"You're crazy!" she said angrily. "It's me that gave him the scoop on the missing knife and Callaway's record. I'm way ahead of him."
"Keep it that way," Trevalyan advised, lighting a fresh cigar. "If he's not playing you, like you claim, then you play him. Don't tell him everything; just enough to make him want to cooperate. What else are you planning when you get back to Sodom on the Hudson?"
"A couple of things," Dora said. "Mostly I want to dig deeper on how Father Callaway fits into the picture. Like where was he and what was he doing the morning Solomon Guthrie was stabbed to death."
"You think Callaway did it?"
"I'm not sure about Guthrie, but I think there's a good possibility he killed Lewis Starrett."
Trevalyan inspected the glowing end of his cigar. "What was his motive?"
"I haven't figured that out yet. I guess Starrett said some nasty things to him, but nothing dirty enough to trigger a murder."
Mike looked up at her and laughed. "Dora, you better read your own report again. Callaway's motive is in there."
"What?"
"You heard me. Your report includes a very logical reason why Callaway might have iced Lewis Starrett."
"Mike, what is it?"
He shook his head. "You find it; it's your case. And keep an eye on that New York cop. I still think he's trying to get in your drawers."
"Where the hell were you when God was handing out couth?" she said indignantly.
"Waiting for seconds in the cynics' line," he said. "Now let's go drink some lunch. Your treat."
He was exaggerating, of course; they actually had food for lunch: thick corned beef sandwiches with french fries and a schooner of beer each at an Irish bar near the Company's headquarters. And while they lunched, Mike told her what he had been able to pick up about Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc.
Little was known because it was a privately held corporation, and public disclosure of its structuring and current financial condition was not required. But through rumors and hearsay, Trevalyan had learned that Olivia, Clayton, and Felicia each owned ten percent of the stock. Lewis had owned seventy percent which, presumably, would go to his widow.
"So as of now," Dora said, "Olivia really controls the whole shebang."
Mike nodded. "From what I hear, back in the 1950s and '60s, Starrett Fine Jewelry was a cash cow. That's when they opened all their branch stores. Then, beginning about ten years ago, their sales and profits went down, down, down. The problem was a-g-e. Their clientele was getting older, putting money in annuities and Treasury bonds instead of diamonds. And the baby-boomers were doing their jewelry shopping at trendier places. They thought Starrett was old-fashioned and stuffy. So about two years ago Lewis went into semiretirement and turned over the reins to Clayton.
"Well, Clayton's first year at the helm was a disaster. He brought in a bunch of kooky designers and started pushing a line of what was really horribly overpriced costume jewelry. Not only did it not attract the yuppies, but it turned off what few old customers were left. Starrett was drowning in red ink, and there was talk in the trade that they might end up in Chapter Eleven. Then, about a year ago, Clayton turned the whole thing around. He got rid of all the designers with ponytails and went back to Starrett's classic fine jewelry. He fired most of his branch managers and brought in young hotshots who knew something about modern merchandising. And he started trading bullion, buying gold overseas at a good price and selling it to small independent jewelers in this country at a nice markup. From what I heard, Starrett is back in the bucks again, and everyone is happy."
"Except Lewis," Dora said. "And Solomon Guthrie."
"Yeah," Trevalyan said, "except them. Have you talked to Starrett's attorney yet?"
"Not yet, but he's on my list."
"He probably won't tell you a thing, but it's worth a try. Ask him if Lewis kept a bimbo on the side."
Dora stared at him. "Why should I ask him that?"
"Just for the fun of it. You never know."
She sighed. "All right, Mike, I'll ask him. Now I'm going to pay for our lunch. But I warn you, I'm putting it on my expense account."
"Suits me," Trevalyan said.
On New Year's Eve, Dora and Mario walked to their church for a noon service. Afterwards, they went looking for Father Piesecki and found him in the church basement where he and a fat altar boy were gilding a plaster saint. They told him about the open house they were having that night and urged him to stop by.
"I'll try," he said, "but I have four other parties to visit."
"Homemade kielbasa," Mario said.
"I'll be there when the doors open," Father Piesecki promised.
It was a wild and wonderful evening, with friends and family members coming and going. Most of the guests brought a covered dish or a bottle, so there was plenty to eat and drink. Neighbors had been invited to forestall complaints about the noise. Father Piesecki showed up with his accordion and never did get to those four other parties.
No one got too drunk or too obstreperous, and if the Christmas tree was knocked over during a violent polka, it was soon set aright. Even Mike Trevalyan and Mario's trucker friends were reasonably well-behaved, and the worst thing that happened was when Dora's elderly uncle dropped his dentures into the punch bowl.
Mario started serving espresso from his new machine at 1:00 A.M., but it was almost three o'clock in the morning before the last guests went tottering off. It was an hour after that before the remaining food was put away, empty glasses and scraped dishes stacked in the sink, ashtrays wiped clean, and Dora and Mario could have a final Asti Spumante, toast each other, and fall thankfully into bed. They didn't make love until they awoke at eleven o'clock on January 1.
She returned to New York the following day. Manhattan was still digging out from a five-inch snowfall, but that was pleasant; garbage on the sidewalks was covered over, and the snow was not yet despoiled by dog droppings. Streets had been cleared, buses were running, and the blue sky looked as if it had been washed out and hung up to dry.
She called John Wenden from her suite at the Bedling-ton, but it was late in the afternoon before he got back to her.
"Hey, Red," he said, "how was the holiday?"
"Super," she said. "How was yours?"
"No complaints. I drank too much, but so did everyone else. How's your D.O.H.?"
"My what?"
"Your D.O.H. Dear Old Hubby."
"My husband is fine, thank you," she said stiffly, and Wenden laughed.
"Listen, Red," he said, "I finally heard from Records. What they dug up on Father Brian Callaway is pretty much what you told me: real name Sidney Loftus, smalltime scams and swindles but no violent crimes. He's never done a day in the clink-can you believe it? Nothing on either Turner or Helene Pierce. That doesn't mean they're squeaky clean, just that they've never been caught. Let's see, what else… Oh yeah, I had a nose-to-nose talk with the Starrett servants. They finally admitted the eight-inch chefs knife disappeared the evening Lewis Starrett was killed."
"John," she said, "I thought you were convinced Lewis and Solomon Guthrie were murdered by an ex-employee."
"Convinced? Hell no, I wasn't convinced. But when two guys from the same company get iced, it's S.O.P. to check out former employees who might be looking for revenge. It's something that has to be done, but there's no guarantee it's the right way to go."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. So you still think it might have been someone at that cocktail party?"