In the Still of the Night

celebrities to back his claim. “So it was a dame that got killed,“ Jack said, sprawling rudely in one of the massive chairs beside the French windows. “How’d she get done in?“ Jack had gone to college and considered proper grammar nearly a God in his newspaper writing, but with his new status as editor, his spoken vocabulary had grown coarser.
    “Strangled, we hear,“ Robert said.
    “Name?“ Jack asked, getting out his notebook. “Lorna Pratt Ethridge,“ Lily said. “I wish I’d never heard of her.“
    “Putting a crimp in your party, isn’t she?“ Jack said. “Age of victim?“
    “I have no idea. Early to mid-fifties, I’d guess.“
    “Where’s she from? How did you know her? What was she doing here?“ He snapped out the questions, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.
    “She’s from New York City, now. Or maybe just keeps an apartment there. It was the address she gave. But she also lives in the same town Addie does.“
    “Addie?“
    “A friend of mine who is also here. We didn’t know Mrs. Ethridge and we don’t really know what she was doing here,“ Lily said wearily. “She invited herself.“
    “Who are the other guests? Besides Julian West.”
    “Do you really need to know all this?“ Robert asked.
    “Listen, I work for you guys. You own the paper. Want me to do my job or not?”
    This wasn’t strictly true, but nobody had ever told Jack that Lily and Robert wouldn’t really own anything for another nine years and six months and only then if they stayed in Voorburg virtually the whole time. Meanwhile, the entire estate they’d inherited was in the hands of Mr. Prinney, the estate’s executor. It had apparently never occurred to Jack to check out their uncle’s will at the county courthouse, for which they were glad.
    “Miss Addie Jonson, my friend and former teacher,“ Lily said. “Mr. West and his manservant, Sergeant Bud Carpenter. Professor Cecil Hoornart, the biographer and book reviewer. If you haven’t heard of him, you’d do well to pretend to have. I think he’s a bit prickly about his intellectual achievements. Raymond and Rachel Cameron. They’re school friends of ours.“
    “That’s all?”
    Robert said, “You forgot Mad Henry.“
    “I’m trying to forget Mad Henry,“ Lily said. “Where is he, anyway?“
    “Probably in the basement, tinkering with his system.“
    “Mad Henry?“ Jack asked. “He sounds like a good suspect.“
    “Henry Troer is a friend of Robert’s,“ Lily said. “And he’s only mad in harmless ways. He’s an inventor. Of pretty useless things.“
    “So what’s your best guess?“
    “Guess?“ Robert asked.
    “Who bumped the old girl off?“
    “Good Lord! How would we know?“ Lily exclaimed.
    “You’re the ‘lord and lady’ of the manor,“ Jack said. “Surely you have some idea what’s going on in your own mansion.“
    “You’d think so,“ Robert said. “But you’re wrong. And if we did suspect someone, we wouldn’t say so. And you wouldn’t put it in the paper if you had someone in mind.“
    “Guess I’ll have to corner Howard Walker,“ Jack said, unoffended by this edict.
    “Good luck,“ Lily said. “He isn’t as gabby, or as stupid, as the old police chief. Nor such a bully.“
    “Naw. He’s an okey-doke guy, our Walker. You know he’s part Indian, don’t you? When the Munsee tribe of the Delawares got run out of the valley about a hundred years ago, a few who had intermarried with the Dutch got left behind. He’s the great-great-grandson of one of them. Or maybe three ‘greats.’ “
    “How do you happen to know this?“ Robert asked.
    “I’m planning to do a piece in the paper about him. I was going to run it this week, but I think your murder is going to take precedence.“
    “It’s not our murder,“ Lily said.
    Jack shrugged this off. “You don’t mind if I question some of your guests, do you?“
    “We certainly do mind,“ Robert said. “It’s bad enough that this happened. We don’t want them harassed by a reporter.“
    “Editor and reporter,“ Jack said.

    * * *

    Addie had gone to lie down in her room. She locked the door between the bath and closet to Lorna’s room. They’d taken Lorna’s body away, but she could still smell Lorna’s perfume lingering. Or she imagined she could. Or maybe it was the sick, sweet odor of death. Like a rose on the verge of rot.
    Addie knew she was the prime suspect. And she also knew that nothing she could say would