they were gone, I turned off the vacuum cleaner. Watchfully, I once again toured the Winthrop house. One of the sliding glass doors leading to the pool area was broken. Looking across the covered pool, I saw one of the wooden gates standing ajar. The Winthrops needed a full-fledged security system, I thought severely. Then I realized I would have to clean up all the glass, and I found myself irrationally peeved.
Also, I had to call the police.
There was no way around it.
Should I tell them about Black Ponytail? If it weren't for Claude, I'd lie in a jiffy. All my contacts with the police had been painful. But I trusted Claude. I should tell him the truth. But what could I tell him?
I was fairly sure Howell Jr. must have admitted Black Ponytail to the house or given him the keys. My doubts about their relationship recurred. But no matter what that relationship was, it seemed to me I'd be violating whatever loyalty I was supposed to have to the Winthrop family if I told the police Black Ponytail had been already concealed in the house, anticipating this very break-in.
This was knotty.
I called the police station and reported the break-in, and had a few moments to think hard.
The safest thing was a straight break-in. I don't know nothin', boss.
It helped immensely that Claude didn't come. Dedford Jinks, the detective who'd so frightened Bobo, and two patrolmen responded to my call. Claude was in a meeting with the county judge and the mayor and had not been told about the incident, I gathered from listening to the patrolmen.
Dedford was a good ole guy with a beer gut hanging over a worn belt buckle he'd won in his calf-roping days. He had thin graying hair, a thin compressed mouth, and a ruddy complexion. Dedford was nobody's fool.
My story was this: I'd heard little noises, but thought that a member of the family had come in. From then on, I told the truth: I'd plugged in the vacuum and turned it on, I'd heard a big commotion, I hadn't seen anyone.
After they'd checked out the backyard and found a gate unlocked, and many footprints in the flower beds, the police said I could go.
"I have to clean up," I said, gesturing to the glass on the Winthrops' thick hunter-green carpet. They'd gathered up the biggest pieces for fingerprint testing, but there were lots of fragments.
"Oh," said one of the patrolmen, disconcerted. "Well, OK."
Then Howell burst into the house, moving faster than I'd ever seen him move. His face was red.
"My God, Lily, are you all right?" He actually took one of my hands and held it. I reclaimed it. This was strange. I could feel the policemen looking at each other.
"Yes, Howell, I'm fine."
"They didn't hurt you?"
I gestured wide with my hands to draw his notice to my uninjured body.
"But the bruise on your forehead?"
I touched my face carefully. Sure enough, my forehead was tender and puffy. Thanks, Mr. Ponytail. I hoped his ear hurt.
"I guess I ran into the doorframe," I said. "I got pretty excited."
"Well, sure. But one of the men didn't..."
"No."
"I had no idea you were going to be here today," Howell said, taking his snowy white handkerchief out of his pocket and patting his face with it. "I am so glad you weren't harmed."
"I came to do your wife's closet. It's just a twice-a-year thing," I explained. For me, I was talking too much. I hoped no one would notice. I was rattled. I knew now that Howell was directly involved in this day's peculiar doings. At least it was Howell who had let Ponytail in, so he had been here legitimately. I guessed Howell was now wondering where the hell his man was and what part he'd played in this fiasco.
"I'll just clean up this mess and go," I suggested again.
"No, no, you need to go home after this," Howell exclaimed, his handsome, fleshy face creased with anxiety. "I'll be glad to clean it up."
Definite glances between all police personnel within earshot. Shit.
"But I'd like to ..." I let my sentence trail off as Dedford raised an eyebrow in my direction. If I insisted longer, so would Howell, drawing more attention to his unusual preoccupation with my condition. He was obviously guilt-stricken. If he kept this up, everyone present would figure something strange was going on, and they might think it was more than Howell having an affair with his maid, which was bad enough.
"Where's your car?"