The Eighth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders Page B

it?”
    “Ruby? Not a chance. Her brother’s a doper, but she’s a straight arrow. Works her ass off to keep her boy in private school. The kid’s a mathematical whiz.”
    “Who then?”
    Nettie shrugged. “Ross Minchen, my brother-in-law, is a wimp. I can’t see him lifting anything more valuable than an ashtray from McDonald’s. Roberta is just as dreary.”
    “Certainly not your mother.”
    Nettie laughed. “Don’t be so sure. Don’t let the blue hair fool you; there is one tough lady. But why should she steal the coin? The way I hear it, most of what Daddy owns is in her name already.”
    I realized how little I knew about the source of the Havistocks’ wealth.
    “Your father is retired?”
    “Semi. He owned a textile company. Knitting mills and things like that. Then he sold out to a bigger outfit. But he’s still on salary as a consultant. And Luther works for them. That was part of the deal.”
    “What about Luther. Could he have done it?”
    She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Possibly,” she said thoughtfully.
    “I’ve never met your brother.”
    “He’s got problems. Mainly his wife, Vanessa. She’s a barracuda. Lives up to and beyond his income. Runs him ragged.”
    “I gather you don’t like her.”
    “You gather correctly, Dunk. She’s a real bitch.”
    “Could she have stolen the coin?”
    “Wouldn’t put it past her. She loves money. But she wouldn’t do it herself; she’d get a man to do it for her. She’s got eyes for anything in pants, with a fat wallet in the hip pocket. She was coming on to Ross Minchen, and it got so bad that finally Daddy had to tell Vanessa to lay off. It’s a fun thing with her. She likes to stir guys up. Gives her a feeling of power, I guess.”
    “Is she attractive?”
    “Like a snake. Yes, I suppose you could call her attractive. I can’t see it—I think she’s chromium-plated—but men take one look at her and unzip their flies.”
    I laughed. “What about Orson Vanwinkle? Did he unzip his fly?”
    She drained her iced tea before she answered. “Orson is a schmuck. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but he’s a schmuck. He came on strong with me once—I mean really physical. But I gave him a knee in the balls, and that was the end of that. You know, in a lot of ways he’s the male equivalent of Vanessa. I think they’re both a couple of hustlers.”
    “You think there’s something between them?”
    “Vanessa and Orson? I doubt that. He’s got no money, so Vanessa wouldn’t be interested. I’ve seen them together many times, and never noticed anything going on. Mutual suspicion, maybe. They both know what they are; it takes one to know one. A couple of cruds. Well…” she said, pushing her plate away and sitting back, “how do you like that rundown on the Havistocks? Just your average, normal, well-adjusted American family—right?”
    “Nettie,” I said, feeling guilty, “I really didn’t mean to pry. But I’d like to get this whole thing cleared up so I can get my job back.”
    “Sure, sweetie, I can understand that.”
    “If you had to name someone in the family as a prime suspect, who would it be?”
    She thought a moment, digging with a fingernail at a fragment of chicken caught in her teeth. “Orson Vanwinkle,” she said finally. “Or my brother, Luther.”
    “Why them?”
    “They’re both hurting for money,” she said.
    Then the waitress brought our bill. “Thanks for the roach, honey,” she said to Nettie. “It hit the spot.”
    Natalie Havistock grabbed the check. “You leave,” she told me. “Go out to the street; I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
    “I want to pay my share,” I said, fumbling with my purse.
    “Forget it,” she said. “Just go!”
    So I went, past the tables, the take-out counter, the cashier’s desk. I waited on Madison Avenue. It was almost five minutes before Nettie came out. She was carrying a white paper bag. We walked a half-block, and she dumped the bag in a