"Take it easy," he advised.
"Wait'll we clear her first."
"Brian, she's such a little mouse. She hasn't got a mean bone in her body.
I tell you she's just incapable of snuffing Ellerbee-or anyone else. She cries when she sees a stray dog."
"Uh-huh," he said.
"The meanest killer I ever scragged raised gerbils."
"You want to talk to Joan and see for yourself?"
"Not yet," he said.
"You keep up the buddy-buddy routine with her, but don't tell her I'm working with you."
Without making it obvious, he spent all week double checking Venable's investigation- and couldn't fault it. He talked to doctors at St.
Vincent's, with fellow employees at Yesell's law office, with neighbors, storekeepers, even the postman who delivered mail to the Yesells' brownstone.
Everything he heard substantiated what Helen had told him: Joan Yesell was a timid, withdrawn woman. The only gossip Estrella picked up was that Blanche Yesell was a real battle-ax who treated her daughter like a cretin without the brains or will to make her own decisions.
On Friday night the two detectives were slouched in Venable's Honda parked a few doors down from the Yesells' home.
"With my luck," Helen said gloomily, "Mama Blanche will have the bridge club meeting at her apartment tonight."
"Doesn't make any difference," Estrella said.
"If she does, you and I will tail two of the women after the game breaks up.
Brace them, get their names and addresses, and we'll take it from there.
But if Mrs. Yesell comes out-" And, while he was talking, she did come out. She turned eastward and crossed the street.
"That's her," Venable said tensely.
"Okay," Estrella said, "you go after her and get the number of the building she goes into. I'm going to make a phone call.
Meet you back here." elen took off after the scurrying Mrs. Yesell. Brian headed for Eighth Avenue and used a wall phone in an all night deli. He called the Yesells' apartment.
A faint voice, "Hello?"
"Mrs. Blanche Yesell, please," Estrella said.
"She's not here right now. Who's calling?" -This is Detective Brian Estrella of the New York Police Department. To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Joan Yesell, Mrs. Blanche Yesell's daughter."
"Miss Yesell, it is important that I contact your mother tonight.
There's a document wed like her to sign. It's just routine, but we do have to go by the rules and regulations, you know."
"A document? About Doctor Ellerbee's death?"
"Yes. Just her statement that she was home with you on that night. Could you tell me where I might reach her?"
"She's at her bridge club."
"Could you give me the phone number so I can contact her?"
"Well, she's at Mrs. Ferguson's tonight."
"Do you have the phone number?" he persisted.
She hesitated a moment, then gave him the number. Using a ballpoint pen, he jotted it down on the back of his hand.
"Thank you very much, Miss Yesell."
A few minutes later he was back at the Honda. Helen was waiting for him.
"I got the address," Venable said.
"And I got the name and phone number. We're in business." The next morning Delaney felt equally optimistic as he and Monica set out with the Boones for Diane Ellerbee's country home.
"Looks like a splendid day," Delaney gloated.
And so it was. A blue sky shimmered like a butterfly's wing. The sun was a hot plate and there, to the east, one could see a faint smudge of white moon. The sharp air bit like ether, and the whole world seemed scrubbed and polished.
Traffic was heavy, but they made surprisingly good time, stopping only once at a Brewster gas station to ask directions, use the rest rooms, and buy five gallons of gas in gratitude.
They drove. slowly along a country road, commenting on the mailboxes: a windmill, a miniature house, a model plane.
"Very cutesy," Delaney said.
"What's the Ellerbees' going to be-a little black leather couch with a red flag?"
But the mailbox marked Elerbee was the plain aluminum variety. It was at the entrance to a narrow side road that curved through a stand of skeleton trees up to the house and outbuildings. The gentle rise was not high enough to be called a hill, but sufficiently elevated to provide a pleasant view of the rolling countryside.
Boone drove onto the groveled apron outside the three-car garage. Parked outside was a dusty Volkswagen and the Ellerbees' Jeep station wagon.
The garage door was up, and they could see Dr. Simon's bottle-green XJ6 Jaguar sedan and Dr. Diane's silver and black 1971 Mercedes-Benz.
"I've got to get a look at that Mercedes," Delaney said.
"It's a beauty."
He and Boone went into the garage while their wives slowly strolled up to the main house along a curving pathway of slate flagstones.
Delaney and Boone spent a few minutes admiring the handsome cars in the garage.
"I'll take the Jag," Boone said, then laughed.
"Can you imagine me driving up to Midtown North in that buggy?
They'd know I was in the bag for sure."
"Mmm," Delaney said.
"I wonder why she hasn't sold it.
Who needs a Jaguar and a Mercedes?"
"Maybe she can't find a buyer," the Sergeant said.
"About all I can afford is that old Beetle parked outside. Who do you suppose owns it?"
They walked up to the main house. The door was open, and on the small stoop, awaiting them, was Dr. Julius Samuelson.
"Now you know who owns the Beetle," Delaney said, sotto voce.
Inside, there was warmth, fragrance from scented pressed logs blazing in a fireplace, and redolent cooking odors.
"Ahh," Delaney said, sniffing appreciatively, "garlic. I love it."
"You better," Dr. Diane said, laughing.
"That's Beef Bourguignon bubbling away, and my cook has a heavy hand with the garlic. But there's fresh parsley in the salad, and that should help. Now let's all have a drink before I give you the grand tour." She gestured toward a marble-topped sideboard laden with bottles and decanters.
The spacious living room had exposed 6ak ceiling beams… and a field stone fireplace. Floors were random-width pine planking. French doors at the rear opened onto a tiled patio and the swimming pool, now emptied and covered.
The master bedroom on the ground floor and the guest bedrooms on the second had individual fireplaces and private baths. The modern kitchen was fitted with butcherblock counters and track lighting. There was a small attached greenhouse.
The dining room was dominated by an impressive ten-foot table topped with a single plank of teak that looked thick enough to stop a cannonball.
There was no disguising the loving care (and money) that had gone into that home. Later, Delaney remarked to Monica that there wasn't a single piece of furniture, painting, rug, or bibelot that he didn't covet for his own.
But finally, what impressed the guests the most was the informal comfort: warm colors, glowing wood, gleaming brass and copper. It was easy to understand how such a place could serve as sanctuary from the steel and concrete city.
Looking around, Delaney could appreciate Dr. Diane's fury at her husband's murder and her desire for vengeance.
For he knew that possessions charm most when shared with others, and thought it possible that since Dr. Simon's death, all those lovely things had begun to pall. Now they were just things to Diane Ellerbee.
The women bundled up to stroll across the patio and inspect the design of the formal English garden. Dr. Samuelson stayed close to the living room fire, but Delaney and Boone took a turn around the grounds, admiring the view and imagining what a gem this place would be in spring and summer.
They wandered down behind the main house, beyond the swimming pool and garden. Hands in their pockets, shoulders hunched, they tramped to a copse of bony trees. And there they saw the stream, looking black and cold, with a lacework of ice building out from both banks.