Part 42 (2/2)
”Yes.”
”Was Neil drunk?”
”I don't think so.”
”High on drugs?”
”I don't know.”
”Solly was screaming at you when Neil came home?”
”Yes.”
”Isn't it a fact, Mrs. Zide, that before any shots were fired from your pistol, you heard the puppies barking, and you went outside and surprised two black men on the lawn, and they ran away?”
”Objection. Asked and answered,” I heard Muriel say, but without the vigor of a short time ago.
”Withdrawn,” I said. ”And when you came back into the living room, the argument with Solly grew worse?”
”I don't remember.”
I had it now. ”And you took your pistol out of your handbag, Mrs. Zide, and you fired a shot over his head, into the woodwork, as a warning?”
”No.” But that look of cunning fled her face. She would have made a poor poker player.
”And then Solly broke a bottle and cut you in the face, didn't he?”
”No.” The cunning look returned.
”And you shot him, didn't you?”
”No.”
”He was on the terrace, and you were just inside the living room, isn't that a fact?”
”No.”
”You shot at him three times. One shot missed and went outside -the other two struck him and killed him. Isn't that what happened, Mrs. Zide?”
”No,” she said, and the cunning look didn't fade. Because, I realized now, that wasn't what had happened. My mind swerved from one possibility to another. If Solly hadn't cut her, who had? Not Neil. I believed the worst of Neil, but not that.
”And then,” I said, ”Neil took over, didn't he?”
”Took over?” Connie looked frightened, paler than before. ”No, he didn't take over. Took over what?”
”You were hurt and couldn't think, so Neil took over and arranged matters, isn't that so?”
”Asked and answered,” Muriel said.
”Strike the question,” I said. ”Neil made a telephone call to the home of Victor Gambrel, chief of security at Zide Industries, didn't he?”
”No, not then.”
”Then who did call Victor Gambrel?”
”Neil did, of course,” she said, confused. ”I'm sorry.”
”Victor Gambrel lived close by, in Ponte Vedra, didn't he?”
”He may have. I don't remember.”
”And Victor Gambrel arrived before the police did, isn't that correct?”
”Yes, I think so. Does that matter?”
”Victor Gambrel helped Neil move your husband's body so that it looked as if he'd been shot by someone standing outside, isn't that so?”
Again, from behind me, Muriel said, ”If she knows.”
”Yes,” I said, ”if you know.”
”I do know. The answer is no. That didn't happen.”
”Victor Gambrel helped you and Neil work out the story you needed to tell the police, didn't he?”
”No. There was no story we needed to tell.”
”You decided to blame the murder of your husband on the two black men who'd bungled the burglary of your house, isn't that so?”
”No, I didn't do that.”
”When you saw Darryl Morgan outside the house that night, you didn't recognize him as a man in your employ, isn't that so?”
”That's true. Yes, that's so.”
”Neil deliberately gave to the police a vague description of the two men, didn't he?”
”I don't know.”
”You didn't know who they were-you hadn't seen them clearly, and Neil hadn't seen them at all. Isn't that correct?”
”I don't know,” she said, as if by rote.
”And that's why no one described Darryl Morgan as tall, or big, until after he was arrested, isn't that correct, Mrs. Zide?”
”I don't know.”
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