“Did you eat any of the candy?” the detective asked.
“No. I’m on a strict diet, so I gave them to Sophie.”
Moser choked up again and Quinlan waited for him to regain his composure.
“I’m sorry,” Moser apologized.
“Don’t be,” Quinlan said. “I take it that you cared for Mrs. Randall.”
“She was so nice, happily married, they have a five-year-old girl.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t given the candy to her—”
“You’d have given it to someone else and they would be dead. This is not your fault. Get that straight. It’s the fault of the bastard who murdered Mrs. Randall. Now, can you think of who that might be?”
Moser shook his head. “Everyone liked Sophie.”
“What about you, Mr. Moser? The candy was sent to you, so I have to believe you were the intended victim. Did everyone like you? As the manager of a large establishment, you must have had run-ins with employees, club members—”
Moser started to say something. Then he hesitated.
“Have you thought of someone, Sam?” Ragland asked.
“I’m very reluctant to accuse anyone, especially in a situation as serious as this.”
“You’re not accusing anyone,” the deputy DA said. “You’re helping us gather information.”
“There is someone who comes to mind, but…”
“We’re not going to rush out and arrest someone without evidence,” Quinlan assured Moser. “The last thing we want to do is charge an innocent person with committing a serious crime. Now, who were you thinking about?”
“Robert Chesterfield.”
“Who is that?” Quinlan asked.
“Robert Chesterfield is a thoroughly detestable individual who resigned from the club several months ago after a series of accusations of sexual harassment from female members and female employees. There were also suggestions that he cheated at cards.When I brought these complaints to his attention, he grew outraged and threatened me. One of the complainants was Mrs. Randall.
“What really concerns me is something that happened roughly two years ago. Lily Dowd is a very wealthy widow. She may have been the wealthiest member of the Westmont, and that is saying a lot.”
“‘May have been’?” Quinlan asked.
“Mrs. Dowd resigned when Mr. Chesterfield did.”
“Go on.”
“Mr. Chesterfield claims to be British. He’s also hinted that he has some sort of connection to the royal family, that he’s a lord or something.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I would take anything Robert Chesterfield said with an entire sack of salt.”
“Okay. Go ahead. What happened two years ago, and what does it have to do with what happened today?”
“I’ve been told that Mrs. Dowd met Chesterfield in London about a year after her husband, Frank Dowd, passed. Chesterfield moved to Oregon a few years ago. He’s very smooth and he talked his way into the club one evening. Mrs. Dowd was at the club that night. I have no proof, but I am willing to bet that the meeting at the Westmont was no coincidence.
“In any event, Mrs. Dowd and Mr. Chesterfield began seeing each other, but Mrs. Dowd was also being courted by Arthur Gentry, another club member. Then Arthur died unexpectedly.”
“Why was his death a surprise?” Quinlan asked.
“Mr. Gentry was in his sixties but he always appeared to be in excellent health. Mrs. Dowd was very distraught at the news of Mr. Gentry’s passing, and Mr. Chesterfield was always there to comfort her. Within months of Mr. Gentry’s death, Mrs. Dowd married Chesterfield.”