“I’m not Hamilton.” “I know, dumb thing to say.
He paused, I think a little startled by the apology, and then turned to glance at the closed front door for no apparent reason. He spoke to me with his back turned. “So tell me about him.” I glanced at Spinney, who rolled his eyes and smiled before I catered to Smith’s request. I gave him everything I knew, from Wingate’s defenestration to his admission last night of owning a supposedly stolen 9 mm. I was in the middle of replaying my interview with Ellie Wingate a few minutes ago when his portable radio squawked that the Vermont State Police Crime Lab had arrived at the ravIne.
Smith acknowledged the message and marched for the door. He turned back when he noticed that neither Spinney nor I had moved. “You coming?” he asked his colleague.
Spinney shrugged. “Not much I can do until they’re finished. If it’s all right with you two, I’d like to follow up with Mrs. Wingate.” “Suit yourself,” and Smith was gone.
We both stood silently for a moment, looking at where he’d been standing. “Well, he didn’t say we couldn’t team up,” Spinney murmured.
I smiled. “Glad to have you. What’s he like to work with?” Spinney made a face. “What you see is what we got.” “Is he any good? I was told he’s Hamilton’s senior man.” “He is that.” Spinney waved his hand, as if to shoo away a fly.
“Oh, hell, he deserves it, too. He works hard, gets results-he’s good at what he does. I just think he has no personality.” I gave a shrug and turned toward the staircase. “Want to meet the widow?” We were halfway up the stairs when the front door opened below We both looked down to see a tall, tanned, immaculately dressed an in loafers, tan slacks, a herringbone sports coat, sweater, and tie. Bruce Wingate’s wardrobe had once struck me as J.C. Penney strivg for bigger times, this guy was an advertisement for Gentleman I uarterly.
He turned a vaguely George Hamilton-type face toward us, obvisly startled. “Who are you?” Before either one of us could answer, I saw Ellie Wingate swing to view at the top of the stairs, with Greta hard on her heels. “Paul, ank God you’re here.” “Paul” double-stepped up the stairs. Spinney and I moved aside let him float on by. His after-shave lingered in the air behind him, using Spinney to cock an eyebrow and tilt his head slightly to one e, like an emaciated owl spying a vole from afar. At the top of the stairs, Spinney introduced us both to the stranger. e’re with the police.” The other man shook our hands. “Paul Gorman, a friend of the ily. Have you found out anything yet?” “We’re just beginning.” “Of course, and no doubt you want to speak with Ellie.
Give us couple of minutes, will you?” Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the women and ooped them up. We watched them wend their way down the hall to eta’s apartment.
Spinney gave a theatrical gaze toward the blotchy ceiling. “Ohhhy and who was that cast of characters?” “The square one with the red face was Greta Lynn, who owns this mp; the lady in distress is Mrs. Wingate; and Gorman heads up eedom to Choose, or FTC, some sort of Boston-based deprogramng organization for parents with children ‘abducted’ by cults.”
“I thought FTC was the Federal Trade Commission.” I glanced down the hall. Greta had been left standing outside her or. She saw me looking and turned her back, obviously embarrassed having been so obviously excluded from Gorman and Ellie’s little -together.
“Interesting,” I muttered.
Spinney followed my look. “Not in the mood to share, I guess. So I me,” he added, leaning his bony hip against the newel post. “What’s zng on here? You think Edward Sarris has anything to do with zngate’s death?” “Him or anyone else. If this were the movies, he’d be the bad guy sure.” “Wingate burns five of Sarris’s people to death, so Sarris knocks off Wingate?” Spinney had obviously been briefed on the case earlier. “Right.” “But you don’t like that.” I ran my fingers through my hair and scratched my neck. “It could be that simple. I’d like some details, though.” Greta’s door opened and Gorman’s inappropriately smiling face appeared.
“Please, come in.” “Sounds like a dentist,” Spinney muttered. But to me, it sounded worse, like a man who had taken control. I very much doubted that the interview we were about to conduct would get us very far; Gorman would see to that. The question was, why?
He led us-including Greta, who seemed more like a guest in her own home down a short, dark, somewhat sour-smelling corridor to another door.
We entered a large living room, the corner windows of which looked down onto Route I 14 and North Street. The surprise was that it was bright, cheery, immaculately clean, smelled like roses, and was furnished not with antiques, but with an assortment of beautifully maintained, well-coordinated pieces. It was embracing, gently feminine, and very homey-an unthinkable jewel buried in the middle of a gigantic rotting hulk of a building.
“My God, Greta, this is amazing.” She didn’t answer, indeed, she looked quite angry that her secret had gotten out. Gorman settled comfortably onto a sofa next to a strained Ellie Wingate and waved us to the various seats around the room. “Now, how may Mrs. Wingate help you?” he asked, with all the charm of a yacht salesman.
I looked at Spinney. He sat back in an armchair and stuck his long legs out, an easy smile on his face. “Just a few questions, nothing remarkable.” Ellie Wingate sat as before, her hands in her lap, her eyes focused on the ground, but her back was ramrod-stiff-not the curved, caved-in posture I’d come to expect from most people with her recent grief. This was a woman far more nervous than bereaved. “Fire away, Sergeant.” Gorman leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, his hands gathered loosely before him, his body language shifting to a let’s-shoot-the-shit-with-the-boys kind of guy.
“Why are you here’?” Gorman let a second pass before smiling. “Ellie called me. Told me what had happened.” “When did you call him, Mrs. Wingate?” Gorman answered for her. “This morning. A little over an hour 0. Actually, she had Greta here do it for her.” He looked like the cat ate the canary. “Where were you?” “In Hanover, New Hampshire.”
“And you knew to call him there?” Spinney looked to Ellie aln.
She looked up, but Gorman answered for her once more. “I have ar phone.
All my calls get forwarded to wherever I am.” Ah, I thought, aren’t we clever. I glanced at my watch. If the call d been a little over a hour ago, that would have meant that immedily upon hearing of her husband’s death, Ellie had dispatched Greta the phone. It struck me as an unusual reaction, especially in someone hard hit as Ellie Wingate obviously was.
What was she trying to ver up?
“And you dropped everything to come tearing up here.” “Of course.
Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?” Spinney shifted in his seat.
“Mrs. Wingate, how are you feeling?” “She’s upset pretty natural reaction, isn’t it?” “Mrs. Wingate?” She looked up, her lips tight.
“Feel like talking?” She nodded.
“I know you already talked to Joe here. But I just want to hear or myself.” “That’s fine,” she whispered.
“Okay. So you two went to bed last night, and when you woke up, ur husband was gone. Is that right?” “Yes.” “What did you do then?”
“Then?” “Yes, after you realized he was gone.
“I started to get dressed. Then Mrs. Lynn came and told me Bruce had been… killed.” “Where did you think he’d gone?” “I don’t know.” “Were you concerned?” “No, well I mean… I don’t remember.” “Did you think he’d gotten up early to go for a walk?” “What does it matter, Sergeant?
She was barely awake.” “Mrs. Wingate, what did you think?” “I was sleepy.” “Was your husband in the habit of going out early, before you got up?” “You were the one who said that.” Spinney, as always, ignored Gorman.