Thirty-seven

How much had the bitch told Cyrus Payne? Wilson wasn’t a praying man, but he decided he’d pray now that Father Cyrus would feel he had to keep whatever Sally had said to himself.

He’d unplugged the phone in his suite, but he could hear the intermittent drone of ringing elsewhere in the house. Wilson intended to use his “bereavement” to best advantage for as long as possible. After all, a man distraught over the violent killing of his wife couldn’t be expected to attend to business too soon after the event. And while he was in seclusion, he’d be thinking his way through the maze his life had become. Or he would when he was finally in seclusion.

Charmain came out of the bathroom nude. He watched her with a mixture of irritation and arousal. They had been sleeping together for years, but this was the first time in this house. He’d never planned for them to do so, ever, but she’d arrived around midnight, minutes after the police had delivered their bombshell about Sally and then left. Charmain had intercepted police radio messages and was, as ever, ready to offer Wilson “comfort.”

“I’d better blow,” she said, putting on her diamond watch before grinning at him. “Of course, there’s more than one way to blow, isn’t there, lover? I’m ready, willin’, and available. Might cheer you up.

“Thank you,” he said tightly. “But I think you about wore us both out for now. You’d better go out down the back stairs.” A horrifying thought struck him. “Where did you leave your car?”

She giggled and ran her hands through her short hair, still spiky and wet from the shower. “On a side street, silly. Would I park in the driveway at a time like this?”

Very slowly, too slowly to please Wilson, she stepped into a lavender-colored satin teddy and pulled it up her long, lithe body and over hard little breasts that came to sharp points. Every inch of Charmain was erogenous, and she moaned softly even at her own touch.

Wilson knew better than to hurry her. Rather he watched and offered the appreciative smile he knew she craved.

“You always did enjoy a little reverse striptease, Wilson,” she said. “You should have taught Sally more about how to turn you on. She never did get it. She was too obvious.”

His stomach turned. “Let’s leave Sally out of this.”

“Oh, my”—she pulled on black stockings with lace tops and slipped a little black dress over her head—”you’ll have to forgive me for forgetting the niceties. Respect for the dead, here I come.”

Affecting a deeply serious expression, he levered himself off the bed, where he’d been stretched out fully dressed, and went to her. He kissed her the way she liked it, hard, biting her lips, then picked up her purse and handed it to her. “Thank you, darlin’. You were a lifesaver. But then, you always have been. I’ll make sure it’s okay, then you go out down the back stairs and through the garden. It’s quiet there. Everyone’s watching the front. This is the first time I haven’t entertained any member of the press who showed.”

Charmain pushed a hand between his legs. “That’s because you were entertainin’ this member of the press, sweetie.”

Wilson removed her hand and cautiously opened the door. The balcony was empty, and he waved Charmain forward. She gave his rear a last sharp pinch and tripped away toward the back of the house with her high-heeled sandals trailing from one hand.

The instant she was out of sight, Wilson closed himself in and leaned on the door. He and Charmain went back a long way—it could be that it was too long.

When he’d been to a window that allowed him to see Charmain disappear from the property, he called for Ben Angel and started mulling over the next moves that needed to be made.

He couldn’t pretend he mourned Sally’s death, but he had to be certain there was nothing about it that could affect him negatively.

Ben came into the room carrying a tray of coffee and some sandwiches. Wilson motioned for the door to be closed. “I’m not going to be able to put the police off much longer,” he said. “Somethin’ tells me there may be a few things you’d like to talk to me about first.”

Ben slid the tray on top of the dresser and turned to his boss. He didn’t waste valuable time on innocent shock. “I didn’t have anything to do with your wife’s death, if that’s what you mean.”

“Murder,” Wilson said. “It was murder, Ben. Let’s not invent pretty words for ugly things.”

“I didn’t murder Mrs. Lamar,” Ben said, his face devoid of expression now. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do. That wasn’t one of them.”

“Very admirable,” Wilson told him. “And you weren’t startin’ to feel a little nervous after the pretty picture appeared in the paper—and your honest little quote about the lady of the house expectin’ sexual favors from members of the staff? You didn’t worry that she might try to defend herself and raise some questions about you, implicate you in some things that could get you into serious trouble? The big question is who gave the picture to the paper? It wasn’t supposed to be for anythin’ but scarin’ Sally, was it?”

Ben swallowed loudly. “All I did was what I was told to do. I sure did not give that photo to anyone, did I? Why would I. Never saw it till it was in print.”

“Well, somebody gave it to somebody, Ben. If it wasn’t you—and like you say, that wouldn’t make any sense—well then, I can’t think who it would be other than the photographer. I was the photographer, so I know it wasn’t me. The idea of setting up that little tableau was to scare the shit out of Sally and make it easier to get rid of her, nothin’ more. Things are plain out of hand now.”

“Where’s the film?”

For an instant Wilson’s mind went blank. Then he went into the closet and tore aside suits hanging along one bar. “Sheeit, where is my mind? Of course I should have checked the goddamn film. I should have destroyed it—only I thought it might be useful for somethin’ sometime.” Like making sure Ben Angel stayed in line. Wilson dragged out a sport bag, unzipped it, and took out a camera.

“That shoots my last hope,” Wilson said, holding the empty film compartment open. “Someone else could have been taking shots too—only they weren’t. Who the fuck would know anything about it in the first place?”

“As soon as you saw the paper you must have known the film was gone...sir. You—”

“Yeah, yeah. I wasn’t thinking straight. This has been a difficult time.” He didn’t meet Ben’s eyes. Then an ugly realization dawned. “Someone in this house. Someone else in this house knows what we’ve been doing. They’re going to hold me up for megabucks.” He narrowed his eyes at Ben. “You little bastard. It was you, wasn’t it? You think you’re going to get even more out of me.”

Ben’s dark blue eyes flashed. “Have you heard me askin’ you for money?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to, me. And I didn’t have nothing to do with what happened to your wife last night.”

“That isn’t going to be easy to convince the police of—not after you set yourself up as a suspect by talkin’ too much.”

“What about you? You think I would be silent, me. You think I stay silent about you if the police come for me?”

Wilson grew still. The kid had balls. “Maybe we’d better do some talking about the questions the police might ask, and what kind of answers they ought to get.”

“The only talkin’ we need to do is to agree that we don’t know anythin’ about takin’ photographs. The end.”

Wilson snorted. “You blew that when you gave your sob story about Sally’s unquenchable appetites.”

“There’s no proof of anythin’ else, not about me.” Ben squared his stance. “But there’s proof about you. There’s the negative for that photograph, and there’s whoever got their hands on it and knows where they found it.”

A gentle tap on the door jarred Wilson to his feet. “Who is it?”

“It’s Opi, sir.”

“Whatever it is can wait. I’m not up to talkin’ right now.” Wilson waited for sounds that the man was leaving. They didn’t come. Another tap did.

“Go away!” Panic welled within him. He stared at Ben and quaked at what he saw in the younger man’s demeanor. Ben Angel, upstart and opportunist, pitied Wilson Lamar. He took a calming breath and said, “Come in, Opi.”

The door opened slowly and Opi’s bald head appeared. He glanced at Wilson, but turned his full attention on Ben. “I don’t know what’s happenin’ around here, no, I surely don’t. You got to go down to the police, Ben Angel. Someone want to see you down there.”

Wilson stepped forward and beckoned Opi into the room. “Don’t talk loud, man. We aren’t all friends here.”

Opi looked behind him, but showed no anxiety. He did do as Wilson asked. “You got parents?” he said to Ben.

Ben’s supercilious assurance had fled. He bounced on his toes. “Most people have parents, old man.”

“They come here, right? Mr. and Mrs. Reed. They come to a party, right? And they come to see Mr. Lamar another time.”

“Will you get to the point?” Ben balled and flexed his hands, then pounded a fist into a palm.

“They your parents?”

“She’s my mother. He’s my stepfather. What of it?”

“They been taken in for questionin’ and they askin’ for you. They call for you, not a lawyer. They say you gonna take care of things for them.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Ben yelled.

Opi backed away and reached behind him for the door handle. “They bein’ asked questions about the mistress’s death. Mrs. Lamar’s death. The police think your mama and stepdaddy killed her.