drove directly home. Says he found the front door open although she had told him all doors and windows were locked. She was facedown in the sitting room. Signs of a violent struggle. Spatters of blood everywhere. Baskets of flowers knocked to the floor. A grandfather clock tipped over. It had stopped about ten minutes before Gillsworth arrived."
"My God," I said, "he almost walked in on a kill-ing."
"Uh-huh."
"Did he see anyone when he drove up?"
"Says not."
"Anything stolen?"
"Doesn't look like it. He can't spot anything missing."
"How's he taking it?"
"Hard. He's trying to do the stiff-upper-lip bit, but it's not working."
"She was a lovely woman, Al."
"She's not now," he said in the flat tones he used when he wanted to conceal his emotions.
When we entered the house, mother was waiting in the hallway. She wore a nightgown under a tatty flannel robe, and her feet were thrust into fluffy pink mules. She glanced at Sgt. Rogoff in his uniform, then put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
"Archy," she said, "what's wrong? Where is father? Has he been hurt?"
"He's all right," I said. "He's at the Gillsworth home. Mother, I'm sorry to tell you that Lydia has been killed."
She closed her eyes and swayed. I stepped close and gripped her arm.
"A car accident?" she asked weakly.
I didn't answer that. One shock at a time.
"Father will be staying with Gillsworth tonight,"
I said. "I came back with the sergeant to pick up some papers."
She didn't respond. Her eyes remained closed and I could feel her trembling under my hand.
"Mother," I said, "it's been a bad night, and the sergeant and I could use a cup of black coffee. Would you make it for us?"
I hoped that giving her a task would help, and it did. She opened her eyes and straightened.
"Of course," she said. "I'll put the kettle on right away. Would you like a sandwich, sergeant?"
"Thank you, no, ma'am," he said gently. "The coffee will do me fine."
Mother bustled into the kitchen, and I led Rogoff into my father's study. The letter was still lying on the desk blotter.
"There it is," I told Al. "Both the Gillsworths handled it but not my father and not me. Maybe you'll be able to bring up some usable prints."
"Fat chance," he growled, sat down behind the desk, and leaned forward to read.
"That was the third letter received," I said. "The first was destroyed by Gillsworth. The second is upstairs in my rooms. I'll get it for you."
A few moments later I returned with the second letter in the manila folder. I did not bring along the photocopy of Peaches' ransom note. Willigan had told us, "No cops!" And he was paying the hourly rate.
Rogoff had his cigar burning and was leaning back in my father's chair. He read the second letter and tossed the folder onto the desk.
"Ugly stuff," he said.
"A psycho?" I suggested.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe someone trying to make us think they were written by a psycho."
"What will you do with the letters?"
"Send them to the FBI lab. Try to find out the make of machine used, the paper, the ink, and so forth. See if they've got any similar letters in their files."
"Even right-hand margins," I pointed out.
"Oh, you noticed that, did you? Got to be a word processor or electronic typewriter. We'll see. How about that coffee?"
When we entered the kitchen, mother was filling our cups. And she had put out a plate of Ursi Olson's chocolate-chip cookies, bless her.
"The coffee is instant," she said anxiously to Rog-off. "Is that all right?"
"The only kind I drink," he said, smiling at her. "Thank you for your trouble, Mrs. McNally."
"No trouble at all," she assured him. "I'll leave you men alone now."
We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, hunching over our coffee and nibbling cookies.
"You suspect the husband, don't you?" I said.
The sergeant shrugged. "I've got to, Archy. Sev-enty-five percent of homicides are committed by the spouse, a relative, a friend, or acquaintance. These cookies are great."
"She
"My God," I said, "he almost walked in on a kill-ing."
"Uh-huh."
"Did he see anyone when he drove up?"
"Says not."
"Anything stolen?"
"Doesn't look like it. He can't spot anything missing."
"How's he taking it?"
"Hard. He's trying to do the stiff-upper-lip bit, but it's not working."
"She was a lovely woman, Al."
"She's not now," he said in the flat tones he used when he wanted to conceal his emotions.
When we entered the house, mother was waiting in the hallway. She wore a nightgown under a tatty flannel robe, and her feet were thrust into fluffy pink mules. She glanced at Sgt. Rogoff in his uniform, then put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
"Archy," she said, "what's wrong? Where is father? Has he been hurt?"
"He's all right," I said. "He's at the Gillsworth home. Mother, I'm sorry to tell you that Lydia has been killed."
She closed her eyes and swayed. I stepped close and gripped her arm.
"A car accident?" she asked weakly.
I didn't answer that. One shock at a time.
"Father will be staying with Gillsworth tonight,"
I said. "I came back with the sergeant to pick up some papers."
She didn't respond. Her eyes remained closed and I could feel her trembling under my hand.
"Mother," I said, "it's been a bad night, and the sergeant and I could use a cup of black coffee. Would you make it for us?"
I hoped that giving her a task would help, and it did. She opened her eyes and straightened.
"Of course," she said. "I'll put the kettle on right away. Would you like a sandwich, sergeant?"
"Thank you, no, ma'am," he said gently. "The coffee will do me fine."
Mother bustled into the kitchen, and I led Rogoff into my father's study. The letter was still lying on the desk blotter.
"There it is," I told Al. "Both the Gillsworths handled it but not my father and not me. Maybe you'll be able to bring up some usable prints."
"Fat chance," he growled, sat down behind the desk, and leaned forward to read.
"That was the third letter received," I said. "The first was destroyed by Gillsworth. The second is upstairs in my rooms. I'll get it for you."
A few moments later I returned with the second letter in the manila folder. I did not bring along the photocopy of Peaches' ransom note. Willigan had told us, "No cops!" And he was paying the hourly rate.
Rogoff had his cigar burning and was leaning back in my father's chair. He read the second letter and tossed the folder onto the desk.
"Ugly stuff," he said.
"A psycho?" I suggested.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe someone trying to make us think they were written by a psycho."
"What will you do with the letters?"
"Send them to the FBI lab. Try to find out the make of machine used, the paper, the ink, and so forth. See if they've got any similar letters in their files."
"Even right-hand margins," I pointed out.
"Oh, you noticed that, did you? Got to be a word processor or electronic typewriter. We'll see. How about that coffee?"
When we entered the kitchen, mother was filling our cups. And she had put out a plate of Ursi Olson's chocolate-chip cookies, bless her.
"The coffee is instant," she said anxiously to Rog-off. "Is that all right?"
"The only kind I drink," he said, smiling at her. "Thank you for your trouble, Mrs. McNally."
"No trouble at all," she assured him. "I'll leave you men alone now."
We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, hunching over our coffee and nibbling cookies.
"You suspect the husband, don't you?" I said.
The sergeant shrugged. "I've got to, Archy. Sev-enty-five percent of homicides are committed by the spouse, a relative, a friend, or acquaintance. These cookies are great."
"She
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