King exclaimed, “Elizabeth Borden, as in Lizzie Borden who gave her mother forty whacks?”
“And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one,” added Joan.
“So we have some people with a real warped, macabre sense of humor,” said Reynolds.
Joan eyed him intently. “Okay, they’re intelligent killers who read their criminal history. They’re still killers.”
“Well, thanks again for your help. I don’t know where this leads us, but it’s more than we had before.”
“What’s going to happen to Mildred?” asked King.
Reynolds shrugged. “You can’t arrest someone for being stupid; otherwise, you’d lock up at least half the population. Unless we dig up something incriminating, nothing will happen to her. But if she was in on it, seems like she’d have gotten rid of the Scotch.” He turned to Joan. “I heard you were investigating Bruno’s disappearance on behalf of the family. That’s cool. I know you won’t do anything stupid, and you’ve already found something we missed, so if you need something, just let me know.”
“Funny you should mention that—I have a list right here,” replied Joan.
As Joan and Reynolds talked business, King watched Mildred Martin emerge from the interrogation room. She didn’t look like the same woman. Gregarious, salty, full of punch when he first met her, she now looked like she’d soon be joining her dead husband.
After Reynolds walked off, Sean looked at Joan. “Now where?” he asked.
“We go to the funeral home.”
“The feds already picked that field clean.”
“Yeah, just like they did with Mildred Martin. Besides, I like funeral homes. You hear the most delicious gossip about the dearly departed, usually from their friends.”
“Joan, you really are a cynic.”
“Admit it. It’s one of my most attractive qualities.”
CHAPTER
42
THE POLICE DROPPED OFF Mildred Martin at her house and then left. Down the street, at the end of the block, a black sedan melded into the darkness, a pair of alert FBI agents inside.
The old woman staggered into the house and locked the door behind her. She needed a drink so badly. Why had she done what she’d done? It was all so perfect, and she’d gone and messed it up, but then she’d recovered. Yes, she had. Everything was okay. She reached for the gin and filled her tumbler, using barely any tonic.
She drank down half the glass; her nerves began to steady. It would be okay; everything was fine. She was old, what could the FBI really do to her? They had nothing really; she was going to be okay.
“Mildred, how are you?”
She dropped her tumbler and let out a shriek.
“Who’s there?” She backed up against the liquor cabinet.
The man came forward a little but remained in the shadows.
“It’s your old friend.”
She squinted at him. “I don’t know you.”
“Of course you do. I’m the man who helped you kill your husband.”
She lifted up her chin. “I did not kill Bill.”
“Well, Mildred, the methanol you put in his body certainly did. And you made the phone call to Bruno, just like I asked you to.”
She looked more closely. “That… that was you?”