Free The Seventh Commandment by Lawrence Sanders

Felicia suffered more from his temper tantrums than I did. And the servants were targets, too, of course. But he never raised his voice to me. Perhaps he knew that if he had, I'd have marched out of that house and never returned."
    "I understand Father Brian Callaway was sometimes the cause of his anger."
    "My, my," Mrs. Starrett said mockingly, "you have been busy, haven't you? Well, you're right; Dad couldn't stand the man. The fact that Olivia was giving the preacher money infuriated him. He finally forbade her to give Father Callaway's so-called church another red cent."
    "And what was his argument with the servants?"
    "Oh, that was a long-running civil war. Stupid things like Charles' fingernails were too long, the Sunday Times had a section missing, Clara was using the good wine to cook with-picky things like that."
    "Did they ever threaten to quit?"
    "Of course not. They're being very well paid indeed, and though I wouldn't call them incompetent, they're far from being super. Just adequate, I'd say. If they quit, who'd pay them what dad was giving them-plus their own little suite of rooms as well."
    "I understand you're very active in charity benefits, Mrs. Starrett."
    "I do what I can," she said in a tone of such humility that Dora wanted to kick her shins.
    "Does your sister-in-law ever join in these activities?"
    "I'm afraid Felicia's favorite charity is Felicia. We get along. Period."
    "But not close?"
    "No," Eleanor said with a short bark of laughter. "Not close at all."
    "Could you tell me something about Helene and Turner Pierce. How long have you known them?"
    "Oh, perhaps a couple of years."
    "How did they become friends of the Starrett family?"
    "Let me think…" Eleanor considered a moment. "I do believe Father Callaway brought them around. He knew them from somewhere, or maybe they were members of his church-I really don't recall."
    "And how do you get along with them?"
    "Excellently. I admire them. They are two attractive young people, very chic, very with it. And it's a pleasure to see a brother and sister so affectionate toward each other."
    "More affectionate than Clayton and Felicia?"
    Eleanor stared at her. "No comment," she said.
    Dora rose from the low stool with some difficulty. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Starrett," she said. "You've been very helpful."
    "I have?" the other woman said. "I don't know how."
    Dora left the beauty salon, went next door to a small hotel, and used the public phone in the lobby.
    "The Starrett residence," Charles answered.
    "This is Dora Conti. Is any member of the family home? I'd like to speak to them."
    "Just a moment, please."
    It took longer than a moment, but finally Felicia came on the line, breathless.
    "Hiya, kiddo," she said. "Listen, I can't talk right now. Gotta run. Heavy lunch date."
    "Wait, wait," Dora said hastily. "I just want to know if it's okay if I come over and talk to Charles and Clara for a few minutes."
    "Of course," Felicia said. "I'll tell them to let you in and answer your questions. 'Bye!"
    Dora walked over to Madison Avenue and boarded an uptown bus. It had turned cold, almost freezing, and everyone was bundled up; the bus smelled of mothballs. Traffic was clogged, and it took almost forty-five minutes before she arrived at the Starrett apartment. Charles opened the door and led the way into the kitchen where a short, stout woman was standing at the sink, scraping carrots.
    Clara Hawkins looked as dour as her husband. Her iron-gray hair was pulled up in a bun, and her lips seemed eternally pursed in a grimace of disapproval. She was wearing a soiled apron over a dress of rusty bombazine, and her fat feet were shoved into heelless slippers. What was most remarkable, Dora decided, was that Clara had a discernible mustache.
    No one offered her a chair so she remained standing, leaning against the enormous refrigerator. She looked around at the well-appointed kitchen: copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging from an overhead frame; a Cuisinart on