So much for this being a friendly group, Joe decided.
“Did anyone see him Saturday morning?” he asked. “Or do any of you know if he had any plans for Saturday morning or afternoon?” He wasn’t expecting any of them to admit they had seen the man; what he was interested in was watching the interaction between them. There didn’t seem to be any tight bonds here; it had already turned into every man for himself.
“I talked to him Saturday morning,” Nat said. “I called him with the answer to a tax question he’d asked me. He was excited about the evening, because the society was going to give him an award. He was in a good mood.”
“Did he say anything about seeing anyone before the dinner?” Joe asked.
“No,” Nat said. “Just that Mary and Jared were both coming to his place, and that they’d all be going over together,” Nat said.
“What about the butler? He was there, too,” Larry said irritably.
“The butler?” Lila scoffed.
“Why would his butler want to kill him?” Eileen asked. “They got along quite well. Thorne paid him a very nice salary.”
“Because he must have been wretched as a boss,” Larry said.
“Oh, darling,” Lila protested. “It’s not the butler. That would be far too boring.”
“Lila, a man is dead,” Barbara reminded her. “This isn’t the plot for a novel.”
“And I still say it wasn’t the butler,” Lila insisted.
“Having a meeting tonight is pointless,” Brook said with a sigh. “We should have cancelled. We’re all too emotional.”
Genevieve spoke up then. “Maybe being emotional isn’t so bad. What if whoever killed Thorne really does have something against the Ravens? Aren’t you all frightened?”
“Of course, we’re frightened, darling!” Lila exclaimed. “But we can’t let ourselves get carried away. I know Sam was hurt, but it’s ridiculous to think someone was able to cause that accident just to harm him, then get away unscathed himself. Good God, simply getting on that wretched highway is dangerous. So, Mr. Connolly, what do you suggest we do next?” She stared at him pointedly.
“My suggestion is to do what everyone should always do—be careful. Don’t park in dark garages, don’t walk in dark alleys. Keep your doors locked,” Joe said.
“Good advice,” Lou Sayles said, and offered him an awkward smile. “But what happens when the danger comes from someone you trust?”
“There we go again!” Brook exploded. “Accusing one another.”
“Be helpful to the police in any way that you can. The sooner Thorne Bigelow’s murder is solved, the sooner you’ll feel safe. And enjoy one another’s…society again,” Joe said. “No pun intended.”
And yet, it was hard not to feel as if this entire thing weren’t some kind of terrible joke.
The people here were…
Well, caricatures in a way, he thought. He had lived in New York City most of his life, and he loved New Yorkers. But tonight he felt as if he had walked in on a play satirizing the rich and the poor and everyone in between. They had the poor librarian, the angry columnist and several society matrons. Men who lived hard, men who thrived and men who were always thirsty.
A ripple of uneasy laughter reminded him of his last words.
No pun intended.
Too bad Thorne Bigelow’s murder was anything but a joke.
“I feel better just for speaking honestly,” Barbara said with a soft sigh.
“Why on earth would you feel better?” Lila asked. “All we’ve proven tonight is that we don’t trust one another.”
“Oh, come, Lila,” Lou said. “I refuse to believe that any of us is capable of murder.”
“Maybe not,” Joe said, and all turned to stare at him. “But someone out there is. So, all of you, be careful.”
“Yes, we all need to be careful.”
The statement came from the doorway. Joe turned around to see that a newcomer had joined them.
Jared Bigelow.
He’d seen the man’s picture in the papers and in the file Raif had faxed over. He was perhaps six feet in height, lean and wiry. He had dark, curling hair and a face with features so fine they were almost sharp. His eyes were deep set and dark. He was in his early thirties, casually dressed in chinos and a tweed jacket.
And he was not alone.
The woman standing behind him was in her late thirties or early forties. She was small and model thin. Her hair was blond and highlighted with an even lighter shade, and her eyes were enormous and a marbled blue-gray. She appeared both extremely artificial and extremely attractive at the same time, as if many things about her had been enhanced, but enhanced very well.
Mary Vincenzo, Thorne Bigelow’s late brother’s much younger wife. She had been in public relations before her marriage, according to the file Raif Green had sent. She had never changed her name.