Deep Without Pity | Page 8

walk. They were obviously treating her with respect; she was still in her street clothes and her long brown hair was neatly brushed out. Her eyes looked dull and resigned, but she gave me a weary smile anyway. "My guard thinks pretty highly of you," she said. She was naturally gracious, had an instinctive ability to put people at their ease.
"I try to get along," I smiled. She was a handsome woman, with a sort of strength that denied the years that were visible in her face. She settled herself in the chair beyond the glass and waited.
"I'm not sure where to start," I said, "but if it means anything to you, I know your husband was not involved with Charlene Desmond."
Her mouth made an ugly line across her face. "Tell me something new. Jason would no more have had that tramp for a mistress than he would have robbed a bank. He just didn't have it in him."
"Just how do you mean that?" I asked, intrigued by the hint of resentment in her tone.
She sighed. "You've met Jeff, so I think you can understand. Jason was very much like Jeff, without the religious mania. That's why they didn't get along--they were so similar. Both of them were so demanding, so harsh, even toward themselves. There were times when I wished Jason would have taken a mistress, anything, just to get him out of his shell. But I'm sure you didn't come here to listen to my discontents." She was the hostess again, detached from her surroundings.
"On the contrary. I'll take any information I can get right now. Do you have any idea who might have killed your husband?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sloane, but I never kept up with my husband's business."
"Couldn't it have been somebody from his personal life?"
"What personal life? If he had someone over to the house it was either in connection with the county or with his construction work."
"He was still active in construction, then?"
"Only as a consultant. Anything else would have constituted conflict of interest. Not that he couldn't have gotten away with it, of course, this is Texas, but my husband was a very scrupulous man."
"Why did you move out on him, then, if you'll pardon my asking?"
"I didn't move out. I went to stay with my sister because she was ill. Jason hardly cared whether I was there or not, and both of us knew the scandal was nonsense. I saw no reason to stay around simply to avoid gossip."
"I'd like to talk with your sister. Where does she live?"
"Off Cameron Road, north of the airport." She gave me the address. "Her name is Jenny Shaw. She lives alone. That's why she needed me."
I was silent for a moment, looking at the sunlight through the intersecting lines of the barred window.
"Do you--" Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. "Do you think they'll convict me?"
I shrugged. "It would help if you'd tell me what you know."
She looked me in the eyes and said, "I already have." It was not too bad, but she shouldn't have pulled her eyes away at the end. I stared at her for a minute, but it was no use. I wasn't going to get anything more out of her.
"If you think of anything else that might help at all, tell your guard. She'll get word to me somehow." I couldn't shake the feeling that she was hiding something, but I had no clue as to how to get at it.
The sergeant at the desk let me use the phone. "Jeffrey? This is Dan Sloane."
"How are you? Any news?" He didn't sound particularly concerned.
He and Winslow had both given me scenarios of the murder, and now a third one was taking shape in my mind. It was ugly, and I wanted to get rid of it. It started with Jeff waiting till the house was empty on Thursday night to confront his father. They quarreled, Jason walked away, and Jeff reached for the gun. The he stopped and wrapped his hand in a handkerchief so he wouldn't leave any prints...
No. No soap. People who shoot in anger worry about prints afterward, not before. Still, he seemed to have a real martyrdom compulsion, and people have been known to hire detectives to punish themselves. In more ways than one.
"Your friend the scarlet woman didn't do it," I said. "Your father never gave her anything but letters to type. And not many of those, from what I hear."
"It seems I've made a serious mistake. And it's too late to rectify it."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I had an awful, sinking feeling that the kid was about to confess. I held on tight to the receiver,
"He has cursed his father...his blood is upon him."
"Jeffrey, have you got an alibi?"
"I beg your pardon?"