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The Prodigal Son
Colleen McCullough
Potent poisons and deadly rivalries in this glamorous thriller.Jim and Millie Hunter have it all: good looks, brilliant minds, and a meteoric rise to fame.Dr Jim Hunter is a genius biochemist, and author of a smash-hit science book that is propelling him to the top. His wife Millie, is a blonde bombshell and fellow scientist, researching rare poisons derived from puffer fish.They seem to have it all, but others in their academic circle have got the knives out, jealous of their success – and their inter-racial relationship arouses prejudice.So when a double murder is perpetrated, using poison stolen from Millie’s research lab, Captain Carmine Delmonico of Holloman Police must race to find the killer before they can claim their next victim.The pool of suspects is small, but nobody is talking.Have two men died to safeguard the publication of Jim’s book – or do rivalries and betrayals run deeper than that?
For CAROLYN REIDY
the best editor I’ve ever had
a loyal and unflagging publisher
and my very dear friend
with love and thanks
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u33a02ccd-99f8-55ea-8cd6-d48558e1b4be)
Dedication (#u73d20588-6bed-5722-92af-4106d9edd088)
Prologue (#uc74b41c6-ce12-527f-bae1-884b4aaada23)
Part One (#uc4f29d6f-9df3-5828-bed8-077ccdf65ce8)
Thursday, January 2, 1969 (#u0e900272-4c7e-5488-9f6c-2b168abe921b)
Friday, January 3, 1969 (#u52d0a8e3-5651-5a92-8cbe-ae1048e40f88)
Saturday, January 4, 1969 (#u2fd78271-77e1-59a3-8260-8bc19a0acfab)
Sunday, January 5, 1969 (#u91a62291-c846-50b9-961e-6b416dead72f)
Monday, January 6, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Wednesday, January 8, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thursday, January 9, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Friday, January 10, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Saturday, January 11, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Monday, January 13, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Tuesday, January 14, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Wednesday, January 15, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Thursday, January 16, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Friday, January 17, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Tuesday, March 4, until Friday, March 7, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Wednesday, March 12, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Friday, March 14, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Monday, March 31, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Tuesday, April 1, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Wednesday, April 2, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
Thursday, April 3, 1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Colleen McCullough (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Friday, January 3, 1969from
7:30 P.M. until 11:30 P.M.
Breath surrounding him in puffed clouds, John Hall put one not-quite-steady finger on the door buzzer and pushed. The opening chords of Beethoven’s fifth symphony answered, an unexpected shock; the last thing he had associated in his mind’s eye with this unknown father and family was kitsch. Then the door was opening, a tiny little maid was divesting him of coat and gloves, and dancing at her heels came a young and beautiful woman, pushing the maid aside to attack him with outflung arms, lush lips puckered in a kiss.
“Dearest, darlingest John!” she cried, the lips squashed against his cheek because he had turned his head. “I am your stepmother, Davina.” She seized his right arm. “Come and meet us, please. Is Connecticut cold after Oregon?” she cooed.
He didn’t answer, too overwhelmed by the greeting, the young woman’s almost feverish chatter (his stepmother? But she was years younger than he was!)—and the noticeably foreign accent she owned. Davina … Yes, of course his father had spoken of her on the phone during their several conversations, but he hadn’t anticipated a bimbo, and that was how she presented. A brunette bimbo, clad in the height of fashion: a tie-dyed chiffon pantsuit in all shades of red, very dark hair loose down her back, a flawless ivory skin, full and pouting red lips, vividly blue eyes.
“It was my idea to introduce you to the family at Max’s birthday party,” she was saying, in no hurry to commence the introductions. A very few people were scattered around an ugly, hideously modern room. “Sixty!” she went gushing on in well structured English, “Isn’t that wonderful? The father of a newborn son, and the father of a long lost son! I couldn’t bear for you and Max to meet in a less significant way than tonight, everybody looking their best.”
“So this black tie is your idea?” he asked, just a trifle ungraciously.
His displeasure didn’t impinge; she laughed, her rather ropelike hair swinging as she tossed her head complacently. “Of course, John dearest. I adore men in black tie, and it gives us women an excuse to dress up.”
At least her prattle—there was more of it—had enabled him to assimilate those present, even come to some conclusions. Three tall, robustly built men stood together, and were very obviously related; John could say with certainty that they were his father, his uncle and his first cousin: Max, Val and Ivan Tunbull. Their broad Slavic faces were set in lines speaking of undoubted success, their well opened yellowish eyes held confidence and competence, and their thick, waving thatches of brassy hair said that baldness did not run in the family. The Tunbull family … His family, whom he wouldn’t have known before tonight had they chanced to encounter each other at a different black tie dinner party …
A briskly professional looking man of about forty was standing with them, his very pregnant wife of around his own age beaming up at him fatuously: not a bimbo!
Where were Jim and Millie Hunter? They’d said they would be here! Surely no one could be later than he? It had taken almost an hour for him to get up the courage to ring that bell, striding up and down, smoking cigarettes, shrinking back into the shadows when the professional guy and his pregnant wife came across the street, engaged in what sounded like married couple banter. No, maybe not an hour, but a half hour, sure.
Came another dose of Beethoven in tinny bells; the tiny servant moved to the front door, and in they came, Millie and Jim Hunter. Oh, thank all the gods! Now he could meet his father with a confidence bolstered by knowing that Jim Hunter had his back. How much he had yearned for this reunion!
Max Tunbull was advancing toward him, hands outstretched. “John!” said Max in a gravelly voice, taking John’s right hand in both his, smiling on a wall of huge white teeth, then leaning in to embrace him, kiss his cheeks. “John!” The yellow eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Jesus, you’re so like Martita!”
When the fuss died down, when all the introductions were safely in the past, when John felt that he could make some choices of his own without his stepmother foiling him, he sought out Jim and Millie, havens in a stormy, unknown sea.
“I was about to head for the hills when you came in,” he confessed, more to Jim than to Millie. “Isn’t this weird?”
“Three women, six men, and black tie. You’re right, it is weird,” Jim said, but not sounding puzzled. “Typical for Davina, though. She loves to be surrounded by men.”
“Why am I not surprised?” John put his martini glass down with a grimace.
“You no like?” asked a voice at his elbow.
He turned to look, found the midget maid. “I’d much rather have a Budweiser,” he said.
“I get.”
“One for me as well!” called Jim to her back. “Have you managed to talk to your dad yet?”
“Nope. Maybe at the dinner table. It’s as if his bimbo wife doesn’t want to give me any opportunity.”
“Well, she can’t keep that up forever, especially now you’re in Holloman,” Millie comforted. “Vina has to be the center of attention, from the little I’ve seen of her. Jim knows her far better.”
“Thanks for being home last night when I blew in from Portland,” John said. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“I can’t believe Max let you stay in a hotel,” Jim said.
“No, that’s my fault. I figured I’d better have some place of my own to retreat to if I needed, and right about now I’m glad. California or Oregon this ain’t.”
“Hey, California was a long time ago,” Jim said gruffly.
“It lives in my heart like yesterday.”
“This is more important, John,” Millie said. “Family is all-important.”
“With an ugly stepmother in control? All that’s missing are the ugly stepsisters. Or should that be stepbrothers?”
Millie giggled. “I see the analogy as far as Davina goes, John, but you’d make a lousy Cinderella. Anyway, it’s a role reversal. You’re not an impoverished kitchen slave, you’re a millionaire forestry tycoon.”
When Davina drove them to the dinner table, a wide one as well as long, John found that he and Max were seated together at the head of the table; Davina occupied the foot alone. Down the left side she put, from Max to her, Ivan Tunbull, Millie Hunter and Dr. Al Markoff. On the right side she seated, from John to her, Val Tunbull, Muse Markoff the pregnant wife, and Jim Hunter.
And at last John had a chance to talk to Max Tunbull, who turned a little side on and asked, “Do you remember your mother at all, John?”
“Sometimes I think I do, sir, at other times I’m convinced that what I think I remember is an illusion,” John said, his eyes suddenly more grey than blue. “I see a thin, sad woman who used to spend her time typing. According to Wendover Hall, who adopted me, she was very poor, made a living from typing manuscript for a dollar a page, no errors. That’s how he met her. Someone recommended her to type a book he’d written on forestry. It wasn’t long before he put her and me in a beautiful house at Gold Beach in Oregon. She died six months later. That I do remember! I must have been with her when she died, and I wouldn’t leave the body. Kinda like a dog, I guess. She’d been dead for two days when Wendover found us.”
Max blinked his own tears away. “My poor boy!”
“My turn to ask a question,” John said, voice hard, curt. “What was my mother like?”
Closing his eyes, Max leaned back in his chair slightly, as if speaking of his first wife didn’t come easily—as if, indeed, he endeavored never to think of her. “Martita was what these days we’d call a depressive, son. Back in the 1930s, the doctors said she was neurasthenic. Quiet and withdrawn, but as lovely on the inside as she was on the outside. My family didn’t like her, especially Emily—Val’s wife, in case you’re not keeping the names straight yet. I never realized how badly Em got under Martita’s skin until after she left, taking you with her. That was June of 1937, and you were barely a year old. Of course it all came out afterward, while I was scouring the country looking for you and your mom. Em worked on your mom’s insecurities every chance she had to be alone with her—relentless, unbelievably cruel! Convinced her she wasn’t loved or wanted.” The reddish-tan lips thinned. “Emily was punished, but too late for Martita.”
“She’s not here tonight—was she expelled from the family?” John asked uncomfortably.
Max gave a short, harsh laugh. “No! That’s not how most families work, John. Em just got the cold shoulder from the rest of us, including Val. Even Ivan wasn’t encouraged to take her side in anything—and he didn’t, either.”
“So that’s why Emily’s not here tonight?”
“Not really,” said Max nonchalantly. “Em’s grown in her own direction, which suits the rest of us just fine.”
“She won’t like my advent. It must look to her as if I’m going to reduce her son’s share of the family business.”
Max looked into this long lost son’s face with what seemed genuine love. “On that head, John, I can’t thank you enough. It came hard to Ivan to lose half his inheritance to my son Alexis, so to know you’re making no claim on me is wonderful.”
“I have so much money I’ll never be able to spend it,” John said, searching his father’s face. “Ivan can rest easy. I hope you’ve told him that?”
“No chance yet, but I will.”
Someone was banging a spoon against an empty crystal wine glass: Davina.
“Family and friends,” Davina began, each word carefully articulated, “we are gathered here tonight to kill the fatted calf for my darling husband’s prodigal son, lost to him for over thirty years. However, we also kill the fatted calf to honor my beloved Max, who turned sixty three days ago.”
She paused, eyes roaming the attentive faces. “We know why Emily isn’t here, but, dearest John, the absence of Ivan’s wife is equally habitual—Lily says she’s just too shy to face a room that might contain a stranger. Silly girl!”
Startled, John’s gaze flew to Ivan, who was glaring at his step-aunt in furious dislike, and John for one couldn’t blame him. What an awful thing to say! Max must really be under the thumb of this—no, not bimbo. Davina was a harpy, she ate people tooth and claw, slavering.
“On October thirteenth of last year,” the high voice went on, “I gave birth to Alexis. A son for Max at last, an heir to replace his beloved John.” She smiled at Max brilliantly. “And then, a month ago, John phoned from Oregon. He had found out who his family were, and he wanted to return to the fold.”
She emitted a histrionic sigh. “Naturally Max doubted John’s identity, but as the calls went on and the documents were produced in various lawyers’ offices, Max began to hope. And after the ring arrived, who could continue to doubt? Not my beloved Max! John the prodigal son had returned from the dead. So now we gather to celebrate the reunion of Max and John Tunbull. Lift your glasses and be upstanding!”
My name is John Hall, Davina, thought John to himself at the end of this disingenuous, mischievous speech. Not John Tunbull! Now I have to sit here while these people toast us. Prodigal son, for God’s sake! She never quite gets the story right, this eastern European harpy.
Embarrassed to look at any of those faces, his eyes went to the diminutive woman who appeared to be some kind of superior servant, moving among the hired help in smooth command. Clad in a shapeless grey dress with a shapeless body underneath, it was hard to arrive at her status in this menagerie. Her face was flat and suggested a cretin, as did the flat-backed skull, but the black, currantlike eyes were intelligent and the tiny, short-fingered hands deft as she wiped a dribbled speck of food from one plate and rejected another as unfit to be served. He had heard various people call her Uda; from what little he had seen thus far, John decided that she was Davina’s personal servant owning no allegiance to the Tunbulls. Just who was Davina Tunbull?
The meal was fantastic. Iranian caviar and trimmings was followed by the closest Davina could get to a fatted calf, she explained: roast milk-fed veal, lean, pink and juicy, with perfectly cooked vegetables, and an amazing cake for dessert. John ate well—he couldn’t resist such delicious fare.
As they rose from the table Davina sprang another surprise with another crystalline tattoo on a glass.
“Gentlemen, to Max’s study for coffee, after-dinner drinks and cigars!” she cried. “Ladies, to the drawing room!”
And finally, in a kind of foyer that ran between the dining room and Max’s study, John managed to waylay Jim Hunter.
“Do you believe this?” he asked, moving to one side of the traffic flow, six men fleeing from that awful woman.
Jim rolled his eyes, an almost scary expanse of stark white in such a black face. “It’s typical Davina,” he said. “I know the Tunbulls well after this past year and more putting A Helical God to press. But we’ll have plenty of time for me to tell you about that now that you’re in Holloman.”
“It was terrific to reminisce last night when I found you at home,” John said. His eyes, returned to blue, rested fondly on Jim’s face. “You look great, Jim. No one would ever recognize you for the old Gorilla Hunter.”
