outfit—a black wool jersey DKNY skirt and top—chic, but chilly. "Where's your coat?" he asked.
“Gave it to James. Have you heard how he is?”
“Yes. He's dead, Faith. I'm sorry.”
Faith began to shiver even more. The little boyin the picture was dead. The man she had been talking to only an hour ago, the man who was looking forward to a hot cup of coffee, was dead.
“Do you think the Hubbards know?"
“Not yet. I asked Boston to hold off. But the family does know he was hit, and Roland Hubbard went in to the hospital. Muriel and Donald are here keeping everything going. Charmaine's here too, probably getting in the way.”
Faith thought of Dr. Hubbard, driving in to see the son he hadn't seen for sixteen years. What was he thinking? And when he arrived, it would be too late. Too late to say anything, or hear anything. It was heartbreaking.
“You were right, incidentally. Stanley Russell does drive a Cadillac, plate number MBA 802, although at the moment he says he wasn't driving it today.”
They entered through the front door of Nathaniel's house. Sylvia Vale was outside the office. She had been crying. She didn't seem surprised that Faith was there.
“I'll tell Muriel and Donald you're here," she said, and disappeared into the office.
“You haven't told me your news. What was so interesting that you had to come here to ask more questions?" Faith realized she'd gotten sidetracked by James' death and what she was sure was the involvement of Stanley Russell.
Dunne looked down at her and with a trace of smugness said, "We traced the knives.”
Traced the knives! That meant they had the murderer!
* * *
Donald and Muriel arrived together. Charmaine was a few steps behind. They looked as if a tiny spark would send them flying to kingdom come.
“Is there someplace private where we could go to talk?" Dunne asked.
“How about my office?" Donald was clearly trying to speak in a nonchalant tone, as if Dunne and Faith were coming to consult him about hangnails or persistent dandruff, but the words came out in four terse bullets.
They followed him through the annex hallway into the other house. Muriel was behind them and Charmaine was lagging far to the rear. Faith thought they might lose her before they reached their destination, but at one point John Dunne whirled around—thereby creating a small vortex—and swept her up to the rest of them with his firm eye.
Donald reached in his pocket, took out his keys, and opened the door. Faith stepped inside and was mildly shocked. Donald was evidently a devotee of the Bauhaus as opposed to the Adam school, the period to which the house belonged. He had retained the cherry wainscoting, as well as the long windows with their hand-blown glass panes that offered wavy views of the front lawn. Everything else was a minimalistic compilation of chrome, leather, black, white, or glass. The single note of color was a huge abstract portrait of Charmaine, in the style of Soutine, which hung in solitary splendor on one wall.
Donald automatically went to the other side of his desk and sat down. Faith took the chair in front. Dunne brought two chairs from the rear of the room and placed them next to Faith's for Muriel and Charmaine; then he went over to the wall and leaned against it next to Charmaine's portrait, where he could see them all.
Faith knew she was supposed to wait for Dunne to start, but he appeared to be in no rush, and it was all she could do to keep from saying something. She looked at Donald, Muriel, and Charmaine. Only Muriel was not visibly tense. Charmaine was chewing her thumbnail. Donald was tapping the top of his desk with a pencil. But Muriel—Muriel seemed to have gone someplace else. Her eyes weren't focused on the room or anyone in it. She sat absolutely still.
Dunne spoke in a deceptively mild manner. "When did you last see Stanley Russell, Charmaine?”
So he was starting there.
She lost the color in her face, which highlighted the artificiality of her blusher and foundation. She looked as garish as a hooker.
“I don't know anyone by that name," she answered defiantly.
“He knows you.”
She looked startled.
“I may have met him once in Florida with Eddie. I think Eddie said Stanley was his father's name, so that may have been who the gentleman was." Charmaine had dropped her southern accent and was trying Katherine Hepburn. Dunne wasn't buying it.
Donald was staring at her. It was hard to read his face—resignation, disappointment, fury. Muriel had turned her gaze to the windows. She wasn't even there.
“I believe you have seen him since then. Seen him in Boston both with and without his son present. Is this true?”
Donald spoke up. "My wife doesn't have to answer these questions without a lawyer present.”
Dunne nodded. "That's true. I merely thought she'd like to help us out here. Two people are dead and another in the hospital barely hanging on."
“Two!" Charmaine looked wildly about the room, as if expecting more bodies to materialize—or someone gunning for her.
The door did burst open, startling the rest of them. Francis Coffin doddered in, followed closely by several of his men.
“Have I missed it?" he shouted, then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and waved it wildly.
He walked into the middle of the room and faced the desk. "Donald Whittemore Hubbard, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Edsel Russell on December sixteenth. You have the right to ...”
John Dunne heaved a sigh, straightened up, and walked toward Donald, who appeared to have been turned to stone. It hadn't exactly gone according to plan, but it was too late now. Dunne placed his hands on the pristine surface of the glass-topped desk and leaned forward.
“We found out who bought thé knives, Donald.”