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"You were with her for fifteen minutes?"
"About that. It seemed like longer." She pulled an expression of disgust. "I saw King David going up toward the gym." She was watching his face quite carefully. "Then he came out again within a minute or two…"
"Be more exact! How many minutes?" he demanded. "Two-five-ten?"
She smiled, that slow, dreamy smile with wide eyes that she used for the cameras when she was advertising an exorbitantly expensive perfume that was supposed to have men hurling themselves at your feet. "I'm not any good at time," she said sweetly.
"Try!" He meant to keep his voice level, and failed.
"I can't. It matters too much," she protested. "You're asking me to say something that might cost a man his liberty, even his life!"
An idea flashed across his mind with sudden illumination. "You went to see Howard Fondulac because you're fed up with being a clotheshorse, and you want to be an actress! Howard Fondulac's comeback, and Ondine's first movie!" He grunted. "You'd be good at it."
"Do you think so?" she was very obviously pleased.
"Sure!" he said. "You know how to play all the tunes, and you wouldn't know truth from fantasy if it rose up and bit you!"
She drew in her breath slowly, then let it out again without speaking.
Toscana did not speak either. Did he really think Ondine might have killed Fondulac? Why should she? He needed her far more than she needed him. Unless, of course… Another idea struck him. What if Fondulac had managed to persuade Lauren Sullivan to commit herself to working with him? Then he might have rebuffed Ondine.
"That's all," he dismissed her. "For now."
Lauren Sullivan greeted his question with laughter, full-throated, easy hilarity, as if it were the one truly fu
"Good heavens, Detective," she said, controlling her mirth at last. "I'm sure you don't mean to be insulting, but I assure you, I have no need whatsoever of descending to work with a man like that. I'll pretend you didn't ask and tell you frankly that I was vaguely sorry for him, but even he had more sense than to imagine I would agree, and more dignity, even when he was drunk, than to ask me."
There was something about her luminous beauty that enthralled Toscana even though he kept telling himself she was a suspect. Sitting here talking to her, hearing that wonderful voice, he felt as if he were part of someone else's story, and they would all live happily ever after, however unlikely it now seemed. She may look guilty, circumstantial evidence might pile up against her, but in the end it would all unravel and it would be someone else who was the killer.
"When did you last see Mr. Fondulac?" he said aloud.
"About ten minutes before that awful scream," she replied. "I was in the shower just through the passage from the gym."
"Did anybody see you?" he asked.
Her eyebrows shot up and she gave a sudden, delicious laugh. "No! I'm an actress, Detective, and I accept that I court the public eye a good deal, but there are some things I do not perform for viewing, and taking a shower is one of them!"
He felt the heat rise in his face and could have kicked himself for his clumsiness. He started to explain, to apologize, then stopped abruptly. It was time he reexerted his authority.
"This is a double murder investigation, Miss Sullivan. I need to know the truth so I can arrest whoever is responsible before it becomes a triple murder, or worse."
She sobered up instantly, and the pallor of her face made him realize how fragile her control was. "I was probably the last person to see him," she admitted. "Apart from whoever killed him, and that certainly wasn't me. I walked through the gym because I was looking for Hilda Finch and I'd seen her going that way, but she wasn't there, so I gave up and had a shower. It wasn't all that important."
"Mrs. Finch was going that way? When?"
She bit her lip. "Almost five minutes before I did." She looked at him steadily, very well aware of what she had said.
"Why did you want to see her?" he pressed.
"She owns the spa," she said reasonably. "It was to do with treatments, and… personal."
He let it pass. He would never prove otherwise anyway. "Thank you, Miss Sullivan. That's all for now."
She rose and left, walking with her own individual grace. He could not help watching her, and the image stayed in his mind for several minutes afterward.
Naturally he sent for Hilda Finch next. She kept him waiting fifteen minutes, answered all his questions simply and briefly, and denied any responsibility for either Howard Fondulac's or Claudia de Vries's deaths.
"For heaven's sake, Detective!" she said tartly. "I own Phoenix Spa. Do you imagine I want any more deaths here? Claudia spent millions advertising this place. One death is difficult to overcome, but with hard work it might be accepted as misfortune. A string of them is a catastrophe!"
Looking at her sharp, elegant face with its penetrating eyes he could believe the reputation of the spa was her chief concern and the murders potentially a financial problem. He certainly learned nothing more from her, and she left him feeling more confused than ever, wondering whom to see next and what to ask.
Caroline had refused to see Douglas after their first sharp and very brief encounter, but she knew that a showdown was inevitable sooner or later. She couldn't remain locked in her room indefinitely. And she would not allow him to make her a prisoner, damn him!
It happened early the next day down near the lake with the sun glittering off the water and a very slight breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the bushes around the cottages. She saw his familiar figure striding toward her, and for an instant she felt the old pleasure, as if nothing had happened and everything was perfect, as it had been only a week ago.
Except that of course it hadn't. If she were not so naive she would have known that. She turned to face him, swallowing hard and straightening her shoulders.
He stopped in front of her.
She struggled to keep control and use her brain instead of the emotions boiling up inside her: grief for what she had lost and hope that perhaps it wasn't totally gone after all; shame for the fool she had been to be taken in by him; and rage at his duplicity, the way he had used her. "Yes, Douglas, what is it?" she said a little breathlessly.
"Have you had time to reconsider your decision regarding a divorce?" He was straight to the point. It startled her that he did not try any charm or prevarication at all. It was unlike him not to attempt the easier way first. He believed in his own power to win people, and to be honest he had had good cause to. Damn it, she had given him good cause! When had she ever failed to melt into his arms when he tried hard enough?
"And why should time make any difference?" she asked icily. "Would a day, or a year, change the facts?"
His smile was chilly. She used to think he was so handsome, almost beautiful because of the confidence and the charm and the kindness inside him. Now he was ugly. There was a slackness somewhere, a mea
"Time could change your perception of the facts," he answered. "You might develop a much clearer idea of what is important and what isn't."
"You mean I might acquire your idea of it!" she said witheringly. "Please, God, I hope not! The day I believe power and office mean everything, and honesty means nothing, I'd be better off dead!"
"Yes." He shoved his hands hard into his pockets and stared down, then up again quickly. "Well, death is a whole other subject. One I'd prefer to avoid, if possible."
She felt a chill ripple over her, and it was not from the breeze off the lake.