Coop. Got her own nooks and crannies — better than Thomas’. You oughta take a lesson from her.”
Mercer shook his head and walked over, spreading a napkin across the knee of Chapman’s jeans. The dripping butter would have been an unwelcome accent to the delicate design of golden Napoleonic bees on the peach silk fabric of the sofa. “How’d you get Valerie to let us in?”
“We bonded last night over a bit of Mr. Caxton’s Irish whiskey. I’ve frequently found it helpful in periods of bereavement. Basically I told her I wasn’t going anywhere until she located him for me.”
Chapman had called me again at midnight to tell me that Valerie had reached Lowell Caxton at his home in Paris and that he would be taking the Concorde back to New York. It was Mike’s idea that the three of us await him in his home, to deny him the opportunity to alter or destroy any evidence before we could interview him.
Air France flight 002 from Paris had been due in at 8 : 44 a.m. on Sunday. Chapman had returned to the building at six, and Mercer had picked me up at home two hours later. “Why’d she let you back in today?” I asked. “The boss won’t be too happy about this, I’m sure.”
“Let’s just say she was encouraged by the doormen. One thing they frown on in these snooty buildings, Miss Cooper, is scenes. The sight of me alone in the lobby wasn’t all that upsetting to them at first, but it was probably when I asked Frick and Frack if they thought it was gonna be necessary for me to get the Emergency Services Unit over here with battering rams that they called and suggested to Valerie that I might be more comfortable waiting in Caxton’s salon. I’m telling you — doormen despise scenes.”
So much for any evidence that we might be lucky enough to come up with in the apartment. The kind of pressure that Mike liked to apply to get his way more often resulted in a consent under threat than the freely given consent necessary for a lawful entry or search.
Valerie returned to the room with another ornate tray and porcelain cups for Mercer and me. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured the coffee, and I wondered whether it was because of grief over her mistress’s death, the effects of a hangover, or fear of Caxton’s reaction when he found us settled in and enjoying his hospitality. She replaced the silver pot on a small table beside a large ormolu clock that bore an engraved seal depicting a royal crest I couldn’t identify.
“Hitchcock had it right, Coop. Think of how many movies it’s the husband or wife who offs the other spouse. Just because this guy was in Paris all week doesn’t mean he isn’t a prime suspect. Shit, we don’t even know exactly how many days she’s been dead. Besides that, someone with this kind of dough could hire a killer with his pocket change.”
“Well, what did you get out of Valerie during your fireside chat last night?”
“Precious little. Seemed to genuinely like the late Mrs. C., who hired her personally and relied on her for all kinds of intimate service. But the husband pays the bills, and she’s not about to throw that out the window so fast.” Mike was almost finished with his second muffin, the buttered topping covered over with some kind of strawberry preserve. “Hey, Mercer, might as well lift the lids on those little — Coop, what does your mother call useless little dust catchers like that stuff over there? Tchotchkes? Maybe Denise stored her coke in one of those.”
Chapman pointed at a gilt-trimmed
bureau plat
, only half in jest. It was completely covered by miniature porcelain snuffboxes. Half a dozen of them would have fit at once in the palm of Mercer’s hand, but he lifted the lids of several of them individually. I sipped on my coffee as I walked beside him, noticing that each box was hand painted with portraits of cavalier King Charles spaniels in a variety of regal backgrounds.
Above the table was a Degas, familiar to me from my Wellesley
Mercer shook his head and walked over, spreading a napkin across the knee of Chapman’s jeans. The dripping butter would have been an unwelcome accent to the delicate design of golden Napoleonic bees on the peach silk fabric of the sofa. “How’d you get Valerie to let us in?”
“We bonded last night over a bit of Mr. Caxton’s Irish whiskey. I’ve frequently found it helpful in periods of bereavement. Basically I told her I wasn’t going anywhere until she located him for me.”
Chapman had called me again at midnight to tell me that Valerie had reached Lowell Caxton at his home in Paris and that he would be taking the Concorde back to New York. It was Mike’s idea that the three of us await him in his home, to deny him the opportunity to alter or destroy any evidence before we could interview him.
Air France flight 002 from Paris had been due in at 8 : 44 a.m. on Sunday. Chapman had returned to the building at six, and Mercer had picked me up at home two hours later. “Why’d she let you back in today?” I asked. “The boss won’t be too happy about this, I’m sure.”
“Let’s just say she was encouraged by the doormen. One thing they frown on in these snooty buildings, Miss Cooper, is scenes. The sight of me alone in the lobby wasn’t all that upsetting to them at first, but it was probably when I asked Frick and Frack if they thought it was gonna be necessary for me to get the Emergency Services Unit over here with battering rams that they called and suggested to Valerie that I might be more comfortable waiting in Caxton’s salon. I’m telling you — doormen despise scenes.”
So much for any evidence that we might be lucky enough to come up with in the apartment. The kind of pressure that Mike liked to apply to get his way more often resulted in a consent under threat than the freely given consent necessary for a lawful entry or search.
Valerie returned to the room with another ornate tray and porcelain cups for Mercer and me. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured the coffee, and I wondered whether it was because of grief over her mistress’s death, the effects of a hangover, or fear of Caxton’s reaction when he found us settled in and enjoying his hospitality. She replaced the silver pot on a small table beside a large ormolu clock that bore an engraved seal depicting a royal crest I couldn’t identify.
“Hitchcock had it right, Coop. Think of how many movies it’s the husband or wife who offs the other spouse. Just because this guy was in Paris all week doesn’t mean he isn’t a prime suspect. Shit, we don’t even know exactly how many days she’s been dead. Besides that, someone with this kind of dough could hire a killer with his pocket change.”
“Well, what did you get out of Valerie during your fireside chat last night?”
“Precious little. Seemed to genuinely like the late Mrs. C., who hired her personally and relied on her for all kinds of intimate service. But the husband pays the bills, and she’s not about to throw that out the window so fast.” Mike was almost finished with his second muffin, the buttered topping covered over with some kind of strawberry preserve. “Hey, Mercer, might as well lift the lids on those little — Coop, what does your mother call useless little dust catchers like that stuff over there? Tchotchkes? Maybe Denise stored her coke in one of those.”
Chapman pointed at a gilt-trimmed
bureau plat
, only half in jest. It was completely covered by miniature porcelain snuffboxes. Half a dozen of them would have fit at once in the palm of Mercer’s hand, but he lifted the lids of several of them individually. I sipped on my coffee as I walked beside him, noticing that each box was hand painted with portraits of cavalier King Charles spaniels in a variety of regal backgrounds.
Above the table was a Degas, familiar to me from my Wellesley
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