The Impetuous Mistress. George Harmon Coxe
to have a reason and you had a reason, a good one. I know why she went there. She expected you’d fight with her—”
“Mr. Brainard!”
“I’ll make no accusation until I have the facts, but I’m warning you now that I’ll find out who did this if it takes every dollar I have. Remember that, Rick. If you happen to be the one, God help you!”
Rick heard the receiver crash down at the other end of the wire. He put the telephone gently in its cradle and wiped the perspiration from his brow. When he turned he found Nancy watching him with anxious eyes. She asked whom he was talking to and he told her. He did not add that Brainard already thought that he, Rick, had killed Brainard’s daughter.
A state police cruiser was first on the scene, its occupant a burly, uniformed officer who listened briefly, looked long enough to make sure Frieda was dead, and then asked for the telephone. Another car came presently with two more uniformed men and after that Rick began to lose track of the others who came in civilian clothes.
He and Nancy were allowed to wait in the studio while the medical examiner performed his duties and the technical men went through their practiced routine. The captain of the western division came to question them briefly, but in the end the duties of investigation fell upon two men: a lieutenant from the Special Service branch of the state police, and the county detective representing the state’s attorney’s office.
The lieutenant’s name was Legett, a tall, spare man of forty or so with a rectangular face and alert dark eyes. He wore beige tropical slacks and a lightweight sport jacket and no hat, so that there was only the quiet persistence of his manner and prying gaze to suggest to the uninitiated that he might be an officer of the law specializing in homicide. County Detective Manning was a rotund man of indeterminate age, who wore a gray business suit and metal-rimmed glasses. When they were ready for more detailed information they came into the studio, which was an extension of the living room.
“You were the one who found her, Miss Heath?” they said.
“Yes.”
“We’d like to get your story,” Legett said and nodded toward the open doorway. “We can use another room.”
Nancy stood up. Her face was composed now and as she straightened her shoulders and pulled down the jacket of her suit she glanced at Rick. He gave her a nod of encouragement and the best smile he could; then watched proudly as she marched from the room with her chin up.
When he had a cigarette going he looked slowly about the paneled room. He considered the two illustrations he had done for True-Fruit, which stood propped against the wall on the old trestle table, wondering if he would be able to deliver them to Ted Banks in the morning. Both were boy-girl jobs, one showing the edge of a tennis court and the other at dockside with the boy and girl in bathing suits looking down at a sailboat which had been moored there.
One of the advantages of having an agent nowadays was the equipment and studio room such agents provided. Ted Banks and his partner had a whole floor in a mid-town building, and in addition to the private cubbies for each artist who wanted one, there was a well-equipped photographic studio. With model prices the way they were, most artists posed their people the way they wanted them and got their photographs in an hour or so, using the prints to work from later on. In Rick’s case he did most of his roughs at the studio and his finished art here in the country at this time of year.
He considered the portrait of Elinor Farrell and decided he had no worries in that direction since it was practically finished. He looked at the homemade racks in the corner where his unframed but completed work was stacked. Free-lance work, mostly oils, with a few in gouache and tempera, of various sizes and subjects, some fairly recent but most of them old.
A few were experiments done between the big war and Korea, but the majority had been done at Frieda’s insistence after he had come back the second time. She had never had any objection to his being an artist but she had argued for serious art, and prestige; something, as she put it, she could be proud of. He was still working on salary for the advertising agency then and he had painted furiously in his spare time, knowing somehow that his work was not quite right but not certain why. His draftsmanship was excellent and he was a pretty fair colorist but his brushwork was not good enough. The one-man show that Frieda arranged for him proved it, at least for the time being.
He had sold two pictures. When commissions were paid he barely made expenses, and the fact that she could support him while he perfected his techniques was an argument that had no appeal. He did three portraits for wealthy friends of hers and felt they were quite good, but he knew then that for him the so-called serious art must wait. It would be wonderful indeed to be another Eakins or Homer or Bellows or Hopper some day, but for the present he wanted to be a successful illustrator and that meant the advertising field.
It seemed now that he had been right. He had sold his work right from the start, small things in black and white first, taking what he could get and doing the best he could with it. He was not yet getting top prices and the demand for his color work was spotty, but he was getting there—
He snapped his thoughts in place at the sound of some commotion in the other room and when he glanced through the doorway he caught a glimpse of Frederick Brainard. He could hear his voice mingling with others but the words remained indistinct. He knew he would eventually have to face his father-in-law and the prospect was discouraging because Brainard had blamed him for the original elopement, and his dislike for Rick had been consistent over the years. He knew, too, that the man loved his daughter despite the fact that they were usually at odds over some matter. Now, because he had no choice, Rick could only wait and it took longer than he thought. It was nearly a half hour later that Brainard came through the doorway with Lieutenant Legett at his side and advanced two steps before he stopped.
Rick stood up, not knowing what to expect, and in the silent moment that they stood there with eyes locked, he remembered again that Frederick J. Brainard was a man of some importance in Fairfield County.
There were many more wealthy but few who had taken more interest in public affairs and local politics, possibly because Brainard was not a commuter. As president of the Brainard Tool Company, which had been founded by his grandfather, he ruled a modest but prosperous business with its principal plant near Greenwich, and his waterfront estate was not far away.
A well-setup and vigorous man in his late fifties, he had thick gray hair, a stubborn, muscular jaw, and an outdoor look that was genuine and came from golf and sailing. Generally respected for his integrity, he was to many a domineering man, determined to win all battles whether business or personal and impatient with failure. His character was deficient in some things, chiefly a sense of humor, and to Rick there had always been a lack of sympathy and the ability to see any side of an argument but his own. Now the face had a grayish tinge and his voice was thick and unsteady.
“I’ve told the detectives about you and Frieda,” he said. “And the divorce and why she came here tonight. I also told them about her inheritance.”
He hesitated and Rick waited, understanding how hard the man had been hit, seeing the signs of grief that could not be hidden, and finding no words that could express his sympathy. That Brainard might accuse him surprised him not at all and, at the moment, he did not even resent the words that followed.
“I’ve told them that, in my opinion, you’re the only man who had a possible motive to do such a thing.” He paused again, mouth working. When he started to move forward, Legett touched his arm and he stopped.
“Remember what I told you over the phone,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “If you did it, so help me, I’ll see that you pay if it’s the last thing I do.”
He stopped abruptly, shoulders sagging. He let Legett turn him toward the door. A moment later he was gone and Rick suddenly felt tired and old and despondent. He crushed out his cigarette, and because he could no longer stand still, he began to pace the room, head down and eyes brooding. He was still at it when he heard a new voice in the other room. By the time he could turn, Tom Ashley was walking toward him, Legett trailing.
“Jesus, Rick!”