Barbara stared at him blankly and shrugged, as if to say, “Why do I care?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars of the cash was in a plain white envelope, which we believe was a partial payment for the planting of the bomb in Mr. Eagle’s airplane. We found your thumbprint on that envelope.”
Shit! Barbara thought, but her face betrayed only curiosity. “Heavens, why would my fingerprint be on an envelope in the home of this person — Mr. Gregg, was it?”
“Correct. We were hoping you could answer that question. Why was your fingerprint on that envelope?”
Barbara looked baffled. “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she said. “Isn’t that the sort of thing you gentlemen are supposed to find out?”
“It is,” Morales said.
“Well, when you do, I shall be very curious to learn how that happened.”
“We are inclined to think that your fingerprint was placed on the envelope when you handed it to Mr. Gregg,” Morales said.
Croft watched the woman with fascination, but he said nothing.
“Gentlemen, let me be perfectly clear,” Barbara said. “I do not now nor have I ever known this Mr. Gregg, and so it follows that I have never handed him an envelope, let alone one containing money.”
“Mrs. Grosvenor, we are aware that you have been accused of murder in the past.”
“Then you must be aware that I was found innocent,” she replied smoothly. “Gentlemen, I must lay all of this at the feet of my former husband, Mr. Eagle. He has been saying for years that I am trying to kill him, when nothing could be further from the truth. I’m afraid that, during all that time, I am told by professionals, he has exhibited symptoms of severe paranoia. I have nothing to gain from his death. We have been divorced for many years, and I asked nothing of him at that time. I am very much more wealthy than he, so there could be no financial motive, and I bear him no ill will, except for these ridiculous charges of his, for which there has never been a shred of proof. I’m very much afraid that the best explanation for this airplane explosion is that Mr. Eagle hired this Mr. Gregg to blow it up, so that he could make yet another baseless charge against me.”
“Then how do you explain the fingerprint on the envelope?”
“When Mr. Eagle and I were married, I often typed correspondence for him. It is entirely possible, even likely, that he possessed an envelope bearing my fingerprint, one that he has preserved for this special occasion. Now, have you any other questions for me? I’m expecting guests for dinner, and I have to consult with the cook about the menu and then change.”
“No, Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said. “We have no other questions — at this time. But you may expect to see us again.”
Barbara stood up, and the detectives stood with her. “Then I bid you good evening, gentlemen.”
The large young man had appeared silently at the door to the library, and he escorted them to the front door. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, closing it behind them.
“Well,” Croft said, “Captain Clark was right — she is the coldest, smoothest bitch ever to come down the pike.”
“Yes,” Morales said, “and she blew our fingerprint evidence right out of the water. Given her reasoning, it would never convict her.”
“I’d like to make a prediction,” Croft said. “Nobody is ever going to convict that woman of anything.”
They drove down the driveway to the road. “We may as well go back to San Francisco for the night,” Morales said. “It’s only an hour and a half or so, and we’re done here.”
“So I won’t need my new shirt and shorts?”
“No. By the way, did you notice that the Impala driven by the man from San Francisco was still parked in the side road?”
“Will you stop it with this observation crap, Chico? There’s no way that guy could have got here and changed cars!”
Billy Burnett saw them head back toward St. Helena, and he continued to wait quietly for darkness to fall.
43
Morales and Croft got back to their hotel, cleaned up, then went back to the Huntington Hotel bar and settled down with drinks. Five minutes later, two very attractive young women who appeared to be in their early thirties came in and took the only two stools vacant, which happened to be right next to Croft.
“Evening,” Croft said. “Can I get you two ladies a drink?”
The two looked him up and down, then one of them said, “Why not? Two Tito’s martinis, straight up, with a fistful of olives.”
The drinks arrived, and everyone toasted and drank. “I’m Stockton Croft, and this is my partner, Chico Morales.”
“I’m Pam Hale, and this is Sherry Tate,” the blonder of the two said. “What are you two partners in?”
“Crime fighting,” Croft said. “We’re LAPD detectives.”
“Ah,” Pam said, “and what brings you all the way to San Francisco?”
“The investigation of an attempted murder and an inadvertent suicide,” Croft replied. “What do you two do?”
“I do news features on the six o’clock news at WSFO,” Pam said, “and Sherry is the weather girl.”
“The meteorologist,” Sherry said.
“Sorry, Sherry. Tell me about your crime, Stockton — what was it again?”
“Attempted murder and inadvertent suicide.”
“That sounds fascinating. Tell me everything.”
“Well, this guy who works at a movie studio got hired to kill a lawyer who is a pilot, so he went out to Santa Monica Airport and packed half a pound of plastic explosives into the nosewheel well of a Citation and attached the detonator to a cell phone.”
“So the guy could call the number and the bomb would go off?”
“Exactly, except the guy got unlucky. Somebody called the number of the cell phone — probably a misdial — and the bomb went off while the guy was installing it.”
“And what did that do to the guy?”
“Blew off his head and one arm, and badly damaged his dignity.”
The girls winced and laughed. “And thus,” Pam said, “attempted murder and inadvertent suicide!”
“Right you are.”
“I love it, but how did it get you to San Francisco?”
“We came up to question a suspect.”
“But the suspect is dead.”
“The person who hired the suspect is not dead.”
“Ah, and who is he?”
“She.”
“Who?”
“No names,” Morales said suddenly, speaking for the first time. “She’s only a suspect at this point.”
“A woman hired this guy?”
“We’re pretty sure she did,” Croft said, “but we don’t have enough evidence to nail her — yet.”
“Wow! So this is an ongoing investigation!”
“That’s exactly what it is.”
“You know, this is exactly the kind of story I cover,” Pam said. “I’d love to interview this lady.”
“Oh, I don’t think she wants any publicity,” Croft said. “She’s a prominent person in your city — serves on a bunch of charity and arts boards, gives away millions.”
“Oh, come on, Stockton...”
“Call me Stock — everybody does.”
“Stock, tell me all the details, and I’m buying dinner. There’s a very good restaurant right over there.” She pointed across the bar.
Croft looked at Morales. “That’s a pretty good offer, Chico. What do you think?”
“Sounds great, but no names.”
“We’ll see about that after a bottle of good wine,” Pam said, waving at the headwaiter and holding up four fingers.
Billy waited until the last vestiges of the sunset had gone, then started his car. Then he turned it off again. A car’s headlights were turning into the Grosvenors’ driveway, and a moment later two other cars arrived. The front door of the house was opened, and half a dozen people were admitted.