“Yes, Lieutenant…?”
“Don’t be curious.”
He didn’t react. Just stared gloomily into the fire. God, he was a mournful specimen. She couldn’t be positive, having only known him for twenty minutes, but there was a distinct possibility that Des had just met the loneliest man on earth.
“Mind if I ask you something personal?” she asked, treating him to her maximum-wattage smile.
“No, not at all,” he replied, glancing at her curiously.
“Have you ever thought about sharing your home and your heart with a nice warm cuddly individual of the feline persuasion?”
“What can you tell me about your husband’s departure last month, Mrs. Seymour?”
“I can… tell you next to nothing, Lieutenant,” Dolly Seymour replied in a soft, halting voice. “I-I found his letter on the kitchen table when I came downstairs that morning. And… And…”
“And…?” Des pressed her gently.
“And he was gone.”
Niles Seymour’s widow lay limply on her bed under an Afghan throw, a moist tissue clenched in her small fist, her blue eyes red and swollen from crying. She had been given a strong sedative to help her cope with the shock. It had made her a bit dreamy and slow on the uptake. But she was able to respond to questions. She was a slender, frail-looking woman with a child’s delicate face and translucent skin.
Her bedroom was not especially elegant. It was small and the ceiling was quite low. The furniture was of the ordinary department store variety. Bud Havenhurst, her patrician lawyer and ex-husband, hovered attentively in a chair next to the bed. Tal Bliss loomed just inside the doorway, hat in hands. Des sat at the foot of the bed.
Downstairs, Soave was parked at the breakfast nook taking statements from the son and the sister-in-law.
“What did this letter say, Mrs. Seymour?”
“That he was… not worthy of me. That he was leaving.”
“You still have the letter?”
“Possibly. I can’t remember.” After a long moment, she added, “No one knew.”
“No one knew what, Mrs. Seymour?”
“How kind and gentle he could be. How he could make me laugh.”
Des instinctively disliked this woman. Dolly Seymour was rich, white, privileged and weak-a mewling little porcelain figurine. Des resented such women. But she was also aware that there might be more to her than met the eye. Could be Dolly Seymour was not as helpless as she seemed. Maybe she was a cold, calculating schemer who got what she wanted by acting that way. Maybe she was a manipulator, a user. Maybe she was even a murderer. “Did your husband ever attack you, Mrs. Seymour?”
Bud Havenhurst stirred slightly in his chair at the mention of this.
“Attack me?” Dolly repeated.
“Strike you. Physically abuse you.”
“Why, no. Never.”
“You sure about that?”
“She’s quite sure,” Havenhurst answered for her, his voice icy.
“He arrived here from Atlantic City?”
“Yes,” she replied. “We met at the country club.”
“And before that? Where was he born and raised?”
“He was a Southie,” Dolly replied fondly. “He came from South Boston. His father was a construction worker, his mother a beautician. He developed his love of fine things from her. And his grooming. He always took such wonderful care of his hands. He came from nothing, you see. Never even went to college. But he understood people. He understood style. Style meant the world to him.” She glanced around at her bedroom. “He always wanted to redecorate this room. He loathed it.”
“I’ll need to see your credit card records, Mrs. Seymour,” Des said. “Bank statements. Any and all account information, please.”
She didn’t respond. Did not, in fact, seem to hear her. She was still gazing around at the bedroom decor. Her lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.
“I think I can help you with that, Lieutenant,” Bud Havenhurst cut in discreetly. “Perhaps if we moved downstairs? Dolly’s really got to get some rest.”
“Very well,” Des allowed.
He closed the curtains and turned off the bedside lamp, pausing to stroke his ex-wife’s forehead gently. Then they left the room and went down to the study. Havenhurst seated himself at the desk. Des took a chair, watching him skeptically. He was a lawyer. Therefore, she assumed that every word out of his mouth was a lie. Bliss parked himself in the doorway once again, stolid and silent.
The Dear John letter that Niles Seymour had left Dolly was in the top drawer of the desk. It was on a sheet of common copier paper, folded neatly in half. Des cautioned Havenhurst not to touch it-it might contain latent fingerprints. She sent Bliss out for tweezers. She used these to lift it from the drawer. It was a short letter. It read:
Dearest Dolly-I should never have come into your life. You are too fine. And I am too greedy. I must leave you for another now, my darling. Try to remember me fondly. All my love, Niles.
The letter was not handwritten. It had been computer-generated and printed out.
“He didn’t sign it,” Des observed.
“Why, no. Is that so important?” Havenhurst’s eyes widened. “My God, what am I saying? Of course, it is. That never occurred to me before-when I thought he had run off on her, I mean. I just chalked it up to his utter rudeness. But now that we know he never… Niles didn’t write this at all, did he?”
“Whoever killed him did it, most likely. Chances are, Seymour was already dead.”
“Anyone could have written it. Anyone with access to their computer.” Havenhurst glanced at it there on the desk, his shoulders slumping. “Assuming it was done here.”
“We’ll try to match it up,” she said. “Dust it for prints. Maybe we’ll even find it on the hard drive. Although I’m doubting that whoever did this was stupid enough not to delete it.”
Bliss went back out to notify a crime scene technician.
Havenhurst remained seated at the desk. “She never locks her doors. It could have been anyone on the island.”
“Um, okay, about those credit card and bank statements…?”
Dolly Seymour’s ex-husband seemed very far away for a moment. Des found herself wondering where he was. Then he shook himself and opened another drawer. “You’ll find their receipts and records here. Seymour’s own things are out in the barn-old papers, letters. There isn’t much, but…”
“Thank you. We’ll look at those, too.” She sat back in her chair, crossing her long legs. “Why did you try to talk Mitch Berger out of moving in, Mr. Havenhurst?”
“He was a stranger,” the lawyer responded mildly. “I knew nothing about him. Still don’t, for that matter.”
“You sure it wasn’t something else?”
He raised his chin at her. “Such as?”
“Such as that you knew what was buried in that garden.”
“Absolutely not,” he said, bristling at her. “And I would advise you not to throw around such reckless and slanderous accusations, Lieutenant. You are not handling a drive-by shooting in Hartford’s North End. You are not dealing with the disenfranchised, the disempowered or the destitute. You are dealing here with individuals of great influence. The cream of our society. And you will behave accordingly, or suffer the consequences. Is that understood?”
No two ways about it, Des reflected unhappily. She would be feeling Captain Polito’s hot breath very soon indeed. “I am well aware of where I am, Mr. Havenhurst,” she evenly. “I am also aware that a murder has taken place here among your fine, rich cream. I have a job to do. I intend to do it. And I expect you to cooperate. Is that understood?”
“Proceed,” he snapped.
“Mr. Berger alluded to certain events that have taken place since his arrival. He seems to feel someone was trying to scare him away.”
Havenhurst sighed glumly. “He told you about Dolly’s episode, I take it.”
Des kept her face a blank. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t.”
Havenhurst got up and went over to the window. He was obviously annoyed with himself for volunteering this.
“Perhaps you would like to,” she suggested.