Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 8

Sandy sat and looked at his son and his brother-in-law. The three of them of them sat in the study, half-empty glasses of Bailley's Single Malt Scotch Whisky in their hands.

"I still can't believe it," Angus said.

"Neither can I," said Laddie.

"I know how you both feel," Sandy replied.

"What do you think are the chances of the cops catching the guy, Dad?" Angus asked.

"I don't know, really; the police didn't say anything about that. When he tries to sell the jewelry, though, that could get him caught."

Laddie shook his head. "He won't do that, if he has any sense; he'll break up the pieces and sell the stones separately."

"I suppose so," Sandy replied.

"God, as if one death in the family wasn't enough," Laddie said.

"Laddie," Sandy said, "since you've already been through making Jock's arrangements, I'd be very grateful if you'd do the same for Joan."

"Of course, Sandy. Do you have any preferences?"

Angus spoke up. "Why not just do the same as for Grandad? I'll volunteer to take the ashes to Scotland and bury them together."

"I think Joan would approve of that," Sandy said. "Thank you, son."

"I'll see to it," Laddie said, then made as if to get up. "I'd better get home and break the news to Betty."

"Before you go, Laddie, there's something I have to say to both of you." Sandy took a deep breath; he had been dreading this. "It's bound to become public knowledge, and I think it's better if you hear it from me."

Both men looked at Sandy expectantly.

"After our lunch of earlier this week, Joan told me that she intended to divorce me."

"What?" Angus blurted out.

"I know, it came as something of a surprise to me, too," Sandy said. "I think we had fallen into the usual ruts that so many long-married couples do, and that made Joan vulnerable."

"Vulnerable to what?" Angus asked.

"Another relationship. Joan told me that she had been seeing Terrell duBois, and my impression was that, after some interval, she planned to marry him."

"Is that the guy you compete with in the wine business?" Angus asked.

"Yes, that's the one." Sandy noted that Laddie had said nothing, had expressed no surprise. What he had to say next might make a dent. "The police asked me if I had anything to do with Joan's death. I suppose they had to do that in the normal course of events."

A longer silence than Sandy would have liked ensued before Laddie spoke up. "But you were on the telephone with me," he said. "You couldn't have done it."

"I think that, after hearing of Joan's intentions, they thought that I, perhaps, had hired someone to do her in."

"That's ridiculous," Angus said immediately.

"Preposterous," Laddie agreed, after only a short pause.

"Thank you both for that, but I think you had better be prepared to see the possibility aired in the media. I'm assuming that they'll hear the details of the investigation; they seem to hear of everything these days."

"Well," Laddie said, "whatever has passed between you and Joan, I want you to know that no one who knows you at all could ever believe for a moment that you caused her death, and if I'm asked by anyone, I'll certainly say that."

"I appreciate your support, Laddie," Sandy said.

The three sat in silence for a moment, then Sandy spoke again. "Angus, you look all in; why don't you stay here tonight? Your room is always made up."

Angus rose. "Thanks, Dad, I'll take you up on that. All this has had the effect of exhausting me." He shook hands with his uncle, hugged his father, and went off to bed.

Laddie rose. "I'd better be off."

"Laddie," Sandy said, rising with him, "I expect Joan told you of some of this."

Laddie shrugged. "I was shocked, of course, but I didn't think I should say anything to you until she had spoken."

"She said the two of you wanted to buy me out."

"She said something about it to me, but I had by no means agreed; I would have talked with you first. I had planned to raise the subject on Monday."

"I think she would have asked you to sell the wine division to Terrell duBois."

Laddie looked guilty for a moment. "And undercut you? I'd never have done that."

Sandy didn't believe him for a moment. "Thank you, Laddie. I'll come in on Monday, and we'll talk."

"Of course, Sandy, but don't feel pressured to come in. I won't make any changes without consulting you."

The two men shook hands, and Laddie took his leave.

Sandy went to his desk and dug in the bottom drawer for copies of his and Joan's wills; the police had taken the originals from the safe. He sat down and read through Joan's document. It was the same one she had signed some five years before. He hoped to God that some lawyer would not come out of the woods with a newly executed document. That would make things very complicated indeed.

Then something else occurred to him, made his heart lurch. The pictures. Joan had said that she had pictures of him in the London flat with two women. He certainly did not want the police to have those. He went next door to Joan's study and tried the drawers of her desk. Locked. He thought of trying to pick the lock with a letter opener, but reconsidered; he didn't want scratches on the lock.

Worried now, he went to Joan's dressing room and began searching; the keys turned up in the box where she kept inexpensive jewelry. He went to the desk and unlocked it; immediately he recognized the brown envelope, the kind used in every office in

Britain. He listened carefully to be sure Angus was not still about, then he shook out the photographs onto the desk. The first thing he saw was a closeup of his ass, the motion frozen. There were others, too, with the woman on top, with her head buried in his lap and a rather ecstatic look on his face, and there were, as Joan had said, two women. One was a countess, no less, the wife of his sometime dinner host, an earl-the sort of thing that divorce courts and the British tabloids would have loved. He looked into the envelope and found the negatives, and he was pitifully grateful to see them. There was also a slip of paper on which had been printed, "With the Compliments of the J. Morris Agency."

It took him a moment to figure out from where the shots had been taken, then he realized that, on at least two occasions, someone, probably Mr. J. Morris, himself, had been in the bedroom closet that Joan used when she was in London. The perfect vantage point; Sandy never opened that door.

He thought for a moment of the best way to dispose of these snapshots, someplace where the police would never find even a scrap of them. Not any of the fireplaces or trash baskets. He went into the kitchen, found a match and burned the pictures over the sink, turning on the garbage disposal to grind and flush away the ashes. He was tempted to keep one photograph-a lovely shot of the countess with his erect penis clasped in both her little hands- but, regretfully, he burned it with the rest.

He fell into bed, willing his mind to exclude any thought of what had happened that evening. He needed some time before he thought of that again.