“It was a painless and rapid method, a simple overdose."
“These then were residents who had left bequests to Hubbard House?" She asked more to keep the conversational ball rolling than from any lack of certainty, since as long as the ball was in play, the game wasn't over. She hadn't watched all those basketball games for nothing.
“Not all of them, of course. That would have been foolhardy. I had to help some on as a little window dressing, so to speak. Though until poor Farley fell into your bouillon, we haven't had an autopsy here for years. It's not the sector of the population that calls for them, you know, especially these days. There's barely money in the state for homicide victims.”
Faith wasn't interested in the always-dismal state of the state's coffers. "Farley!" She was genuinely indignant. Then there had never been any question of its being her bouillon.
“Oh no, my dear. Completely natural, although the morphine would have been hard to detect if it had been me. No one would have been looking for it, you see. No, Farley was his own doing. Nothing to do with either you or me." , Faith rubbed her eyes. She was very tired, andsitting with a madman discussing which of them might have killed someone wasn't alleviating her weariness. She suddenly thought of Howard Perkins. The start of this whole business. Had he been visited by this angel of mercy killing too? She had to know—or she'd never be able to face Aunt Chat again. Oh, that she could face her now!
“What about Howard Perkins?"
“Howard Perkins? Did you know him? Charming man and with us for such a short time. He should have moved here years earlier. It's very difficult for me to understand why anyone would want to stay in New York, but then he would go on so about his beloved opera and the museums. What about him?"
“Did you—rather, was he ... ?" Faith searched for some polite equivalent to "murder him.”
Roland caught her meaning. "Oh no, he had a very bad heart. Besides, he was leaving everything to some woman in New Jersey, and I certainly wouldn't have used him as camouflage when he had joined us so recently." Dr. Hubbard sounded offended at the kind of thoughts Faith had been harboring.
Her lassitude increased. She was almost beginning to relax. Tom would arrive, find her, and the good doctor would join his daughter in a nicely furnished padded cell.
Then Roland's next words sent a megadose of adrenaline coursing through her veins and any notion of fatigue disappeared at once.
“But we stray and time is passing quickly. I must put in an appearance at our little party, and this could take a while. I really am so very, very sorry that I have to kill you.”
He went to the closet and put on his coat, then reached up on the shef and took a gun from an ancient Wright's Arch Preserver shoebox.
“It will be much nicer for you if you cooperate and I can see you out the normal way, but I'll bring this just in case.”
Normal? Just in case? Did words have meaning anymore?
Faith began to think rapidly. She had no idea where they were going, but it was obviously outside. How would he explain her lack of a coat? Once again she was going to freeze because of one of the Hubbards. But she had underestimated Roland.
“I'm going to give you one of my overcoats. You notice I say 'give' and not 'lend.' I don't expect that I will get it back. I'll explain that I gave it to you to wear home, since yours was soiled. This was after I came across you being ill in one of the rooms. You insisted you were fit enough to drive and I didn't like to quarrel with a lady. Of course, I should have insisted, but then you are so stubborn.”
He was rehearsing and Faith's mind was suddenly blank. He was going to kill her and there was nothing she could do about it. f she screamed, no one would hear her, and he would kill her "normally" or not, before she could expect help in any case. She looked at him as he courteously held his coat out for her. He was over six feet and fit as a fiddle. There 'vas no way she could overpower him.
“Best give me your keys now, my dear. I'll be driving at first.”
She took them out of her prized Judith Leiber bag, which still swung from her shoulder. It had been an engagement present from Hope, and Faith had followed suit and given her one also. Hope! The wedding! She had one more fitting for her matron of honor dress! It wasn't your whole life that flashed before you in terminal moments, but ludicrous and totally inappropriate bits and pieces.
Dr. Hubbard unlocked the door and was reaching for the knob when a knock came.
It was Tom. It had to be Tom. She was safe.
Hubbard opened the closet door and shoved her inside. The same closet she had ducked into a week earlier. The same closet she'd been able to duck out of. A key was pushed into the keyhole, obliterating the light from the room. She heard it turn with a disheartening click. She started to scream and pounded on the door with all her strength. Why wasn't Tom coming? What could be happening? It seemed like hours and her screams were getting hoarser and hoarser.
The door opened at last and she rushed straight into the arms of—Dr. Hubbard.
“Dear Sylvia. Worried about me and wanted me to know I was missed. It sounds like a lovely party, but I told her I wasn't quite up to it. Of course she understood." He looked at his watch. "I just might be able to get back for some of my claret cup if we hurry. My great-grandmother's recipe. I do hope you had some.”
Faith was sobbing.
“This closet was the strong room. Tinned on the inside, you know. And these doors are very solid.”
He opened the door to the hall, closed it firmly behind them, and poked the gun in her back. It was obviously the signal to start walking, and she did.
They started down the corridor toward the rear of the house. He walked, as he always did, with a measured tread, head erect. His long overcoat billowed out behind him like the robes of some crazed medieval king.
Near the stairs Faith turned to him and said beseechingly, "Dr. Hubbard, I am going to have a baby." She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out.
“Are you, my dear? Congratulations are in order! How unfortunate that it should come at a time like this.”
There was no hope whatsoever.
He steered her to an outside door that she remembered led to stairs going down to the parking lot. She stopped crying. This was time not for Niobe but for one of her relatives—Athena or Hera.
At the top of the stairs Faith silently kicked off the high heels she had been wearing. The cold from the icy ground shot painfully through her feet to her legs. She walked on tiptoes, so he wouldn't notice the sudden change in her height. It was excruciating.
“Mind your step here, it's treacherous. We certainly have had a cold winter, haven't we?”
Roland sounded as though he were escorting her to the prom and worried she might turn an ankle. Faith didn't reply. It was one thing for the murderer to be so civilized; she the victim didn't have to follow suit. And she'd be damned if talking about the weather would be her last act.
It wasn't.
At the bottom of the stairs she took off, sprinted a yard or two ahead of him, tore off the coat and threw it over his head—she was close enough to aim correctly, but far enough away so he couldn't grab her. Then she sped off away from the lampposts toward the darkest part of the shrubbery.
“Faith! Faith! Come back here! You can't get away from me!" He was enraged. The last words were clearer, and presumably he'd gotten out from under the coat, but Faith didn't turn around to look.
There was a series of paths and small terraces that sloped down from the parking lot alongside the steep front driveway. She headed for these and the direction of the main road. Going down the drive itself would give him a clear shot, and she had no doubt that he would use the gun now, no matter who saw or heard. He was beyond what ever reason he'd managed to retain.