“It’s okay,” I said, not wanting to show any enthusiasm for that particular work, “but I much prefer the van Gogh in the living room.” I sucked in my breath and slowly turned to face Augusta. “It’s from his Arles period, isn’t it?” I asked, suddenly grateful for Abby’s brief course in art appreciation.
“Yes, it is,” she said, offering me a thin, dry smile. “You have a very good eye, my dear. Gregory and I consider the van Gogh to be the prime piece in our extensive art collection.” She was staring at the necklace again. Had she considered it to be the prime piece in her jewelry collection?
“I see you’re looking at my diamonds,” I murmured, wishing to heaven I had never set eyes on them myself. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are, dear. They’re exquisite. Have you had them long?”
“Not very long at all. I didn’t acquire them until last month. They were left to me by my dear Aunt Rosemary, may she rest in peace. (This could have been true, you know! The necklace was part of a Tiffany-designed line, after all, so it definitely wasn’t one of a kind.) “Actually, these diamonds are the main reason I’m here tonight,” I went on. “I was hoping your husband could appraise the necklace for me and offer some advice on how I should handle this and the rest of my inheritance, what I need to do about taxes and insurance and so forth.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave me a questioning look. “Gregory?” she said. “You want Gregory to give you financial advice?” I couldn’t tell what she was doubting the most-my motive for being there or her husband’s financial judgment.
“Yes, I really do need his help,” I said. “I heard that Farnsworth Fiduciary was the place to go for economic guidance, so I went to your husband’s office yesterday and spoke to him for a few minutes about my situation. He said he would be glad to advise me, but he couldn’t do it right then because the office was closing early. So he very kindly invited me to your party tonight, saying he’d try to find a few minutes to devote to my concerns.”
Was it my imagination, or was Augusta giggling? “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, trying, but failing, to wipe a sardonic smile off her pale, powdery face. “I don’t mean to laugh at your inheritance concerns. It’s just that… well, how can I put this? Gregory is not the expert financial planner you seem to think he is. He barely knows the difference between a dollar and a dime. I’m the one who owns and controls Farnsworth Fiduciary-as I have for fifteen years, ever since my father died. My husband is just a guest there. I gave Gregory his own office just so he would have an address to put on his business card-and a place to take his afternoon nap.”
So that’s the way it was. The Smythe millions were really the Farnsworth millions. I can’t say I was surprised. It was hard to imagine the foolish, forgetful Smythe running a successful financial enterprise. It was quite easy, on the other hand, to conceive of him renting cheap apartments for a string of impressionable young girlfriends, then nipping gems from the family vault-or from his wife’s jewelry box-to keep them impressed.
And it was easy to see how a smart, wealthy business woman-cum-art collector-cum-socialite like Augusta Farnsworth Smythe might choose to overlook her husband’s petty thefts and affairs rather than bring shame to her father’s name and to her own family. It was even easy to see how being the ultra-privileged (and no-doubt ultra-neglected) daughter of such a spurious pair could have driven Lillian Smythe to become so nasty and aggressive.
The question was, just how nasty was she capable of being? Nasty enough to fire two.22 caliber bullets into Judy Catcher’s young, unsuspecting heart?
Hoping to gather more clues to Lillian’s character (and hoping that Augusta would continue to be so revealing!), I probed a bit deeper into the Smythe family profile. “I met your lovely daughter Lillian a few minutes ago,” I told her. “Do you have other children?”
“No, just the one.”
“Does Lillian work for Farnsworth Fiduciary, too?” I asked. “She seems to have a sharp, decisive head on her shoulders.”
“Lily?” Augusta said, raising her eyebrows again. “No, Lily doesn’t work at all. Unless you call being cross and causing trouble work.” Her face grew even paler and she glanced off to the side, letting her sad gray eyes go out of focus. “She’s sharp and decisive as you say, but about all the wrong things.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by this, but I felt I’d just heard something important. Something Augusta had said- or maybe it was just the way she’d said it-had set off a flickering signal in my brain. But what the heck was that signal trying to tell me? I didn’t know! It kept flickering and flickering, but I couldn’t get the message. It was driving me insane. I wanted to dart off by myself somewhere-to some quiet, secret corner-where I could close my eyes, let my thoughts settle, and then try to sort them out.
The bathroom. When in doubt, go to the bathroom.
“Please excuse me, Mrs. Smythe,” I said, “but I need to powder my nose.” (What I meant was take a powder, but I couldn’t very well say that!) “Would you mind pointing me to the little girl’s room?”
“Not at all, dear,” she said, looking relieved. She was glad to be getting rid of me. “It’s right across the hall, second door down.”
“Thank you.”
As I was hurrying down the corridor toward the designated doorway, I saw Abby emerge from Smythe’s study and rejoin Terry in the hall. They embraced and kissed each other (completely forgetting, I suppose, that Terry was supposed to be m y husband), then began strolling, arm in arm, up the Oriental carpet in my direction.
The flickering signal flickered out. I couldn’t even remember what had set it off in the first place. All I could think about was hooking up with Abby and Terry and getting us all out of that apartment before Lillian lost her cool and called the police.
Rushing to meet my fellow aliens halfway, and telling them we had to split, I urged them onward to the penthouse entrance hall, where we retrieved our coats and took the elevator down to Earth. A mad, freezing-cold dash to the subway, then we hopped inside our trusty underground spaceship and zoomed back to the Village-a more familiar and forgiving planet.
“GREGORY SMYTHE IS NOT THE MURDERER,” Abby insisted. “I’d stake my life on it.” Still dressed in her sexy black and white strapless, she was standing in her stocking feet at her kitchen counter, stirring up a pitcher of martinis.
“What makes you so sure?” Terry asked, taking off his bow tie and loosening his collar. “He looks like a real degenerate to me.”
“He is a degenerate,” she said, “but he’s not a killer.” She set the martini pitcher down on the kitchen table, then brought over three glasses. “He has no conscience and he has no soul… but he has no brain, either! The man simply isn’t smart enough to plan and carry out a murder, you dig? He has the IQ of a chimp.”
I agreed with her on that score. “Were you able to get him to talk about what happened? Did you pick up any new clues, or learn anything about his relationship with Judy?”
“No, no, and no,” she said, sitting down and pouring our drinks. “All I learned is that he’s a slobbering, gooey-eyed old Romeo who isn’t happy unless he has some part-any part!-of the female anatomy to suck on. Look! He gave my elbow a hickey!”
Terry laughed. “Did the earth move?”
Abby snickered and gave him a playful slap on his shoulder.
Uh oh! I cautioned myself. If I don’t steer this conversation in a more serious direction, they’ll be hitting the sheets in no time! “Daddy Smythe may not be the murderer,” I interjected, using my most serious and solemn tone, “but his darling daughter could be.”