“Gegenbach see another boat near him?”
“Not until he heard the cruiser, but he wasn’t watching him. Who would? Fishing is no exciting spectator sport.”
“Dexter’s boat tell you anything?”
“Couldn’t. The slug didn’t go through, and you can’t get prints from watersoaked wood. Immersion screwed up the body temperature, so until the stomach contents are analyzed, we have no idea of when he died. We checked the house and grounds but found nothing to indicate he was killed there.”
“So we come to possible motives.”
“The man minded his own business and bothered no one, like most people.” She held up a hand. “I know. Relatives. When he heard what happened, Hank Smithfield, Fen’s attorney, called. He’s executor. A niece in Philadelphia inherits, one Christine Labeaux. I called her yesterday. She drove up. As far as she knows, she’s the only living relative. Fen was her mother’s brother, but after her mother died fifteen years ago, it became a cards-at-Christmas-relationship. He never even notified her of his wife’s death. Might turn out differently, but she looks, talks, and dresses as if she doesn’t need his money. She’s at the house now. Nice person. I asked her and Smithfield to look through his papers for a reason someone might want him dead. I’d like you to go out there with me.”
“Just need time for breakfast and to pick up my mail.”
“You’ll need more than that. Get a haircut, and go home and change into dry clothes. Close shave wouldn’t hurt, either. I know you rich folk don’t worry about appearances, but that long hair, greasy jacket, jeans, and dirty trainers — I hate those damned things — make you look like a leftover from a stranded rock group. Hardly speaks well of the dignity of my office.”
Klauder raised his eyebrows. “Since this is the first time you’ve been critical of my carefully selected leisure ensembles, I sense your concern over your image might be tied in with your perpetual matchmaking on my behalf more than the image of your office. The niece is attractive and available, isn’t she?”
“I’ll admit she’s enough to make you give up flying to Pittsburgh to visit Natalie Something, but I don’t think you can make the grade. Even with all your money.”
He grinned. “I might be lucky. She may be a fortune hunter.”
“Hey, Klauder,” she called after him. “I’m glad we didn’t have to scrape you off a mountaintop. I’d have missed going along on your practice flights. I enjoy those free air tours of the county.”
He returned wearing dirty bucks, tan chinos, a bright red polo, and a white waterproof jacket. “I hope this meets with your approval. I’d have worn my tuxedo but—”
“Shut up and get in the car,” she said. “We’re losing time.”
Her driving had always impressed him, her square hands on the wheel making her a part of the car. He’d turned the Cessna over to her one day for a few minutes. She’d handled the plane the same way; instinctively, without fumbling or hesitation. She’d make an excellent pilot, he’d told Otto. Otto grunted. Take away thirty years and she could handle an F-16.
The ice age glacier that had scooped out the lake had left the east and west sides precipitous, trees growing to the water’s edge. The shore to the north was a broad slant, less so on the south.
Flying over, he’d noticed the zigzag buildings of the condos, the boats crammed into a small marina, and the small houses farther on, planted side by side in a cleared stretch like a suburban development. What hadn’t been apparent from the air was the destruction created to place them there, as though bulldozers had run amok. Made more sombre by the rain, the damage gave him a sense of changes running out of control.
“Someone is making a lot of money at nature’s expense here,” he said. “Those houses destroy the natural watershed.”
“His name is Benson,” she said. “If the commissioners don’t clamp down on him, he’ll build solid all along the lake frontage. The fish and wildlife people are screaming. They say he’s destroying one of the major stopovers along the fly way.” She glanced at him. “Surprised you didn’t know, making a fortune carving those geese and ducks the way you do. Seems to me you’d be leading the charge to leave things alone.”
“Seems to me I should have paid more attention to the people who called me,” he said quietly, “but they do tend to be fanatic without being specific. I’m not against change, but this is stupid.” She glanced at him again. “Money talks.”
“It can also talk back.”
“That’s why I told the commissioners you’d make a helluva head for county fish and wildlife. You’ll probably hear from them next week.” She ignored his stare. “Now, I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt, but I’m taking on a detective, so you don’t have to worry about helping me. You’ve outgrown the job and can do more good elsewhere. Time to get on with it, Klauder.”
Once again, she’d blindsided him and left him speechless.
She whipped the car into a short driveway and skidded to a stop. Still dazed, he followed her to the door of the house.
Dexter, he’d heard, had designed it himself. Taking lessons from Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water, no doubt. Most of the older houses, including his cabin, had been scattered in convenient natural breaks with very little cutting involved. Dexter had gone one better, blending it in, making it part of the environment; natural stone for the walls, cedar shingles for the roof. It was more than a house. It was a work of art.
So was the woman who answered the door.
Parted on the side, wavy long brown hair fell below the shoulders of the lightweight white sweater and tan gabardine jacket set off by the fitted black trousers. Her face was oval, lips full, nose straight, eyes dark brown with a hint of laughter. The clothes and the way she carried herself said Meg was probably right about her not needing money.
Natalie Something, who had leased the cabin next to his for a time but had returned to her law firm in Pittsburgh, and with whom he still maintained a relationship, was beautiful, but with a gloss Christine Labeaux didn’t have and didn’t need. Easy to see why Meg approved of her.
She frowned slightly at his name. “Klauder? Has a familiar ring to it.”
“He’s from Philadelphia,” said Meg. “Like you.”
The frown disappeared. “Of course. Not that long ago, was it? Five or six years. The detective lieutenant who took on some highly placed officials who were trying to sweep something under a rug. I don’t remember the outcome.”
“They’re still there and I’m here,” said Klauder.
“You two can reminisce on your own time,” said Meg. “Did you and Hank find anything in your uncle’s papers?”
“Let him tell you.”
Following her through the house, Klauder could only applaud the taste of Fen Dexter and his wife. Gleaming polished oak floors. Cherry furniture. Tasteful prints on the walls. This, he thought, is how it should be done.
Hank Smithfield was short, round, and partly bald. Folds of flesh over his eyes gave him a look of perpetual sadness. He looked soft. When he left a desk covered with paper to shake hands, his grip said he wasn’t. He’d probably surprised many a legal opponent.
“You’d asked us to look for someone who’d benefit from Fen’s death, Meg, other than Christine. Nothing here, but I brought the correspondence from the last six months on a matter Fen asked me to handle. I don’t believe there’s a connection, but you can make your determination.”
He handed her a manila folder that she placed on the desk and opened, Klauder looking over her shoulder. Repeated offers to buy the house on letterheads from Benson Developers, the price steadily increasing, clipped to refusals written by Smithfield.