Conduct in Question

Chapter 23

As soon as Harry entered his house, he called out for Laura. There was no response. In the kitchen, he saw a note propped up against the coffeepot. It read: I’m having dinner with Martha tonight. Don’t wait up. L.

He sank onto a kitchen chair. Restlessly, his eyes roved about, taking in the barrenness of the house. People who had a life together put photographs of happy times on the wall, and magnets and calendars on the fridge. Angrily, he tossed the marriage counselor’s appointment card beside Laura’s note.

Looking into the dining room, he saw a large wicker basket on the table. Laura must have put it there when she had dropped by. He knew immediately, without reading the card, that Chin had sent it. He was almost afraid to open the green, glistening cellophane wrap. Inside, he could see boxes of cookies and chocolates. At last he opened the card.

Dear Mr. Jenkins,

I have discussed our conversation with the conglomerate. We do hope you will reconsider. We are willing to pay handsomely for your services, as we know you will complete the work in a timely and expert manner. Please reconsider your position carefully.

Sincerely,

Albert Chin

Harry crumpled the card and flung it into the kitchen wastebasket, then dialed his client, only to encounter a voice-mail recording. He said, “Mr. Chin, I’m very sorry, but as I explained, I cannot act in the Deighton offer as I am already the estate solicitor. Oh…and thank you for the gift basket, but please do not send anything more. Good night, sir.” Surely, by God, that should be clear enough.

He opened the refrigerator. In the pale white light, he saw a small selection of neatly packaged carrots, lettuce, and tomatoes. Further back was some cold meat and a tub of tofu. The sparse stock undoubtedly reflected the thin spirit of their marriage. A world without pleasure now enveloped them.

At the kitchen table, he thought of their long, leisurely dinners, years back, filled with wine and conversation until midnight. In bed, their lovemaking was first as soft and sensuous as shadows, then as wild and violent as August storms. Then they would lie exhausted in the dark. Desperately, he wished for a return of such passion. Surely such a love could not simply evaporate. Unable to swallow, he set down his sandwich and snapped on the television.

The six o’clock news was on. Hunger drove him to try again to eat. Over the last few days, it had been painful to move, eat, or breathe. He forced his mind back to Marjorie.

No doubt Frank had procured the new will, but Harry was puzzled about Suzannah’s promise. It was likely that she had agreed to nurse Marjorie at home if  she were to become really sick. Marjorie did have a justified horror of nursing homes.

Frank was in the center of the mess, but Harry had to prove at least undue influence. Just because Frank was a money-grubbing fraud, that didn’t necessarily mean he murdered her. He couldn’t envision Suzannah as someone involved in a murder. She seemed to wander dreamily from one day to the next. Perhaps she didn’t know a thing. If someone knew about Marjorie’s call to him about the will, he or she might have decided to get rid of her fast. Unless Marjorie had spoken about the appointment, no one else would have known of it.

Rosie had been badly cut up with ugly petal designs. Welkom, for what it was worth, thought the work wasn’t artisticenough to be that of the Florist. And Harry was at a loss to understand why Rosie might have fallen prey to the mad Florist. If the two deaths were connected to the Florist, why on earth would he poison one and strangle and carve the other? Maybe Rosie had come back early from her free afternoon and interrupted the killer, who had attacked her in a brutal rage. Theories ran rampant in his mind, but nothing added up.