Philanderers Gone Page 10

  The family she married into had turned out to be the opposite of a loving family, but murderers? It should have been difficult for her to imagine that possibility. Except that it wasn’t. Perhaps she simply wanted to believe they weren’t as bad as she knew they were.

  Reginald, according to Mr. Cooper, was definitely not Leonard’s heir, and Reginald knew it. Murdering Leonard made no sense, which left her back where she started—as the primary suspect. She was out her yacht and up a fortune. More importantly, she was unburdened of a horrible husband.

  Of course the yacht was insured. As she had the thought, Detective Truman rounded the corner into her view. He was a tall man and his dark gaze fixated on her. There was a part of her that felt guilty simply for being at Scotland Yard, and the detective seemed to believe she was involved in the deaths. If Truman asked her if she had opium in her rooms or whether she’d stolen the queen of hearts’ tarts, Ro felt certain she’d be tempted to confess.

  Did the insurance for her yacht make her look even more guilty? Was it possible for her to look more guilty? Ro’s alibi was a friend she’d met the night of her husband’s death. If Ro had arranged her husband’s murder, latching onto the first likely person for the evening surely made her alibi look contrived.

  She stood and extended her trembling hand to greet the detective. He noted her trembling hand. Could he see guilt in her as well? She was afraid of him, if she was honest, but also attracted to him, which was completely out of place. She felt certain his attention was focused on her solely because of his suspicions and yet she allowed herself to be distracted by his handsome eyes and square jaw.

  “Mrs. Ripley. What brings you to the Yard? Have you come to confess?” His face showed no emotion, his handshake was firm, and she felt her knees weaken at his question.

  Did she look guilty? Was that why he asked her to confess? She wasn’t sure why she felt quite so guilty, but she did. Oh, she did.

  “In a way, I suppose you could say that.” Ro’s breath came with difficulty as she watched his expression change from bored politeness to questioning wariness with the raise of his eyebrows. She thought she might sick up on him. She released his hand and took her seat again before she actually managed to faint. That would give the detective more of an upper hand than he had already.

  “Go on,” he said, taking position directly across from her.

  He looked smug under his cool demeanor, and anger swelled inside Ro at the detective for entertaining the idea she might be guilty. She was even more furious at Leonard for dying and putting her in this position. There was an out and out flood of rage for whomever had actually killed Leonard—and everyone else. All of which was only lessened by the rage at herself for feeling weak in that moment.

  In the back of her mind, she was grateful for the anger. She felt certain it was the only thing that kept her from curling into a ball. It seemed the shock of the murder was finally catching up to Ro.

  “Confess?” She laughed. “Of course I didn’t kill Leonard. Let alone everyone else. Or sink my own yacht. You can forget about pinning all of this on me because it’s easy. I have, however, just come from my solicitor.”

  “Your solicitor?”

  His gaze paused on hers for a moment. Did Ro see doubt in his eyes? Was it because he doubted she was guilty or because he doubted she’d be helpful? Maybe he found everything she said untrustworthy.

  “I have information that will not shine favorably upon me.”

  Detective Truman opened his mouth to speak, but she’d worked up her courage and needed to get it all out while she still could say it.

  She held up her hand, a pleading look in her gaze. “It seems Leonard, in an effort to toy with his brother and possibly to blackmail him, removed his brother, Reginald, from the will and named me as the sole beneficiary of his estate.”

  Detective Truman’s face was entirely impassive. Ro once again fought the need to sick up.

  “You should also know that my yacht had insurance so I’ll likely not lose anything there as well. If money were considered a reasonable motive for murder, I must look entirely guilty.”

  “It is,” Detective Truman told Ro, again impassively. She had no idea what he was thinking, and it made her feel certain that she was one breath from being searched and held or whatever they did to people.

  “I came here to inform you of these facts because you will discover it soon enough, and I thought perhaps if I offered up the facts, I might look less guilty. I know I seem the most likely person to have killed Leonard. I won’t pretend that there was love lost between us, but I do like to think that no one would accuse me of this…this…mass murder.”

  “I see.” Impassive again.

  Ro wanted to beg him for an expression, for any hint of his feelings, even if it was disgust.

  “From where I sit,” he told her, “you do stand to gain quite a lot from Leonard’s death.”

  She nodded. She had already decided to be open about those facts, so why did a ball of emotions stir in her belly? Ro was choking on a mix of fear, helplessness, and grief. “Except, I only found that out today when I went Mr. Cooper’s office. I only went to his office because my darling brother-in-law accused me, in front of my staff no less—can you even imagine—that I was responsible for Leonard’s death.”

  “Did he?” Truman didn’t seem surprised and Ro wanted to ask if Reginald had made the same claim to the detectives. If he had, why did she feel so betrayed? Nothing in her mind or heart made sense since Leonard had died.

  “I know you’ve already discovered that Leonard and I were hardly madly in love.”

  “I have,” Truman agreed. Again, there was something in his gaze. Was it judgement? And if so, who was it for? Her, who admitted to regretting her marriage? Or Leonard for making her so thoroughly regret it.

  Honesty was the course of action she had decided upon, she reminded herself. The dirty secrets did her no good if they left the detectives in the dark when they needed to find the truth.

  “I discovered on my honeymoon that he was a philandering cheat of a man. Ever since, we have had a marriage in name only. The best that could be said of him was that he mostly left me alone. If I’d wanted him dead, there have been many occasions over the short duration of our marriage where I could have managed his demise without hurting anyone else. Not to mention the sinking of my yacht, which I hate to admit, I cared for more than Leonard.”

  Truman’s brow lifted but his impassive face still told her nothing.

  Ro tried willing herself to stop talking, but her mouth kept moving. “You may as well know the truth of it all so you can rule me out faster.”

  “That does generally help.”

  “It is certainly your prerogative to consider me as the main suspect.”

  “Any spouse would be near the top of that list,” Truman told her without sympathy.

  Ro attempted to find the same nonchalance, but she was struggling. “I didn’t kill him. Wasting your energy on me will only give the actual killer—if there was one—time to get away.”

  “There was a killer,” Truman told Ro flatly. “We don’t tend to waste our time at Scotland Yard. So, if we’re putting things out of our minds today, you should put it out of your mind that there wasn’t a killer.”

  Ro sniffed, biting down on her bottom lip. “My money—” She cringed at her choice of wording. “Ah—my bet, would be for Reginald as the killer.”

  “Why?”

  “They hated each other. Far more than I hated Leonard. They had a lifetime of hate, competition, and disappointing each other.”

  “Siblings dislike each other with great frequency, Mrs. Ripley. They very rarely, however, act on that dislike.”

  “Hated,” Ro corrected. “With great passion.”

  “So Reginald says of you, madam.”

  “Ro, please. Mrs. Ripley if you must, though the name makes me want to vomit. But never madam.”

  The impassive expression faded for a moment and she
saw the barest hint of humor in his expression.

  “Except,” Ro said, hating herself for doing it, “I don’t really suspect Reginald either, as much as I’d like to see him behind bars or off to Australia. Do we still do that?”

  Detective Truman shook his head. “Why don’t you suspect Reginald?”

  “Mr. Cooper said Reginald knew about the changed will before the party last night. Given that Leopold was changing the will repetitively and sending them to Reginald, why wouldn’t he wait until it was in his favor again? Oh! I would love it if he were the killer. I hate him too, you know. Those brothers were as awful to each other as they were to everyone around them.”

  “So who do you think killed your husband?”

  “The next most likely candidates, once you rule me out of course—”

  “Of course,” Truman agreed.

  “The next suspects are the business associates he took advantage of, and the mistresses and their husbands. I imagine, at least some of those men, had to care that their wives were, ah, letting…well, you know what I mean.”

  She forced her mouth closed and vowed not to open it again. The detective stared at Ro, a hint of emotion playing around his eyes. Was it humor? The rage inside her sparked again and she stood up.

  “I’ve said all I’ve come to say. Good day.” She turned on her heel and marched away—she refused to consider it fleeing.

  “Mrs. Ripley,” he called and in moments caught up to her and placed his hand on her arm to stop her. “Mrs. Ripley.”

  She stopped walking and turned to look at him but said nothing. She felt the warmth of his hand through her thin sleeve and waited for him to speak. He pulled his hand away.

  Ro stared, folding her arms over her chest and immediately missing the feel of his hand on her. A brief, yet awkward silence stretched between them. Ro realized she was tapping her foot.

  “My car is waiting, detective. Is there something else?”

  “I, er, ah, yes. That is to say that, ah—” His stammer amused her and her rage began to slowly subside while he clamored for words. “I thought you should know that we have officially ruled this a homicide. There was an explosion in the engine room. We have eyewitnesses that saw a small boat approach the yacht, secure a passenger from the yacht, and only moments before the first explosion, the small boat made its escape. In addition to that, surviving members of the crew report suspicious activity in the engine room. I’m not at liberty to tell you more at this point; however, it was most definitely murder. Someone wanted your husband or one of his passengers to die. If that wasn’t you, please be careful.”

  The reality of what he was saying was quite unreal to her. Someone actually did murder all of those people. It was intentional. Who could be so cruel, and why should she be careful?

  “I see,” was all she could manage to say. Her mind raced with questions. Who could be capable of killing all of those people? Leonard’s money couldn’t be the motive since she inherited and Reginald knew he wouldn’t be receiving the money.

  “Are you quite all right, Mrs. Ripley? You are very pale all of a sudden. Come and sit.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied but let him lead her the short steps back to his desk and seat her again. She felt light-headed and nauseated. An explosion, a person escaping the yacht by boat, it all seemed so unbelievable. “It sounds like the storyline of a…of a… pulp detective novel.”

  “You should also know that we have interviewed many, if not all, of your husband’s business associates, and while many of them hated your husband fervently, each of them has an excellent alibi.”

  “What about Mr. Greyson and Mr. Stewart? They were highest on my list of probabilities. Their interactions with my husband were especially terrible, I think.”

  He opened a file on his desk. “Mr. Greyson has a solid alibi and has been ruled out completely. Mr. Stewart, it seems, must have reconciled with your husband because he was on the yacht with him. Unfortunately, he did not survive.”

  The initial shock was wearing off and Ro could feel her brain returning to normal function. “I see. So there are no viable suspects, other than me, at this point. Is that correct?”

  He nodded. “That is correct. Are you familiar with the precise contents of Mr. Ripley’s will, Mrs. Ripley? I’d very much like to eliminate you from the list of suspects as well, but that may prove difficult.”

  She wasn’t sure if she could trust his claim to believe in her innocence, but all she could do was hope that he didn’t think her guilty. She hadn’t thought to ask Mr. Cooper as to the specific contents of her husband’s will. Perhaps that was a solid next step or better yet—a solid additional heir who was also someone else.

  “I see what you’re thinking,” Ro told him. “You’re looking for anyone who stood to gain from Leonard’s death. May I use your telephone?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Mr. Cooper,” Ro said when she heard his voice on the line. “Are you available this evening to disclose the contents of the will and the identity of any other beneficiaries for Leonard’s estate, with Scotland Yard to witness the proceeding?”

  After a brief conversation, she hung up the phone.

  “Come to this address”—she scratched Hettie’s hotel address down on a piece of paper from Detective Truman’s desk and handed it to him—“at nine o’clock tonight. You can speak to Mr. Cooper and he can confirm that I knew nothing of my status as beneficiary.”

  “I would appreciate that,” he said and she thought she could believe him. “Anything that may give us a clue as to why someone killed your husband.”

  “Thank you, detective.”

  She stood and walked outside without looking back. She needed to talk to Hettie. Hettie would help with what to do next and, perhaps more importantly, Hettie would make drinks. Or at least order them.

  Chapter 15

  Ro returned to the hotel only to find that Hettie was out for a walk. While Ro waited for Hettie to return, she mixed herself a sloe gin fizz. Normally, she wouldn’t go to the trouble of making a drink with egg whites because it took a bit of effort, but in this case, she needed the ritual of mixing the elements while she thought. Besides, the frothy texture was particularly soothing to sip.

  The bar was a carved wood creation that had gargoyles etched into the wood with vines and half-naked men and women. Ro wanted to take it home with her. Then she reconsidered, if she took it home with her, she’d be back to that…that…horror that had been her wedded house. What if, instead—she didn’t? What if she found another home? One of her own choosing. One of her own choosing for the first time in her life? Murder aside, the dawning excitement of a home of her own, one of her own choosing, with servants that only she hired—it was a magical fairytale.

  Putting aside the idea of a new house, she processed her day while she mixed all the magical ingredients. Had Hettie any better luck in her interview with the doctor? Ro poured the mixed drink into the cocktail glass, added a sprig of rosemary, and settled in with the boxes that Cooper’s office had sent over. Would Hettie come with Ro if she purchased a new house? Was that too much? Too…permanent? Maybe Hettie and Ro could take rooms, together.

  None of that would happen if Ro was arrested for Leonard’s murder. She sighed and then sipped her drink again, trying not to think of another possible permanent living space. Detective Truman told her Scotland Yard had ruled out Leonard’s business associates. Even still, Ro didn’t feel comfortable taking their word for it.

  They had alibis. Any smart murderer would have a solid alibi. She wondered if her own odd alibi was one of the reasons Scotland Yard was focused upon her. Ro kicked off her shoes and opened the newspaper she’d taken from the lobby on her way through. The yacht ‘accident’ was included on the front page. Ro skimmed it without much hope and her only joy was finding that the media hadn’t included her as a suspect. They did, however, list the known dead and Ro flinched at each and every name.

  Too often, she could picture the face to
go with the name. And, far, far too often Ro’s initial reaction wasn’t sad in the least. Too often, they were the names of people like Harvey Hughes, philandering husband who manipulated his wife, left her miserable, and passed off his mistresses’ bills to the abused woman.

  Ro cursed a moment later when she read Edward Stewart’s name. He was on the yacht and didn’t survive. All right, she thought, if Stewart isn’t included among the possible killers, and Reginald made no sense, and Ro knew she hadn’t murdered all of those people, then…the other business associate, Mr. Greyson, became the most likely suspect—yet, he supposedly had an alibi.

  Ro set aside the newspaper and turned to the boxes from Mr. Cooper’s office. She sifted through pages and pages of records and drank her way through a second mixed drink before she finally gave up, shoved the papers back in the boxes and pushed them away in frustration. There was nothing on paper that implicated Greyson. No threatening letters, no ultimatums, nothing. How upset could they have been with each other if Stewart was on the yacht anyway?

  The fools had been stupid enough to invest and work with Leonard. Ro supposed that they might speak of her in the same respect. She had been stupid enough to marry Leonard, and Stewart and Greyson had been stupid enough to combine their funds with Leonard’s.

  Ro shoved the boxes back and groaned, accidentally knocking over her cocktail glass. She gasped and grabbed for it, sending the glass spinning.

  Hettie walked in just in time to witness Ro’s temper tantrum.

  “Well, good evening. Frustrated, are we?”

  “Oh my goodness, you have no idea, Hettie. I’m so glad you have returned. I’m prepared to whine but truly feel an empathetic audience is necessary.”

  Ro rattled off the details of her visits to Cooper’s office and with Detective Truman, the search through the boxes for any evidence of Greyson’s involvement, her gut feeling that Reginald, despite the way it looked, had something to do with the sinking, Stewart being ruled out by his own death on the yacht, and her general feeling of having accomplished nothing.