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She sat back down. “Bill was a good lawyer and an exceptionally bad judge of character. I have to hand it to Bruno; he said and did all the right things. Do you know that he called here to tell Bill he was running for president?”
King looked at her in surprise. “Really? When was that?”
“Couple of months ago. I answered the phone. Could have knocked me over with a stick hearing his voice. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I didn’t. I held my tongue. We chatted like two old friends. He told me all the great things he’d done, his wonderful life in Philadelphia society. It made me want to throw up. Then I gave the phone to Bill, and they talked for a while. All Bruno wanted to do was gloat and rub it in. Let Bill know he’d risen so much further than Bill ever had.”
“I just assumed Bruno hadn’t had any contact with either of you for years.”
“Well, it was just the one phone call, and a damn irritating one at that.”
“Did Bill say anything on the phone that might have led to Bruno’s coming to see him at the funeral home?”
“No. Bill hardly talked at all. He was pretty weak even at that point. And I certainly didn’t say anything to Bruno that would get him all agitated. Although I wanted to, believe me.”
“About the stuff at the U.S. Attorney’s Office?”
“Among other things.”
“Did you ever have any proof?”
“Bruno was a lawyer, he covered his tracks well. His shit never stunk. He was long gone before it all came out.”
“Well, I guess you’re not really sorry he disappeared.”
“John Bruno can go to hell. In fact, I hope he’s already there.”
King leaned forward, and this time he put his hand on top of hers. “Millie, this is really important. Despite your husband’s autopsy being inconclusive, there is evidence that suggests he might have been poisoned, perhaps with methanol. You see, that method of poisoning would have been disguised in the embalming process. His death and his body’s being at that funeral home started this whole thing rolling. Whoever took Bruno couldn’t have left that to chance. Your husband had to be there at a certain time, meaning he had to die on a certain date.”
“That’s what the FBI said, but I’m telling you that no one could have been poisoning Bill. I would have known about it. I was with him every day.”
“Just you? Your husband was very ill before he died. Did you have any help? Anyone who came by? Any medication that he took?”
“Yes. And the FBI took it all to analyze and found nothing. I ate the same food, drank the same water. And I’m fine.”
King sat back and sighed. “Someone impersonated you at the funeral home.”
“So I heard. Well, I look good in black; it goes well with my new hair color.” She looked at King’s half-empty glass. “Would you like another?” He shook his head. She said, “Bill was a Scotch man too, right up to the end. It was one of the few pleasures he had left. Kept his own stash of twenty-five-year-old Macallan’s.” She chuckled. “He had some every night. I’d just pour a shot in his feeding tube using a big syringe. Eating he could have cared less about, but he looked forward to his Scotch even through his belly, and the man made it to eighty, not bad.”
“I bet you keep a good supply on hand.”
She smiled. “At our age, what’s left?”
King looked down at his glass. “How about you? Ever drink Scotch?”
“Never touch the stuff. Like I said, gin is my game. Scotch is too much like paint thinner. If you want to clear your sinuses out, by all means drink the stuff.”
“Well, thanks again. We’ll be in touch. Enjoy your evening.” King rose and started to turn away. He looked over at Joan, her drink and cigarette in hand, and he froze.
Paint thinner?
He whirled back around. “Millie, can you show me Bill’s special stash of Scotch?”
CHAPTER
41
IT WAS THE SCOTCH, or at least Bill Martin’s secret cache, that Mildred Martin had never bothered to tell the police or FBI about. A relatively simple test at the police lab showed the bottle had been doctored with methanol.
King and Joan sat at the police station while Mildred was thoroughly interrogated.
