“Hello, Uncle Willy.”
Eighteen
“You don’t seem very surprised to see me,” he said, and Molly stirred in the chair, determined not to show for a minute the absolute terror he instilled in her. She remembered everything now, and she desperately wished she didn’t.
“Oh, Molly.” He moved forward into the room, and once again she was aware of the lingering cruelty in his soft pink face, the cruelty she’d refused to recognize in the past week of blessed forgetfulness. “I’ve told you before you never were much of an actress. You’ve remembered.”
“Yes.” Her voice came out in a rusty croak, and she cleared it hastily.
Beastie snored loudly beside her, and she tugged silently at his collar. “It won’t do you any good, my dear,” Willy said smoothly, running a slightly trembling hand over his carroty strands of hair. “He’s drugged. I decided I didn’t want him interfering with my plans tonight—he’s too fond of you, you know.”
“And what exactly are your plans for tonight?” She sounded almost unnaturally calm. She’d been through too much in the last few days, the last few weeks. All she could do was pull this false serenity around her, watching him while she thought feverishly of escape.
“Now, now, Molly, I’m sure you can imagine.” He seated himself in the chair opposite her and crossed his legs, at home and urbane. “I’m going to have to kill you.” He sighed. “I suppose I should tell you that it grieves me, but quite frankly, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. You’ve been an annoying little pain in the rear ever since Jared brought you home, and your indestructibility is absolutely infuriating.”
“Why do you want to kill me?”
“For the oldest reason in the world, my dear. Money. You have lots of it, I want it. It’s really quite simple.” For once the man was quite sober, and the effect had a horrifying charm to it.
“My money goes to Patrick if I die.” She couldn’t keep a note of desperation from her voice. She was strong, but Uncle Willy, despite his alcohol-induced flabbiness, had overpowered her before, the night of the barn fire, and he could doubtless do it again.
“It does, my dear. But not if he’s convicted of murder. And it looks pleasantly as if it will work out that way. I had planned to make it a triple play, as they say in baseball. You, your father and Toby. But I might have to settle on a suicide for you.”
“You killed my father,” she stated flatly.
He nodded benevolently. “Well, no. Actually I arranged for Toby to do it, but I was there, watching. I’ve learned it never pays to leave important tasks to underlings. People need supervision nowadays—they have no incentive. Toby was eager enough to please, but he wasn’t very good at improvising. I see you’re clutching my important piece of evidence. I was very distressed that Patrick’s handkerchief wasn’t found with the body, Molly. That upset a great many careful plans.”
“It had your hair dye on it.” She held up the square of linen.
She was pleased to see his ruddy complexion turn a sickly pale. “Good heavens, how careless of me! And how very fortunate that you thought to save your husband. Fate has been on my side after all, it seems. Things should work out very well this way, very well indeed.”
“We were bringing you that money.” Memories were flooding back at a terrifying, dizzying rate. “Why did you have to kill him?”
“It was necessary. Your father, petty little swindler that he was, knew what was going on the minute you turned up. He thought he could blackmail me for half of that money. You didn’t know that, did you? He soon found out otherwise. That was my only mistake, Molly dear.” He eyed his hands reflectively. “I thought that blow on your head killed you. Crushed your stubborn little skull. I should have known you were far too hardheaded. Imagine my displeasure when the police called and you were still alive. And no handkerchief! I thought all my plans had failed dismally.” He shook his head sadly. “But you had that convenient loss of memory that no one believed, and now, everything has worked out splendidly. Just splendidly.” He sighed.
“Just splendidly,” she echoed in a daze.
“Ah, I can see you had some of your ginger ale tonight. It’s much harder to hide drugs in soft drinks, you realize. Tonight it’s just a strong sedative. You’re too willful, my dear. But it’s already slowed you down, I’m pleased to notice.”
She hadn’t touched the ginger ale. She looked up at Uncle Willy with feigned blankness.
“I don’t plan to make it painful,” he added. “As much as you’ve annoyed me, I’m basically a decent human being. I try not to hold grudges. And I can be fairly certain that no one has the faintest idea that I had a hand in either your father’s death or Toby’s. For one thing I have no motive—or not as strong a one as your dear husband. And for another, my dear Ermy will provide me with excellent alibis. Did you know, for example, that right now I am visiting our old friends the Sturbridges over in Devon? They had to go out on a previous engagement, but when they left I was there and when they return I will still be there. And there will be one less member of the exalted Winters family in the meantime.”
There was a sneer in his voice as he rose and poured himself a stiff drink. His hands were suddenly still, unlike the usual mild tremor that afflicted him. Just another part of his elaborate charade.
“And what if they don’t convict Patrick?” she asked, speaking in a deliberately thickened voice.
He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s no problem, really. He won’t marry again. He’s in love with you, my dear. We all knew it, even if you were too heartsick and adolescent to realize it. Your untimely death by suicide will deal him a mortal blow. He’ll continue to support Ermy and me because he’s foolishly generous, and in a few years he’ll meet with a recalcitrant horse or faulty brakes. He does drive too fast, you know. Such an angry, impetuous man. You could have been the making of him, but alas, that isn’t to be. We can wait, once our goal is in sight. Infinite patience, that’s what’s required in a really first-class criminal mind.” He drank deeply from his drink and stared into the fire. “Yes, my dear Molly, I consider myself a criminal, and I am proud of it. An ordinary man couldn’t do what I’ve done. I can plan extraordinarily complicated schemes, I can kill when it’s necessary, without compunction, and that all requires a truly high degree of dedication and skill.”
“I don’t understand what Toby had to do with this,” she said, trying to keep Willy talking while she searched for any possible avenue of escape. The keys were in the car—she could probably run faster than he could, especially if she took him by surprise. He thought she was falling into a drugged stupor; instead the adrenaline was surging through her body. “Why would he be willing to kill? And why would you turn around and kill him?”
“Toby?” he said blankly. “Toby was becoming somewhat of a problem. He was the one who tried to kill you by the ruins, you know. And he was all set to crush your clever little brain in when he tripped up the horse. If Patrick hadn’t made his untimely appearance it would all be over with, and you would have been spared a lot of needless fuss. But then, that’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Needless fuss.”
He swirled his rapidly disappearing drink with one fat, pale finger. “That’s a good lesson to learn, my dear. Never take a psycho into partnership with you. Toby was not what you’d call well-balanced. He’d always been consumed with a strange passion for you, and when you married Patrick it tipped him over the edge. He decided since he couldn’t have you then nobody could. I’m afraid finding out your sexual liaison with your husband rather set the seal on his...problems. When he failed to strangle you last night he was going to come back with a gun, and that seemed far too sloppy. I suppose I could have taken the chance and let him do it. I could have hoped he wouldn’t talk and just let all my work be handled by a poor deranged boy. But chances are not my style at all. Not at all. So I took care of him myself.” He sighed heavily. “If you hadn’t gone creeping off to Patrick’s bed I could have finished what Toby had so sloppily started. The coroner wouldn’t have been able to tell that Toby’s death preceded yours by a few minutes.”
“And you left something incriminating of Patrick’s by his side? As you tried to do with my father?” she questioned, watching him as he rose and made his way to the bar.
“Naturally. I had had the foresight to arm myself ahead of time with another of his handkerchiefs and his watch. There’s no way he’ll be released—the police are an awfully gullible lot. That ox Stroup would just love to lock Pat up and have you all alone out here. But when he comes to call he’ll find Pat’s poor wife dead by her own hand, and he’ll...”
