Mrs. Hobbs was closing the parlour
drapes when Pamela returned to the house. "How's it going,
Mrs. Hobbs?
"The way it always go when they're alone," the housekeeper
told her, her eyes still tearful.
Pamela frowned. "Another argument?"
"Not another. The same one. She begs him to help her--you
know. He loses his temper, then nothing."
"I'd better go in, then," Pamela decided.
"Tell him I've got his dinner ready."
The moment Pamela entered the room, she knew something was terribly
wrong. Lily Brandon lay against the pink sheets, unmoving as usual,
but there was no pillow beneath her white hair. It was on the
floor beside the chair in which her husband now sat, sound asleep.
Pamela felt for a pulse, and finding none, went back to the hall.
"Mrs. Hobbs!" she called in a voice barely above a whisper.
The woman hurried from the kitchen. "What's wrong?"
"Call Dr. Gideon."
"She's not worse?" the housekeeper said, looking past
the nurse. She saw the pillow, and her eyes widened. "My
God. He did it. He finally-"
"Call the doctor, Mrs. Hobbs," the nurse ordered, her
voice trembling. "NOW." Pamela went back into the room.
Attempting to block Robert's view of the bed, she said softly,
"Mr. Brandon." He remained asleep, oblivious to Pamela's
return. Very gently, she shook his arm.
He jumped. "Who?" He looked up. "Oh, Pamela. You're
back. Have a nice evening?" She tapped his right ear. "Oh.
Yes. Turned it down so I wouldn't argue with Lily," he explained,
turning the hearing aid back up. "There. How was your time
in town?"
"Fine. She's- asleep, Mr. Brandon. Why don't you go and get
some rest-" He wasn't listening. He had looked around her
to where Lily lay, his eyes on her face. He rose slowly. "Mr.
Brandon-"
His hand lifted, his fingers touching the cool, lifeless cheek.
"Oh, LILY," he whispered, and began to cry.
Laura looked up as Remington came from the kitchen. "The
dishes are done," he told her. "How much more paperwork
are you going to do this evening?" he asked, sitting on the
sofa, one arm along the back.
She smiled, closing the folder. "None," she told him,
coming over to settle beside him. "What time can we get away
to look at the house?"
He looked thoughtful. "Let's see. I have a meeting with Estelle
Becker at ten, and I have to see a man about Mr. Malcom's painting-"
"I thought you wanted to see it," Laura said, confused.
"The chance to visit a movie star's home-"
"Carmen Castille was never a star in the way you mean, Laura.
Silent film actors were a different breed. Mostly all legend,
little fact. Rather like your Remington Steele."
"No," she told him, sliding her arms around his neck.
"Not MY Remington Steele. You're really amazing, you know.
Handling the nuts and bolts of most of our recent cases, then
coming home to fix one of your gourmet delights." She sighed.
"I suppose we'll have to hire a housekeeper/cook when we
move into the house."
Remington looked down at her. "That place has really gotten
to you, hasn't it?"
"It's a beautiful house, with three acres of land- and Mr.
Brandon's not asking near what it's worth-"
He liked seeing that light in her eyes. And if that house could
put it there- "We'll go directly after lunch tomorrow,"
he agreed. "I confess that I'm more than a little intrigued
by the place- and about its present owner."
"Thank you," Laura said, her arms tightening. "I'll
call Mr. Brandon tomorrow morning and let him know we're coming.
I just know you'll understand the way I feel when you see it.-"
His eyes met hers. "As long as it's what you want, Laura,"
he was saying, his lips merely millimeters from hers. The telephone
rang, and he put his head back. "Blast!'
"Let the machine-"
` "I forgot to turn the bloody thing back on," he told
her. Mildred's suggestion that they get a telephone answering
machine to screen their calls at home and prevent unwanted interruptions,
had been a godsend- when one of the other remembered to turn it
on.
"I'll get it," Laura said, reaching for the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Steele? I hate to bother you, but it's important-"
` Laura frowned. She had heard that voice, but not sounding this
upset. "Who is this?" she asked.
"Pamela Craig. We met earlier-"
"Lily Brandon's nurse," Laura recalled. "Of course.
Mr. Steele and I were just deciding what time to come out tomorrow-"
"Could you come this evening, Mrs. Steele?"
"Now? Is something wrong, Miss Craig?"
"I'm afraid that Mr. Brandon will be needing your help- I
think he may've -" she paused before continuing, as if she
didn't even want to consider the possibility. "I think he
may have killed his wife."
Remington's appreciation for the Mexican style house was dulled
by the sight of two men putting Lily Brandon's remains into a
black coroner's wagon under the watchful eye of a tearful red
haired woman. She didn't turn as Remington brought the Auburn
to a stop in the drive.
Laura got out without waiting for Remington, leaving him to follow.
"Miss Craig," she said quietly, "I'm very sorry-"
She turned. "Oh, Mrs. Steele. She's at peace now. Thank you
for coming. I didn't know what to do-" She fought back more
tears, lifting a tissue that had seen better days to her eyes.
Steele offered her his handkerchief. "There, there, Miss
Craig."
She smiled at him, a slight, tight movement. "Thank you."
Laura frowned. "What happened, Miss Craig? Mrs. Brandon was
fine earlier or else you wouldn't have left her."
"She was alive when I left, yes. Mr. Brandon was with her-"
They followed her into the house. "When I returned, she was-
dead."
Steele looked around, taking note of the difference between the
outside of the house and the inside. But he kept his attention
focused on the woman before him. "Mrs. Brandon was very ill,
wasn't she?"
"She had a rare degenerative disease that was slowly destroying
her muscle tissue. Her mind was as sharp as a tack. But she was
helpless, totally dependent on others for almost everything. She
was so weak-"
"But you don't believe it was her illness that caused her
death, I take it?"
"I know it wasn't. She was weaker, yes. Her lungs, her heart-
but she still had a few months-"
"Why do you think Mr. Brandon killed her?" Laura asked.
"He seemed to adore her."
"He and Mrs. Brandon adored one another. I mean- well- it
was like in those old movies. You know. Mrs. Hobbs told me that
they used to have some really blazing arguments- they'd yell,
slam doors, and then an hour later, they'd be walking in the garden,
arm in arm, happy as could be."
"Did they stop arguing when she became ill?" Laura wanted
to know.
"I've been- I WAS Mrs. Brandon's nurse for a year, Mrs. Steele,
and in that time, they only argued about one thing.
"What was that?" Steele asked.
"She didn't want her illness to drag on. The thought of being
totally dependent on others frightened her more than death, I
think."
"She wanted him to- end it," Laura realized softly.
Pamela nodded into the handkerchief. "And Mr. Brandon refused
to consider it. It got so bad that whenever she started asking
him- begging him, he'd just turn off his hearing aid. When I came
in this evening, Mrs. Hobbs told me they'd been arguing again,
so I went right in. Mr. Brandon was asleep in a chair beside the
bed. The pillow from the bed was on the floor next to him. And
Miss Lily- Mrs. Brandon, was dead."
"Where is Mr. Brandon now?" Laura asked.
"In the garden. The coroner notified the police when Dr.
Gideon couldn't swear that she died from her illness. There's
a homicide detective on his way out. He gave his permission for
the body to be moved-"
"Why don't you show Mr. Steele to Mrs. Brandon's room, while
I go and talk to Mr. Brandon?" Laura suggested.
Steele surveyed the room with a careful eye. "Mr. Brandon
was here," he said, standing before the chair. "And
the pillow-?"
"It hasn't been moved. Everything's as it was when I came
into the room," Pamela assured him.
"And the French doors lead into the garden. They were open?"
"The usually were," Pamela told him. "Unless it's
raining or cool. Mrs. Brandon loved her garden."
To be Continued----