the
physical-evidence-gathering part of the program, Arnold
felt, would be completed by nightfall.
"Cops're saving your interviews until last," he
said. "They know none of you are going anywhere.
That'll wrap it up."
"But," I protested, "won't there be further investigation?
Isn't there anyone who thinks someone besides
Victor is guilty?"
I took a deep breath. "I mean, Arnold, if Victor
ever wanted to kill somebody, he'd come up with some
goofy plan full of clever, unworkable details. Full," I
went on, "of self-glorifying intellectual flourishes and
literary-thriller stuff he'd read somewhere and wanted
to imitate. A victim," I was practically pleading now,
"would die of natural causes, before Victor ever even
got around to doing the actual murder."
Arnold harrumphed unhappily. "Well, if you say
so. But Jacobia, that's beside the point. State guys
heard what they heard, they got orders of their own,
and the orders said go get Victor. I had to twist some
arms, even to talk them into letting me do it."
His tone softened. "And listen, Victor threatened
the guy. A lot of people heard him. Now it turns out
Reuben was threatening Victor, he had information
that Victor didn't want getting around."
A vehicle pulled into the driveway; Monday got up
and padded to the hall vigilantly, in case it contained
any burglars she could lick or nuzzle to death.
"Later," Arnold went on, "the guy gets found with
his throat cut and the weapon is Victor's. And Victor's
got no alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the
crime. And you've got to admit he's done some guilty
looking activities: washing up, getting rid of clothes,
and so on. So I ask you," Arnold finished reasonably,
"what's left, besides a confession?"
It did look awful. "But what about all the others
who wanted Reuben out of their hair? Sounds to me
like he had a grab bag full of mortal enemies."
"Yeah, but Reuben, he wasn't blackmailing them."
In the back hall, Monday's wag-o-meter shot up to
redline as Wade came in, home from the harbor. But
his face didn't look right to me; it was even more troubled
than I'd expected.
Also, he wasn't carrying his soft canvas gun bag.
When he is not on a boat, Wade restores and repairs
firearms in a workshop he has built into the storeroom
ell of my house. Thus, in addition to a fragrance of
camellias that tends to appear for no reason like a calling
card from a time gone by, the house often smells of
gun oil, hot soldering compound, and the bright, sharp
reek of metal being machined to produce close tolerances
in the working parts of deadly weapons.
But this time no weapons were in evidence. Puzzled,
I turned back to the phone. "Thanks, Arnold, for
keeping me posted. How's Clarissa?"
In answer, I heard the latest details of Arnold's
impending fatherhood. Arnold's wife, a criminal attorney
who would have been defending Victor if she
hadn't been about to deliver a baby practically that
minute, was enormous, elated, and, according to Arnold,
so impatient to get it all over with that he
"dassn't even look cross-eyed at her."
Which reminded me that somewhere in the world,
someone was happy, an assurance I sorely needed. I
told Arnold to give her all our love and he promised to,
and we hung up.
Out in the kitchen, Wade sat at the table looking
thoughtful, a bottle of Sea Dog ale in front of him.
He'd gotten the news on our crime wave, I could see
from his expression, from the guys at dockside. I sat
down with him and told him the rest of it, still wondering
what else was eating at him.
"That's a lot of money," he said mildly when I had
explained what could happen if Victor remained in custody.
He'd known of my investment in the trauma-center
project; just not how much.
"You know that whatever you do about money,
it's all right with me. Don't you?" Wade added.
"Yes." It was part of our ongoing success in
physical-evidence-gathering part of the program, Arnold
felt, would be completed by nightfall.
"Cops're saving your interviews until last," he
said. "They know none of you are going anywhere.
That'll wrap it up."
"But," I protested, "won't there be further investigation?
Isn't there anyone who thinks someone besides
Victor is guilty?"
I took a deep breath. "I mean, Arnold, if Victor
ever wanted to kill somebody, he'd come up with some
goofy plan full of clever, unworkable details. Full," I
went on, "of self-glorifying intellectual flourishes and
literary-thriller stuff he'd read somewhere and wanted
to imitate. A victim," I was practically pleading now,
"would die of natural causes, before Victor ever even
got around to doing the actual murder."
Arnold harrumphed unhappily. "Well, if you say
so. But Jacobia, that's beside the point. State guys
heard what they heard, they got orders of their own,
and the orders said go get Victor. I had to twist some
arms, even to talk them into letting me do it."
His tone softened. "And listen, Victor threatened
the guy. A lot of people heard him. Now it turns out
Reuben was threatening Victor, he had information
that Victor didn't want getting around."
A vehicle pulled into the driveway; Monday got up
and padded to the hall vigilantly, in case it contained
any burglars she could lick or nuzzle to death.
"Later," Arnold went on, "the guy gets found with
his throat cut and the weapon is Victor's. And Victor's
got no alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the
crime. And you've got to admit he's done some guilty
looking activities: washing up, getting rid of clothes,
and so on. So I ask you," Arnold finished reasonably,
"what's left, besides a confession?"
It did look awful. "But what about all the others
who wanted Reuben out of their hair? Sounds to me
like he had a grab bag full of mortal enemies."
"Yeah, but Reuben, he wasn't blackmailing them."
In the back hall, Monday's wag-o-meter shot up to
redline as Wade came in, home from the harbor. But
his face didn't look right to me; it was even more troubled
than I'd expected.
Also, he wasn't carrying his soft canvas gun bag.
When he is not on a boat, Wade restores and repairs
firearms in a workshop he has built into the storeroom
ell of my house. Thus, in addition to a fragrance of
camellias that tends to appear for no reason like a calling
card from a time gone by, the house often smells of
gun oil, hot soldering compound, and the bright, sharp
reek of metal being machined to produce close tolerances
in the working parts of deadly weapons.
But this time no weapons were in evidence. Puzzled,
I turned back to the phone. "Thanks, Arnold, for
keeping me posted. How's Clarissa?"
In answer, I heard the latest details of Arnold's
impending fatherhood. Arnold's wife, a criminal attorney
who would have been defending Victor if she
hadn't been about to deliver a baby practically that
minute, was enormous, elated, and, according to Arnold,
so impatient to get it all over with that he
"dassn't even look cross-eyed at her."
Which reminded me that somewhere in the world,
someone was happy, an assurance I sorely needed. I
told Arnold to give her all our love and he promised to,
and we hung up.
Out in the kitchen, Wade sat at the table looking
thoughtful, a bottle of Sea Dog ale in front of him.
He'd gotten the news on our crime wave, I could see
from his expression, from the guys at dockside. I sat
down with him and told him the rest of it, still wondering
what else was eating at him.
"That's a lot of money," he said mildly when I had
explained what could happen if Victor remained in custody.
He'd known of my investment in the trauma-center
project; just not how much.
"You know that whatever you do about money,
it's all right with me. Don't you?" Wade added.
"Yes." It was part of our ongoing success in
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