The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [3]
Nor did I look forward to the lugubrious office that had brought the lieutenant and me there. I confess to a certain unease should the widow, in her shock, disclose any of my own complicated relations with the deceased.
It took a while for Merissa, casually elegant in jeans and boatneck sweater, her painted toes elegant in heeled sandals, to answer the door. Her smile at my appearance turned quickly to puzzlement. Perhaps it was the lieutenant, right behind me as we entered and went through the usual pleasantries of greeting. “Norman! What a wonderful surprise,” she exclaimed, ushering us into a wainscoted parlor with large windows giving out on the bay and brilliant parquet flooring under Turkey carpets.
The place reflected with Germanic punctilio the tastes of Heinie Grümh. The very smells seemed newly minted to go with the new house, new cars, new, expensive replications of antiques, and gorgeous new wife. Merissa Bonne is a striking woman of dark red hair, appraising gray-green eyes, a nose too perfect for nature, and a lush mouth given to frequent, ephemeral smiles, as though she found life to be a series of small jokes. I sometimes wondered if she considered me among them, in part because I’ve always had a weakness for her, for her beauty and her crassness.
“Whatever brings you here …?” The smiles were gone as concern rearranged her pretty features.
I coughed. I sighed. I said, “Merissa, this is Lieutenant Tracy of the Seaboard Police Department. I’m afraid we have some dreadful news for you.”
“Heinie …?”
Lieutenant Tracy nodded. “Your husband was found dead about an hour and a half ago. In his car.”
Her eyes grew large with horrified incredulity. “No!” she cried. “No.”
“I’m afraid so …”
“How …?”
“A preliminary investigation indicates murder.”
Despite my own involvement in the emotion of the moment, I could not help but remark an odd note in her surprise, and in her ejaculation “He wouldn’t!” before she covered her mouth with her hand. She appeared shocked not only by her husband’s untimely and unseemly death, but by something half expected.
I took her by the arm and helped her to a sofa, an imitation antique love couch in the French style with the back sloping down halfway across to seat level to allow the comfortable arrangement of one’s limbs for whatever contingencies arose. Lieutenant Tracy pulled up a chair and gently went through some preliminary questions.
“Mrs.… or is it Ms. Bonne?”
“Ms. Bonne. But call me Merissa.” She took my handkerchief, which was clean if a little starchy, and wiped her eyes with it.
The lieutenant nodded. “When was the last time you saw your husband?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Do you know where he was going?”
She shook her head. “He said something about going into Seaboard to see someone and then working on the Albatross … that’s his sailboat. He keeps it at the marina.”
“I see. And you didn’t find it strange that he didn’t come home?”
Merissa sighed and shook her attractive head. “He calls it his bolt-hole. His boat. It’s where he goes when he wants to duck out.”
“And why would he want to duck out?”
She dabbed with the stiff hankie. “We had a little spat …”
“You argued?”
“Yes.”
“About …?”
“About personal things. Very personal things.”
“I see.” The lieutenant was taking it all down, flipping the pages of his reporter’s notebook. “Ms. Bonne, do you know anyone who might want to murder your husband?”
She glanced at me, but not in any accusing way. She shook her head. “No. I mean he had enemies, Lieutenant, but no one …” Again she shuddered.
“Would you like me to get you coffee or something?” I asked. I wanted to feel useful.
“There’s a pot just brewing,” she said. “I’d ask the maid, but she has the day off …”
Assuring her I could find things, I went down the main hallway to their vast kitchen, a place with enough immaculate counter space and