Free A Rare Murder In Princeton by Ann Waldron Page B

her head in an effort to clear it. Dodo was going in circles. “But surely you don’t know that Chester killed him? Do you?” McLeod asked.
    “No, but as I said, it just seems logical to me,” said Dodo. “That kind of relationship breeds violence. You are the kind of person who sees people in the best possible light. I guess I’m more cynical, and I just believe that Chester killed Philip. It’s as simple as that.”
    “It’s an interesting point of view,” said McLeod, keeping her voice neutral.
    “Do you think I should tell the police?” asked Dodo.
    “Tell the police what?”
    “Tell them that Chester murdered Philip,” said Dodo.
    “Dodo, do you have any evidence at all that Chester Holmes killed Philip Sheridan? Motive, means, opportunity —those are the things that count in a murder investigation. Do you have tangible, provable evidence about any of those things?”
    “I see what you mean. I just have this strong gut feeling, and my husband says my intuition is incredible. I just seem to be able to psych things out.”
    “That’s a remarkable gift,” said McLeod, wishing she was at home having a drink with George. Was she becoming an alcoholic, she wondered nervously. Wasn’t wishing for a drink a sign of addiction?
    “I knew you’d understand,” said Dodo.
    McLeod, who was far from understanding Dodo, shrugged. She stood up.
    Dodo stood up, too, but more reluctantly. “I was hoping we could have a nice long chat about it. A real heart-to-heart. You’re so smart, McLeod. You have a mind like a meat cleaver. You cut right to the main issue.”
    “Good heavens, Dodo. I don’t have a mind like a meat cleaver. It’s more like a can of hair spray. It just seizes on a cliché and hardens it into a fact.”
    “Oh, no. I wanted to talk to you immediately. I think you have good sense.”
    “Thanks, Dodo, but I’m not a good adviser. I get emotionally involved—I guess everybody does—and don’t always see an issue clearly.”
    “Well, thanks for talking to me,” said Dodo. “I really appreciate it. I’ll wait and think it over before I tell the police about Chester. Where are you parked?”
    “Down in the garage,” said McLeod.
    “Oh, I’m right on Nassau Street. I found a metered place just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
    “Good for you, Dodo,” said McLeod. “I have to go upstairs to get my things, but you can go out this door. I’ll make sure it’s closed tight. I’m scared of Frieda. You know, she’s a regular martinet.”
    “I bet you’re not scared of anybody,” said Dodo as she left. “Thanks so much. See you soon.”
    “Hope so,” said McLeod. When she left, unburdened by the box of dresses she had brought that morning, she resolutely avoided the shuttle bus and walked down the hill to the garage, wondering about Dodo as she went. Why in the world had Dodo sought her out to try to blame Chester Holmes for the murder of Philip Sheridan?
     
    AT HOME SHE found George in the kitchen. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “Dodo Westcott wanted to talk to me. Have you been to the store?”
    “I have. I actually got away early. We have this new guy in public relations—Chuck Hammersmith—and he’s terrific. He handled the murder with the press quite well. Tom and I both left early—Tom said there would be so much to do tomorrow we’d better get away while we could.”
    “That’s great. Who is the new guy? I always liked Jim Massey. Where is he?”
    “He was fine,” said George, “but Chuck is better, I think. Jim got a good job at Stanford—he’s vice president. Anyway, I went by Wild Oats and got these felicitous filet mignons. I know you aren’t crazy about steak, but these really are superb.”
    “I know. They look good. I’m delighted.”
    “And I got some stuffed potatoes from Nassau Street Seafood. I’m just doing a salad. We’ll have a feast.”
    “Lovely. What can I do?”
    “Nothing. It’s all under control. Go sit down and