“Then suppose you tell me, Ben, why the hell that cut is in the exact center of your skull, on the top of your head? Suppose you tell me that, Ben?”
“What? I don’t—”
“If you were hit from behind, you’d most likely have been hit either on the side or the back of your head. Unless the man who hit you was an absolute giant, the cut would not be in the center of your skull. The size man you described would never have been able to get force enough into a blow that presupposes his extending the weapon above your head and then bringing it down vertically.”
“He... he was bigger than I thought.”
“How big?”
“Six-six, maybe. Maybe bigger.”
“That isn’t big enough! The natural swing of his arm would have brought that gun down on a slant at the back of your head. Or, if he took a side swing, at either the right or the left of your head, behind the ears. How about it, Darcy? The wound was self-inflicted, wasn’t it? You ducked your head and ran into that big maple, didn’t you?”
“No, no, why would I want to—?”
“To throw suspicion away from yourself. Because you sawed through that tie rod end!” Kling said.
“You were out for a walk this morning, weren’t you? That’s what you told me when I first saw you,” Carella said.
“Yes, but—”
“Did you run yourself into that tree? Did you saw through that tie rod end on your little stroll?”
“No, no, I—”
“Did you send Tommy that black widow spider?”
“No, no, I swear I didn’t do any of—”
“A note came with the spider,” Carella shouted. “We’ll compare your handwriting—”
“My handwriting?... But I didn’t—”
“Is that blonde in this with you?” Kling shouted.
“What blonde?”
“The one whose gun killed Birnbaum!”
“Birnbaum!”
“Or did you kill Birnbaum?”
“I didn’t kill anybody. I only—”
“Only what?”
“I only wanted to—”
“To what?”
“I... I...”
“Take him away, Bert,” Carella snapped. “Book him for the murder of the old man. Premeditated homicide. It’s an open-and-shut Murder One.”
“Murder?” Darcy shouted. “I didn’t touch the old man! I only wanted—”
“What did you want? Goddamnit, Darcy, spit it out!”
“I... I... I only wanted to scare Tommy at first. With... with the spider. I... I thought maybe I’d scare him enough so that he’d... he’d back out of the wedding. But... he... he didn’t, he wouldn’t... he wouldn’t scare.”
“So you went to work on the car, right?”
“Yes, but not to kill him! I didn’t want to kill him!”
“What the hell did you think would happen when that rod snapped?”
“An accident, I thought, to stop the wedding, but that... that didn’t work, either. And then I—”
“Where does the blonde come in?”
“I don’t know any blonde. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The blonde who shot Birnbaum! Come clean, Darcy!”
“I’m telling you everything. I was only trying to scare Tommy. The wine was to make him sick, yes, but then I took Angela for a ride in my car, and I tried to talk sense to her. If she’d agreed to what I—”
“What wine? What do you mean, wine?”
“The wine. For him and her. And if Angela had told me she’d go along with me, I’d have taken the bottles back. But anyway, it’s only to make him sick, so he’ll... he’ll look like a boob on his honeymoon. So she’ll be... disgusted with him. And then maybe she’ll come to me, after all. I love her, Steve! I love Angela!”
“You gave them wine?”
“Two bottles. One for him, and one for her. To take on the honeymoon. Two small little bottles. I left them on the bridal table. With cards.”
“Where’d you get the wine?”
“My father makes it. He makes a barrel each year.”
“And bottles it?”
“Yes.”
“You put something in that wine? To make them sick?”
“Only Tommy’s bottle. Only the one marked ‘For the Groom.’ I wouldn’t want Angela to get sick. That’s why I put two separate bottles on the table. One for the bride and one for the groom. Only his bottle has the stuff in it.”
“What stuff?”
“You don’t have to worry. It’ll only make him sick. I only used a little of it.”
“A little of what, goddamnit!”
“The stuff we use in the garden. To kill weeds. But I only put it in Tommy’s bottle. I wouldn’t want Angela to—”
“Weed killer? Weed killer?” Carella shouted. “With an arsenic base?”
“I don’t know what it had in it. I only used a little. Just to make him get sick.”
“Didn’t it say POISON on the can?”
“Yes, but I only used a little. Just to—”
“How much did you use?”
“It was just a small bottle of wine. I put in about half a cupful.”
“Half a... and you mix that stuff twenty to one with water to kill weeds! And you put half a cup of it into Tommy’s wine! That’d kill an army!”
“Kill an — but... but I only wanted to make him sick. And only him. Not Angela. Only him.”
“They’re married now, you goddamn idiot! They’ll drink from one bottle or both bottles or — you goddamn fool! What makes you think they’re going to follow your instructions for a honeymoon toast! Oh, you goddamn idiot! Cuff him to the radiator, Bert! I’ve got to stop the kids!”
Chapter 16
Dancing had commenced under a starlit sky.
The Sal Martino Orchestra, having imbibed of good, clean, commercially bottled wines and champagnes and whiskies all afternoon and evening, having been treated to the sweet, exhilarating taste of Antonio Carella’s expensive elixir, played with a magnificently mellow lilt. Distant cousins embraced distant cousins with mounting fervor as the hours ran out. It would be a long time before the next wedding.
Steve Carella burst from the house and onto the dance floor, his eyes skirting his wife where she sat wriggling uncomfortably in her chair, darting over the dance floor in search of Tommy and Angela. They were nowhere in sight. He saw his mother dancing with Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton, and he rushed over to her and pulled her from the startled uncle’s arms and said, “Where are the kids?”
“What?” Louisa said.
“Tommy and Angela. Where are they?”
Louisa Carella winked.
“Mama, they didn’t leave, did they?”
Louisa Carella, who’d had a bit of the commercially bottled elixir herself, winked again.
“Mama, did they leave?”
“Yes, yes, they left. This is their wedding. What did you want them to do? Stand around and talk to the old folks?”
“Oh, Mama!” Carella said despairingly. “Did you see them go?”
“Yes, of course I saw them. I kissed Angela goodbye.”
“Were they carrying anything?”
“Suitcases, naturally. They’re going on a honeymoon, you know.”
“Che cosa?” Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton asked. “Che cosa, Louisa?”
“Niente. Sta zitto, Garibaldi,” she answered him, and then turned to her son. “What’s the matter?”
“Somebody put two small bottles of homemade wine on the table this afternoon. Did you happen to see them?”
“Yes. His and Hers. Very cute.”
“Did they have that wine with them when they left?”