damned case was a watercolor.
Most homicides were oils-great, bold slashings of pigment laid on with a wide brush or palette knife. Killings were generally stark, brutal affairs, the result of outsize passions or capital sins.
But this killing had the whiff of the library about it, something literary and genteel, as if plotted by Henry James. ‘ Perhaps, Delaney admitted, he felt that way because the scene of the crime was an elegant townhouse rather than a roach-infested tenement. Or maybe because the people involved were obviously educated, intelligent, and with the wit to lie smoothly if it would serve their purpose.
But murder was murder. And maybe a delicate, polite case like this needed a lumbering, mulish old cop to strip away all the la-di-dah pretense and pin an artful, perceptive, refined killer to the goddamned wall.
“We ought to start thinking about Thanksgiving,” Monica said at breakfast. “It’ll be here before you know it. A turkey, I suppose … “Oh … I don’t know,” Delaney said slowly.
“How about a goose?”
“A roast goose,” he said dreamily. “Maybe with wild rice and brandied apples. Sounds good. You do the goose and I’ll do the apples. Okay?”
“It’s a deal.”
“Are the girls coming down?”
“No, they’re going to a friend’s home. But they’ll be here for Christmas.”
“Good. Would you like to invite Rebecca and Abner for Thanksgiving dinner?
We can’t eat a whole goose by ourselves.”
“That would be fun. I think they’d like it. How about Jason and his family?”
“That guy could demolish a roast goose by himself. But if I ask Boone, I’ll have to ask Jason. I suspect he’ll want to have Thanksgiving dinner at home with his family, but I’ll check and let you know.”
“What are your plans for today, Edward?”
“I want to stick around in case Abner calls to tell me when we’re going to meet with Doctor Diane. Where are you off “More Christmas shopping. I want to get it all done and out of the way so I can relax and enjoy the holiday season.”
“Until the bills come in,” he said. “Have fun.”
He went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke his breakfast cigar. He was halfway through both when the phone rang. He expected it to be Boone, but it was not.
“Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.
“Good morning. This is Detective Charles Parnell.”
“Oh, yes. How are you?”
“Fine, sir, And you?”
“Surviving,” Delaney said. “You probably don’t remember, but you and I have met. It was at a retirement party for Sergeant Schlossman.”
“Sure,” Parnell said, laughing. “I remember. I tried to chug-a-lug a quart bottle of Schaefer and upchucked all over Captain Rogers’ new uniform. I haven’t had a promotion since! Listen, Abner Boone said you wanted these financial reports on the people in the Ellerbee case as soon as possible.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got them already?”
“Well, I may not be good, but I’m fast. I’ve got a single typed page on each of them. It’s not Dun & Bradstreet, but it should give you what you want. I was wondering if I could bring them by and go over them with you. Then if there’s anything else you need, you can steer me in the right direction.
“Of course,” Delaney said promptly. “I’ll be in all morning. You have my address?”
“Yep. Be there in half an hour.”
Delaney relighted his cigar and finished the Times. It was perfect timing; he had put the newspaper together neatly and was taking it into the living room to leave for Monica when the front door bell chimed.
The detective they called Daddy Warbucks was wearing a black bowler with a rolled brim, and a double-breasted topcoat THE Fourth DEAMY Sin 77 of taupe gabardine. He carried an attache case of polished calfskin.
Seeing Delaney blink, Pamell grinned. “It’s my uniform,” he explained. “I work with bankers and stockbrokers. It helps if I look like I belong to the club. Off duty, I
Most homicides were oils-great, bold slashings of pigment laid on with a wide brush or palette knife. Killings were generally stark, brutal affairs, the result of outsize passions or capital sins.
But this killing had the whiff of the library about it, something literary and genteel, as if plotted by Henry James. ‘ Perhaps, Delaney admitted, he felt that way because the scene of the crime was an elegant townhouse rather than a roach-infested tenement. Or maybe because the people involved were obviously educated, intelligent, and with the wit to lie smoothly if it would serve their purpose.
But murder was murder. And maybe a delicate, polite case like this needed a lumbering, mulish old cop to strip away all the la-di-dah pretense and pin an artful, perceptive, refined killer to the goddamned wall.
“We ought to start thinking about Thanksgiving,” Monica said at breakfast. “It’ll be here before you know it. A turkey, I suppose … “Oh … I don’t know,” Delaney said slowly.
“How about a goose?”
“A roast goose,” he said dreamily. “Maybe with wild rice and brandied apples. Sounds good. You do the goose and I’ll do the apples. Okay?”
“It’s a deal.”
“Are the girls coming down?”
“No, they’re going to a friend’s home. But they’ll be here for Christmas.”
“Good. Would you like to invite Rebecca and Abner for Thanksgiving dinner?
We can’t eat a whole goose by ourselves.”
“That would be fun. I think they’d like it. How about Jason and his family?”
“That guy could demolish a roast goose by himself. But if I ask Boone, I’ll have to ask Jason. I suspect he’ll want to have Thanksgiving dinner at home with his family, but I’ll check and let you know.”
“What are your plans for today, Edward?”
“I want to stick around in case Abner calls to tell me when we’re going to meet with Doctor Diane. Where are you off “More Christmas shopping. I want to get it all done and out of the way so I can relax and enjoy the holiday season.”
“Until the bills come in,” he said. “Have fun.”
He went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke his breakfast cigar. He was halfway through both when the phone rang. He expected it to be Boone, but it was not.
“Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.
“Good morning. This is Detective Charles Parnell.”
“Oh, yes. How are you?”
“Fine, sir, And you?”
“Surviving,” Delaney said. “You probably don’t remember, but you and I have met. It was at a retirement party for Sergeant Schlossman.”
“Sure,” Parnell said, laughing. “I remember. I tried to chug-a-lug a quart bottle of Schaefer and upchucked all over Captain Rogers’ new uniform. I haven’t had a promotion since! Listen, Abner Boone said you wanted these financial reports on the people in the Ellerbee case as soon as possible.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got them already?”
“Well, I may not be good, but I’m fast. I’ve got a single typed page on each of them. It’s not Dun & Bradstreet, but it should give you what you want. I was wondering if I could bring them by and go over them with you. Then if there’s anything else you need, you can steer me in the right direction.
“Of course,” Delaney said promptly. “I’ll be in all morning. You have my address?”
“Yep. Be there in half an hour.”
Delaney relighted his cigar and finished the Times. It was perfect timing; he had put the newspaper together neatly and was taking it into the living room to leave for Monica when the front door bell chimed.
The detective they called Daddy Warbucks was wearing a black bowler with a rolled brim, and a double-breasted topcoat THE Fourth DEAMY Sin 77 of taupe gabardine. He carried an attache case of polished calfskin.
Seeing Delaney blink, Pamell grinned. “It’s my uniform,” he explained. “I work with bankers and stockbrokers. It helps if I look like I belong to the club. Off duty, I
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