Old walls and thick windows made the room a cocoon of quiet.
Diane clutched at the Venetian glass beads of a blue-and-white necklace. “Are you sure you want Alison Gregory and the Dunhams to be here?” Her fingers opened and closed on the beads. “That’s what Laverne said. They were here the night Jack died.” Her hopeful face was slightly tilted to one side, as if straining to hear. “Bring them back. That’s what you told Laverne. I’ll call them, but I don’t know if they will come.”
Diane plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out a sleek black cell phone. “I don’t like Alison. I don’t think she’s kind. James, you’ll come even if she says no, won’t you? Please.” She closed her eyes.
The stillness of the room was cavelike, but a cave might hold a spatter from trickling water or the rustle of a bat’s wing. The library held only the faint, uneven breathing of a burdened woman.
Diane opened her eyes, nodded twice. “I’ll call. I must, mustn’t I, James?” She punched numbers.
“Alison, this is Diane Hume. I don’t want to bother you, but I’d like to ask a favor since you are such an old friend of the family.”
I arrived in Gregory Gallery.
Alison sat behind a burled walnut desk in an office that was absolutely free of clutter. She leaned back comfortably in a green cushioned chair that made her white-blond hair even more striking. The office contained only one painting, a brilliant mélange of colors, arresting, evocative, and faintly disturbing. The expensive surroundings provided a background that emphasized success and power. Alison’s smooth face held a trace of impatience, but her voice was friendly. “What can I do for you, Diane?”
As Alison listened, her finely drawn brows drew down. “I don’t understand.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Someone was on the balcony with Jack?” Her face was abruptly intent, her expression considering. Jack Hume had fallen from the balcony. Last night a vase had been dislodged from the balcony to crash into the garden. This morning Alison had insisted the vase had been vandalized until she realized Evelyn Hume was determined that its fall be deemed an accident. Alison surely saw a link between the two events.
“What does that have to do with me?” Her tone was puzzled. “My presence at The Castle the night of Jack Hume’s death is completely coincidental.” She listened. “Eight o’clock? Diane, I fail to see how my presence is necessary.” Her face folded into a tight frown. “Oh. Very well. I’ll come.”
Alison clicked off her cell. She pushed back her chair and rose. Her expression suggested she was thinking and thinking fast.
I wondered if she was remembering chisel marks on the pedestal that held the vase. Or perhaps, she was focused on Jack Hume’s visit to her gallery and his grim words about Evelyn: My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me.
In the Dunham house, Clint was alone in the den. He sat in a brown leather chair, holding an open newspaper. He wasn’t reading. He stared at the wall of family photographs. His roundish face sagged in despair.
Quick steps sounded in the hallway.
He lifted the paper.
Gwen stood in the doorway. “Does salmon sound good tonight?”
The paper was lowered. He looked up, his face genial, though his eyes were somber. “Are you sure your headache’s gone? I can pick up hamburgers.”
Gwen forced a bright smile. “I’m fine now.” She didn’t meet his gaze.
The phone rang.
Clint picked up the portable phone from the small table next to his chair. He looked at the caller ID. “Diane Hume.” He answered. “Hello…Hi, Diane.” There was no warmth in his voice. “Gwen?” He looked toward his wife.
Gwen walked to him and took the phone. She turned away, walking swiftly toward the hall. “Got a minute, but I’m in the middle of dinner.” Gwen hurried down the hallway and pushed through a swinging door into a cheerful kitchen.
I liked the yellow daisies blooming in the wallpaper and a golden cherrywood table in a clean contemporary design.
Gwen stopped short in the middle of the room. If she’d looked pale before, now her face was stark, blank white. “I can’t.”
Her back was to the swinging door. The panel ever so slowly and carefully eased open a crack.
I flowed through the door. Clint was an odd figure for melodrama in a stylish white-, pink-, and gray-striped poplin shirt, gray cotton twill slacks, wrinkle-free, and highly polished cordovans. He bent forward, every muscle rigid, and listened to his wife’s soft, halting voice.
I flowed back into the kitchen.
“Oh, Diane, I simply can’t…Someone on the balcony with Jack?” Gwen reached out to grip the kitchen counter.
For a moment, I thought she would faint.
The door widened a half inch.
Gwen braced herself against the counter. “I don’t understand…Laverne Phillips? Oh, that’s—” She broke off.
I wondered if Gwen had intended, in a natural, rational response, to insist that Laverne could not possibly have heard from James, that whatever Laverne said was a figment of her own imaginings. Or did Gwen realize in the same, chilling instant that Laverne Phillips might well know something and have learned that fact in a purely worldly way.
Gwen asked sharply, “What exactly did Laverne say?” She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. Her voice was wooden. “I understand, Diane. I don’t believe in this kind of thing at all, but if it matters to you that much, I’ll come.”
The swinging door eased shut.
When Gwen reached the den, Clint was seated, holding the paper.
“Clint.”
Once again he lowered the paper. He looked inquiring, but the newspaper rustled until he made his arms rigid.
Gwen tried for a smile. “Darling, the most absurd thing. Diane and that awful woman are having a séance tonight. Poor Diane. They have one every Wednesday night.” It was as if she kept talking, her words would fill the emptiness in her husband’s face. “Everyone who was at The Castle the night Jack Hume died will be there. It sounds perfectly dreadful. I don’t like the idea at all, but I was afraid Diane would be hysterical if I refused. Do you mind terribly”—her hands twisted, belying the studied casualness of her tone—“if we go?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Diane’s a fool.” His voice was gruff. He dropped his eyes, lifted the newspaper to hide his face. His words came from behind the shield. “All right.”
Gwen turned away.
When the swinging door to the kitchen soughed shut, Clint crumpled the newspaper in his hands. Fear glittered in his eyes.
Kay sat at the dressing table. She opened a jewel box, selected a necklace of large, diamond-cut blue beads separated by silver oblongs. The blue matched her summery blue chiffon dress with a pattern of silver swirls. She reached back to fasten the necklace. In the mirror, she looked elegant, her feathered-short dark hair flattering to her fine bone structure. “Blackmail.” Her voice was crisp. “Ronald thinks he knows something someone will pay him to keep quiet about. I don’t get the public venue. Maybe the idea is, here’s what we know and more can come out. Maybe he plans to put the touch on several people. The evening will be like a houseware party. Everybody come and look over the goods.
“While confined to quarters this afternoon”—her glance at me in the mirror was chiding—“I had an idea. It’s time to add Sturm und Drang. I could call everyone together and announce that Jack was murdered. But Ronald may save me the effort. Now, I need to wangle an invitation to the party.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll catch Diane before dinner.” At the door, she gave me a brilliant smile. “Fortunately, you don’t need an invitation.”
I started to speak, but the door closed. I shook my head. Kay might be eager for Sturm und Drang, but I knew what was verboten for me. No séances, thank you. I strolled to a chaise longue and settled comfortably. However, I was uneasy. I wondered if there were a way to warn Ronald Phillips against a risky gamble. Unless, of course, he was the killer and hoping to cast suspicion on others.