Page 8 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Polished Off

I felt like I was deposing a witness giving a credible imitation of
forthrightness without really answering the questions.
“Then she died from some other cause, right?”
“I am awaiting corroboration from the medical examiner. He is
aware of certain salient observations I made while examining the
body. How long has it been since you last saw Mariana S. Trench?”
“Me? Weeks. Miss Edelweiss, our receptionist, could tell you the
date of her last consultation. I can’t remember exactly, I’ve been out
of town. But she seemed perfectly healthy—wait a minute: are you
considering me a suspect?”
“If a crime has been committed, it is my responsibility to
investigate it.”
“Now, look, Lieutenant, I’m an officer of the court. I’m on your
side: it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Mariana were murdered. She was
a difficult person, misunderstood in some ways and understood all
too well in others. I can easily imagine someone she had rubbed the
wrong way finally deciding to take revenge.”
I was getting a bit hot under the collar. Suddenly I became aware
of other people seated in the diner, some of them with forks
suspended midair. Labelle Gramercy regarded me dispassionately.
“If I can establish your innocence, Counselor,” she said in the
same even tones, “I would be glad to have you assist in this
investigation. Not only would it help me to have your cooperation
with regard to attorney-client privilege, but you have some
acquaintance with the people she dealt with every day—some of
whom, as you say, might have had a motive to kill her. It would be of
immediate assistance if you could tell me the terms of her will.”
“Before I have even received a copy of the death certificate?”
“You have my assurance that Mariana S. Trench is dead. I took
her thumbprint and it matched her driver’s license.”
Our juice and sandwiches arrived, but somehow I had lost my
appetite. I nevertheless took my time examining the inner layer of
congealed fish and mayonnaise, as if I were a priest performing a very
important divination. The detective sipped her beverage, its bright
red color inevitably and unfortunately reminding me of blood. If I
hadn’t seen the decedent in weeks—or even months—was that a
sufficient alibi? Could the bookseller have been killed by something

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