had no worries in that direction since it was practically finished. He looked at the homemade racks in the corner where his unframed but completed work was stacked. Free-lance work, mostly oils, with a few in gouache and tempera, of various sizes and subjects, some fairly recent but most of them old.
A few were experiments done between the big war and Korea, but the majority had been done at Frieda’s insistence after he had come back the second time. She had never had any objection to his being an artist but she had argued for serious art, and prestige; something, as she put it, she could be proud of. He was still working on salary for the advertising agency then and he had painted furiously in his spare time, knowing somehow that his work was not quite right but not certain why. His draftsmanship was excellent and he was a pretty fair colorist but his brushwork was not good enough. The one-man show that Frieda arranged for him proved it, at least for the time being.
He had sold two pictures. When commissions were paid he barely made expenses, and the fact that she could support him while he perfected his techniques was an argument that had no appeal. He did three portraits for wealthy friends of hers and felt they were quite good, but he knew then that for him the so-called serious art must wait. It would be wonderful indeed to be another Eakins or Homer or Bellows or Hopper some day, but for the present he wanted to be a successful illustrator and that meant the advertising field.
It seemed now that he had been right. He had sold his work right from the start, small things in black and white first, taking what he could get and doing the best he could with it. He was not yet getting top prices and the demand for his color work was spotty, but he was getting there—
He snapped his thoughts in place at the sound of some commotion in the other room and when he glanced through the doorway he caught a glimpse of Frederick Brainard. He could hear his voice mingling with others but the words remained indistinct. He knew he would eventually have to face his father-in-law and the prospect was discouraging because Brainard had blamed him for the original elopement, and his dislike for Rick had been consistent over the years. He knew, too, that the man loved his daughter despite the fact that they were usually at odds over some matter. Now, because he had no choice, Rick could only wait and it took longer than he thought. It was nearly a half hour later that Brainard came through the doorway with Lieutenant Legett at his side and advanced two steps before he stopped.
Rick stood up, not knowing what to expect, and in the silent moment that they stood there with eyes locked, he remembered again that Frederick J. Brainard was a man of some importance in Fairfield County.
There were many more wealthy but few who had taken more interest in public affairs and local politics, possibly because Brainard was not a commuter. As president of the Brainard Tool Company, which had been founded by his grandfather, he ruled a modest but prosperous business with its principal plant near Greenwich, and his waterfront estate was not far away.
A well-setup and vigorous man in his late fifties, he had thick gray hair, a stubborn, muscular jaw, and an outdoor look that was genuine and came from golf and sailing. Generally respected for his integrity, he was to many a domineering man, determined to win all battles whether business or personal and impatient with failure. His character was deficient in some things, chiefly a sense of humor, and to Rick there had always been a lack of sympathy and the ability to see any side of an argument but his own. Now the face had a grayish tinge and his voice was thick and unsteady.
“I’ve told the detectives about you and Frieda,” he said. “And the divorce and why she came here tonight. I also told them about her inheritance.”
He hesitated and Rick waited, understanding how hard the man had been hit, seeing the signs of grief that could not be hidden, and finding no words that could express his sympathy. That Brainard might accuse him surprised him not at all and, at the moment, he did not even resent the words that followed.
“I’ve told them that, in my opinion, you’re the only man who had a possible motive to do such a thing.” He paused again, mouth working. When he started to move forward, Legett touched his arm and he stopped.
“Remember what I told you over the phone,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “If you did it, so help me, I’ll see that you pay if it’s the last thing I do.”
He stopped abruptly, shoulders sagging. He let Legett turn him toward the door. A moment later he was gone and Rick suddenly felt tired and old and despondent. He crushed out his cigarette, and because he could no longer stand still, he began to pace the room, head down and eyes brooding. He was still at it when he heard a new voice in the other room. By the time he could turn, Tom Ashley was walking toward him, Legett trailing.
“Jesus, Rick!” Ashley shook hands hard. “I just found out about Frieda. I don’t know what to say. I still can’t believe it.” He gave Rick’s hand another hard squeeze and let go. “Is there anything I can do? If there’s anything at all—”
“Thanks, Tom. There isn’t anything anyone can do right now.”
“Well, do you—” He broke off to turn on Legett. “Do you guys have any idea—”
“Not yet, Mr. Ashley.” Legett’s eyes had been busy and now his tone was casual. “You’re Mr. Sheridan’s next door neighbor?”
“That’s right. The little white house. I drove up and saw all the cars and the lights, so I came over.”
“You weren’t home this evening.”
“No.”
“Mind telling us where you were?”
“Hell, no. I went out to eat around seven thirty or a quarter of eight,” he said, and named a restaurant.
“How long were you there?”
“I don’t know. I had a couple of drinks. Maybe an hour and a quarter or so.”
“That would make it around nine or a little before.” Legett glanced at his strap watch. “It’s now ten forty.”
“Well?”
“Where did you go after you left the restaurant?”
“I drove out along the shore and parked.”
“Alone?”
Until then Ashley’s replies had been quick and matter of fact. Now he hesitated, a small frown warping his brows and his eyes narrowing. For the first time he seemed to sense that the questions were not idle ones, that Legett was investigating a murder and still looking for suspects. His shoulders straightened slightly and they were thick shoulders, for Ashley was a strongly built man, hard-necked and bulky in his slacks and sport shirt.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” he said, “and if that sounds a little fishy to you I’ll try to explain it. I’m a writer. I spend ninety per cent of my time not writing but thinking. To think, I have to be alone and I like it quiet if possible. I can show you where I parked and the cigarette I chucked out the window if that’ll be of any help.”
The pointed irony of such an explicit explanation was not lost on Legett, but he gave no sign that it bothered him. He lean face remained impassive and his voice was unchanged.
“You know Mrs. Sheridan?”
“Certainly. She published my first two books.”
“How many have you written?”
“Three.”
