“You’ve talked to just about everyone else,” Thomas says. “I don’t know that I’d have much to add.”
“Please,” the Chief says. He’s too low on patience to deal with the runaround. “Follow me.” He heads down the hall and around the corner to the living room. Thomas has abandoned the sandwich but brought the scotch, and the Chief can’t blame him. Thomas takes a seat on the sofa, crosses his ankle over his knee, and sinks back into the cushions like a man without a care in the world, and the Chief closes the door.
“Events of last night?” the Chief asks. “After the party?”
“Back bar at Ventuno, Boarding House. I left after one drink. My wife called to say she wanted me home. Pronto.”
“What did you do at home?”
“Went up to see Abby. She was asleep so I went downstairs for a drink.”
“Did anyone join you?”
“My father.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Thomas’s eyebrows shoot up, but it’s acting. He’s a man pretending to remember something. The Chief is surprised he doesn’t snap his fingers.
“Oh! After a while, Merritt joined us, as well as a friend of my parents’ named Featherleigh Dale. She’s an antiques dealer from London, here for the wedding.”
“Why was Featherleigh Dale at the house so late?” the Chief asks. “Is she staying here?”
“No. I’m not sure why she was still around.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m not.”
The Chief lets the lie sit there for a moment, stinking.
“The four of you sat under the tent drinking rum, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was the first to leave the tent? Was it you?”
“It was. My wife called down. I had pushed my luck by then already, so I went up to bed.”
“Do you have any idea what time that was?”
“Around two, I think.”
“I need you to focus here. Do you remember Featherleigh Dale going into the kitchen for water? A glass of water for Ms. Monaco?”
Thomas shakes his head, but then says, “Yes.”
“When Featherleigh went in to get the water, do you recall how long she was gone?”
“Five minutes. Maybe a bit longer.”
“Did you have any of the water?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember anyone else having any of the water? Even a sip?”
“I was there to drink rum, sir,” Thomas says. “I don’t remember much about the water.”
Somewhere in the house, the clock strikes six. The Chief is dying to get home, take off his shoes, crack open a beer, hug his wife, talk to Chloe. This day has lasted five years, but that’s the way it is with murder cases. He’s sure that, back at the station, his voice mail is filled with messages from insistent reporters. When this is all over, he’s going to need another stress-management class.
“Let me switch gears. Does your mother have a pillbox?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does your mother have a box where she keeps her…”
“Her sleeping pills?” Thomas says. “Yes. It’s round. It has a picture of Queen Elizabeth on it.”
“Would you say this pillbox is well known to members of your family?”
Thomas laughs. “Oh, yes. My mother’s pillbox is infamous. It was a gift from her grandmother.”
“And would you say that everyone in your family is aware that it holds sleeping pills?”
