“Yes. And her dog ate some candy and died. Lubie candy. You don’t get food poisoning from candy. Not from Lubie’s candy.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Then I think it’s time you let me in on what is happening to us.”
“All right. Ana Fortez died of a type of food poisoning called botulism. Do you know what that is?”
“Only that it’s very deadly.”
“Very deadly. It begins with a bacillus that produces a poisonous toxin. Now there are various types of stomach disorders that can result from eating a bad eclair, but botulism is not one of them. Botulism can only be produced when the bacillus is in an airtight area, and it is almost always the result of putrified meat or badly canned vegetables, not eclairs.”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand you, Sergeant. You told me that Ana had died from eating the eclairs that I gave her.”
“So she did. And she died of botulism. I would guess that the eclairs were intended for you or your guests. I would also guess that the rest of the pastry was equally deadly.”
“But you said-”
“That you can’t have a natural botulin in an eclair. That’s right. I would still be guessing, but I would suppose that someone grew the botulism toxin and injected the pastry with it.”
“Oh, my God! But why? Why?”
“We’ll get to that. Right now, I would like you to telephone Mrs. Greene and the other two women you played bridge with and suggest to them that they refrain from eating anything sent to them or delivered to them, regardless of its origin-at least until I can arrange to speak to them.”
There was a telephone on the kitchen wall. Laura Crombie started to say something, then swallowed her words, stared at Masuto, hesitated, and then went to the telephone. Masuto watched her and listened.
“Just do as I say…. Please…. No, I can’t explain over the phone…. I’m sitting here with a policeman and he says he will see you and explain everything…. Yes, it has something to do with Ana’s death…. Yes, I’m frightened too.”
The other calls followed more or less the same pattern, and when Laura Crombie returned to the kitchen table, Masuto pushed his pad and pen toward her. “Please give me their names and addresses.” Her hand was shaking as she attempted to write. “I’ll write them,” Masuto said gently. “Suppose we start with Alice Greene.”
He put down name, address, and telephone number. Next, Nancy Legett, and then Mitzie Fuller.
“Tell me about them,” Masuto said. “How you met them, how long you know them.”
She didn’t respond. As if she had only this moment realized it, she whispered, “Someone is trying to kill us. All of us. Isn’t that what you’re telling me?”
“No!” he said sharply. “That’s not what I’m telling you. At this moment, I have no idea what is going on, whether this is some stupid joke, some monstrous prank, or whatever.”
“No, no, no.” She took a deep breath and got hold of herself. “I am not going to be hysterical, Sergeant Masuto, but if you want me to be frank and open with you, then you must be quite frank with me. For all I know, you may be convinced that I am behind all this, that I poisoned Ana and that I sent the candy to Alice. After all, you have only my word about the pastry being delivered here.”
“Did you poison Ana Fortez?” Masuto asked matter-of-factly.
“No! Of course not!” Masuto looked at her with a slight smile. “Don’t you believe me?” she demanded.
“It’s of no consequence whether I believe you or not. If it makes you feel better, I will say I believe you. That doesn’t help us. I must find out who is doing this, whether it is you or someone else.”
“That’s very comforting.”
“I think Ana’s death was an accident. That lets you out, doesn’t it? If you had known that the pastry was poisoned, you would not have given it to her.”
“Yes, that makes sense-thank God. Why didn’t you say that before?”
“I was making a point. I want you to help me, and you can help me better if you have no predetermined notions. Now tell me about your bridge partners.”
“You know their names, Alice Greene, Nancy Legett, and Mitzie Fuller. Alice is a tall, beautiful blonde-”
“Please, forgive me,” Masuto interrupted. “Let me ask direct questions. Then it will not take so long. I will see them,” he explained, “so I will know what they look like.”
“Yes, of course you will.”
“First-age?”
“Yes. Alice is thirty-six. Nancy goes on being thirty-nine. She’s forty-two. And Mitzie-well, I really don’t know. I would guess twenty-seven or twenty-eight.”
“Why the uncertainty about Mitzie? You’re so sure of the others.”
“The others are old friends. I hardly know Mitzie.”
“Oh? Then how did she come into the bridge game?”
“I got to talking with her at the hairdresser. She was in the next chair, and she appeared to be a nice kid, and we needed a fourth-as a matter of fact she’s a very good player, and she’s played a lot of duplicate.”
“What hairdresser?”
“Tony Cooper’s on Camden.”
Masuto jotted it down. “You said you were divorced. May I ask when?”
“Two years-well, only a year since I filed. Before that it was a separation. You didn’t ask my age. I’m forty-five.”
“I would have thought younger,” Masuto said. “Your first marriage?”
“My second. My first husband died of a heart attack twelve years ago. I married Arthur Crombie three years ago.”
“The real estate man?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I know about him-just the things one hears and reads. I have to be indelicate. How much alimony does he pay you?”
“None. Anything Arthur Crombie touches comes up gold. Six months after we were married, my father died. I was the only heir, and the estate was worth millions. I gave Arthur half of it. It was a stiff price to pay to get him out of my life, but well worth it.”
“You’re not fond of him?”
“He’s a bastard, period. But if you’re thinking that he’d want to kill me, well, no way. He has the money and he knows he’s not in my will. He couldn’t care less whether I’m alive or dead.”
“Where is your will?”
“You mean, where do I keep it? Somewhere in the study. Does it matter?”
“Perhaps. Tell me about the others. Are they all married?”
“All divorced. Does that surprise you?” She had reacted to the expression on Masuto’s face. “You see, we’re all in the same boat-shock, boredom, frustration. Certainly four divorced women in Beverly Hills are not that unusual.”
“Could you give me the names of the husbands-the ex-husbands?”
“Yes-”
He had his notebook ready.
“You think-one of them?” she asked slowly.
“I don’t know what to think-yet.”
“But why all of us? If we had eaten the pastry, it would have been all of us. Why? What sense does it make?”
“I don’t know. Suppose we start with Mrs. Greene.”
“She was married to Alan Greene. He operates a chain of clothing stores. The big one is down on Wilshire.”
Masuto nodded.
“Nancy,” Laura Crombie went on, “was married to Fulton Legett, the film producer. That’s a rotten story. They were married in New York about twenty-two years ago. He was a gofer at ABC television. Nancy worked as a secretary at the same company. Then he quit to try TV production. For years she supported him and took his garbage. He’s one of those angry, aggressive, ambitious little bastards. Then Nancy’s mother died and left her sixty thousand dollars, and she gave it to Fulton and he used it as seed money to produce Flames-”
“Seed money?”
“Start-up money-to option the property and pay a writer to do a screenplay. The film was a hit, and suddenly Fulton was a millionaire. They moved out here and bought a house on Lexington Road. Then two more big hits, and Fulton was a millionaire and Nancy was forty and not very attractive anymore. At that point, you trade the forty for the two twenties. Fulton dumped her. The wages of virtue.”