mutely back at him. Dumont regarded her for a moment; then comprehension dawned in his face. He jumped up from the sofa and turned to stare down at her.
‘‘My God,’’ he said, ‘‘I don’t believe it. You think I killed Avery, don’t you?’’
Paula still didn’t respond, and Dumont gazed wildly at the rest of us. ‘‘She’s crazy,’’ he said, his voice beginning to resemble the bleating of a sheep. ‘‘She’s absolutely freaking nuts. I didn’t kill Avery. How could you even think such a thing?’’
Ainsworth was watching the developing scene with considerable interest. I guessed he was letting it play out to see what could be gleaned from it. He might get more from Dumont and Paula here than he would in a one-on-one session in the office downstairs.
Dumont continued to look from one to the other of us, seeking our reassurance, I supposed, that Paula really was nuts for thinking he was the killer. The problem was, of course, that Marylou, Sophie, and I agreed with Paula. The damning evidence of the king of spades put him at the head of the list. He certainly had a lot to gain from Avery Trowbridge’s death, perhaps more than anyone else.
‘‘Mr. Dumont, is it true that you are going to be writing a nationally syndicated bridge column?’’ Ainsworth finally spoke, and Dumont jerked in surprise.
‘‘Why, um, yes,’’ Dumont said. He swallowed, and sweat began to form on his brow. ‘‘I, um, just found out about it.’’ He stared at the deputy.
‘‘Is it also true that Avery Trowbridge was going to write that column instead of you?’’
Dumont licked his lips. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. ‘‘Uh, well, I guess so.’’ The sweat streamed down his face now. He mopped at it ineffectually with his hands.
‘‘How did you get the job so quickly?’’ Ainsworth continued to stare at Dumont, and Dumont seemed to wilt further.
‘‘Um, I guess I called the syndicate when I heard Avery was dead,’’ Dumont said. He gave up trying to keep the sweat off his face. If he didn’t stop sweating soon, he would completely dehydrate himself.
Sophie, Marylou, and I watched with unabashed interest. Ainsworth could stop this at any moment and take Dumont and Paula downstairs, but I didn’t think he wanted to break the rising tension in the room.
Paula sat, head in hands, on the sofa. She had stopped crying, but her labored breathing was evidence of her distress.
‘‘This syndicate offered you the job right away then?’’ Ainsworth asked.
‘‘Oh, yes, they were quite happy I was able to take it over,’’ Dumont said, something like relief in his voice. ‘‘I was on their short list anyway, and they’re perfectly happy with me.’’
‘‘It’s a lucky break for you,’’ Ainsworth said in an encouraging tone.
‘‘Oh, yes, it is,’’ Dumont said, a tentative smile on his face. ‘‘It’s the break I’ve been waiting for. For years.’’
Paula groaned, and Dumont’s face fell. It hit him then, what Ainsworth had been leading up to.
‘‘I didn’t kill Avery,’’ he said, once again sounding like a sheep. ‘‘I wanted to write the column, but not bad enough to kill someone. Surely you can’t believe I’d do something like that?’’
‘‘I’m sure you can see how it looks to me,’’ Ainsworth said, his voice smooth as silk. ‘‘It sounds like a very good motive to me.’’
Dumont was sweating even more now, and I was afraid he would pass out from fear alone. He trembled as he sank down on the sofa beside Paula. ‘‘Oh my God,’’ he said, ‘‘this is a nightmare.’’ He stared at Paula. His eyes closed briefly, and a moment later he sighed, as if he had come to some decision.
‘‘I didn’t kill Avery,’’ Dumont said. The sheep was gone. His voice firm, he continued. ‘‘I couldn’t have killed Avery. I have an alibi for the whole night.’’
Paula’s head jerked up. ‘‘Oh, Basil, don’t. Don’t lie.’’ She reached toward him.
Dumont shied away from her. ‘‘It’s not a lie, Paula. You’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but it’s the truth, I swear to God.’’
‘‘What is your alibi, Mr. Dumont?’’ Ainsworth asked.
Basil licked his lips before replying. ‘‘I spent the whole night with someone. A woman. We were never out of each other’s sight the whole night long. I swear it.’’
‘‘Who is the woman?’’ Ainsworth asked.
Dumont hesitated. ‘‘I suppose I have no choice. It was Lorraine. Lorraine Trowbridge.’’
That wasn’t very gallant of him, I thought. At the very least, he could have insisted on talking to the deputy