the former wife of Hobart Penny.”
“Then I’ve done my job well,” Sabrina said. “My parents believed that you should be in the news for birth, marriage, and death. I suppose divorce now is acceptable, but that’s it. Let me give you a little family history. My great-great-grandfather was Jacob Remington—as in Remington aircraft. My mother was a Remington. My father was an Eldinger on his mother’s side. If you look up the families, you’ll see that I come from old, old money. We’re the old-fashioned snooty WASPs. My parents were thrilled when I married Hobart … that someone wasn’t going to fleece me. Not that they needed to worry.” She pointed to her head. “I know where every dollar goes. Meticulous is my guideline. Hobart liked that about me. That I wasn’t just arm candy. Even with my pedigree and my looks and my brains, it took Hobart five years to propose. It probably had to do with his divorce from his first wife and my age. We met when I was nineteen.”
“Was Hobart’s divorce a messy one?” Marge asked.
“Not terribly messy, but there was no love lost. I was not the cause of the breakup. Hobart always had other women. And he was always odd, the stereotypical mad inventor. Not the most socially adroit. I think number one wife had had enough of him.”
Oliver flipped over a notebook page. “How did you two meet?”
“At a boring old fund-raiser for some disadvantaged something. We locked eyes, and that was it for me, although his roving eye was apparent even when we were dating. I thought that being wed to me would cure him, silly goose that I was.”
“Can you clarify what you mean by a little odd?” Marge asked.
“Although Hobart exuded animal sexuality, he really didn’t give a shit about people—except for beautiful women, who he more or less objectified.” She draped a leg over the armrest. “He’d always had a fascination with wild animals—a TR kind of thing, you know.”
“TR?” Oliver asked.
“Teddy Roosevelt. The man who shot lions and rowed down the Amazon when he wasn’t being president. Now I loved a good safari just like the next person. But I like safaris the way that I do safaris—first-class accommodations and armed guards in the open jeep. Maybe a hike or two as long as someone else is carrying the backpack. Hobart wanted to camp out in the wilds of Africa. I mean camp for goodness sakes. As in pitch a tent and eat out of tins and make our own fire and gather up the water from a stream two miles away. Now I ask you. Do I look like the sleeping bag type?”
“Not to my eye,” Oliver said.
Sabrina sighed. “Something cracked in Hobart as time passed. He went from being rich and odd to being a very odd, rich man. What really scared me were the delusions.”
“What kind of delusions?”
“This is going to sound ridiculous, but he started to believe that he was a wild animal trapped in a human body much the way that people think that they’re vampires or witches or werewolves. In his case, he was certain that he was really some kind of a big cat. Sometimes it was a lion, sometimes it was a tiger. It wasn’t as if he lost his grip on reality. He could tell you every single stock on the NYSE. He was completely oriented. And he knew that he wasn’t really a big cat. He just felt that inside his human body was the soul of a tiger. He began to grow a wild beard. He also grew out his nails. He scratched the hell out of me every time we made love. Then he started to bite. Nibbles at first, but it progressed until several times, he broke skin. That was when I said to him, ‘Hobart, you need help.’”
“And?” Marge asked.
“He went into treatment. The psychiatrist told me that underneath the delusions was a severely depressed and schizoid man. So they medicated him and gave him mood elevators. He didn’t like the drugs. He claimed they interfered with his sexual function. That part wasn’t a delusion. But instead of going back for a different medication, he just dropped out. Once he was off the medication, he reverted back to his former ways. He got weirder and weirder. I’d finally had enough when he started marking the furniture.”
“Yikes,” Oliver said.
“I begged him to get help, but he flatly refused. He might have gotten help eventually if he hadn’t gotten involved with all those … clubs.”
Marge’s ears went on high alert. “What clubs?”
“Private clubs that did God only knows what as well as the crazy animal rights organizations that fed his delusions. He gave them money in exchange for their tolerance.”
Marge said, “Can you be more specific about the private clubs. It might give us a lead in his murder.”
“Sadomasochistic. This was years ago. I’m sure the ones he used have all folded and newer ones have popped up.” Sabrina sighed. “Hobart used to travel all over the country to ferret out the ones he liked. He found women who would dress up in cat suits and masks and have sex with him.”
“He told you this?” Oliver asked.
The woman’s face went red. “He confessed, but only after I found pictures of him humping young girls wearing tiger masks. I also found pictures of him with … animals. It was nauseating.”
Marge and Oliver nodded sympathetically.
“He said it wasn’t personal, that a tiger had to do what a tiger had to do.” She waved her hand in the air. “I mean, do I look like an idiot? I tried to reason with him … I held on as long as I could … but I knew it was over.”
Silence. Oliver said, “Ms. Talbot, if you could remember any of the names of the clubs—even if they’ve folded—it might help.”
“He never told me.” Sabrina examined her nails. “He moved out about a year after I found the pictures. The divorce was amicable. He gave me a very large settlement. His children were not happy about it. I couldn’t blame them. Hobart was not in his right mind. Being noble, being rich myself, and not wanting to get involved in lawsuits, I put two-thirds of the money into trusts for Hobart’s grandchildren. The other third was my combat pay. My generosity with the grandchildren did not go unappreciated. Gracie and I became friends. Darius called to thank me. The one thing the three of us did do was to convince Hobart—in one of his more lucid moments—to put his estate planning in the care of Darius’s law firm.”
“And he agreed?” Marge asked.
“Yes. Darius was smart about it. He funded whatever Hobart asked him to fund. Every so often, the two of them would go over his assets and how Hobart wanted to structure his will and what charities to give money to. So far as I know, there was never any impropriety on Darius’s part.”
She crossed her arms over her dirty shirt. “After we divorced, he slowly sank into the life of a recluse. He took that tiny wretched apartment. Eventually he just became a shut-in. Never went anywhere except to that sanctuary that he supported.”
“Global Earth Sanctuary?”
“Beats me.” A pause. “Talking about this has given me a big headache.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Talbot, but the conversation has been helpful,” Marge said. “I am curious about those sadomasochistic clubs. You asked who might have killed an eccentric old man, and now I have an idea. What if your ex-husband had been giving money to someone in the sex trade and suddenly stopped? These people are not
