“Excuse me, don’t you want to, um, know what, um, we argued about?”
I shook the vestiges of Chekhov’s character off. “Sorry — yes. Lucy said you wanted Paul to sell you his shop. Why? What was in it for you?”
I’d hit a nerve. When Grogan’s mouth tightened he looked years older.
“I’ve already told the police there’s nothing in it for me. Yes, I wanted him to sell the building to HDC. But I’m not getting any kickbacks! That’s not how this organization works.”
The receptionist walked in with a tray. Besides the coffee she’d brought a plate filled with pastries. They looked like they were from the recently opened French bakery down the street. I’d hoped I hadn’t angered Grogan too much and could stay around long enough to try a few.
“Thanks,” Grogan said to the receptionist. “And would you bring in one of our community development folders?”
By the time I’d poured myself coffee and grabbed a lemon tart she was back.
“Here. This is what we’re envisioning.” He slid a folder across the table.
The architect’s drawing showed a sleek new building spanning the entire block. The ground floor had several shops, and the bookstore’s name was on one of the doors. The three upper levels looked like they might be apartments or office suites.
“We’ve got the city, a private foundation, and Woodbead Construction behind us. The only holdout was Paul Truitt. He didn’t want to sell his building even though our offer was more than fair.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to give up his bookshop. That seems fair to me.”
“That’s the crazy thing. We offered him a space in the new building. Our calculations showed he’d be paying less in a year’s rent than he was spending on property taxes and upkeep. And we would have guaranteed rent increases would be capped far below market for the rest of the store’s life.” He poured coffee into his cup and picked up the miniature éclair I’d been eyeing. The scent of chocolate filled the air between us as he bit into the pastry. “You don’t know who the building belongs to now, do you?”
Eventually, Grogan would find out it was Mrs. Griffin who’d inherited. But things were moving too fast. She needed time to grieve before she’d be pressed to make any decisions. Both Harry and I knew how important that was. “No, no I don’t.”
Grogan looked disappointed. “Well, I’m sure whoever inherits will see what a good deal this is.” His hand swept the air above the architect’s drawing. “This is going to revitalize the community. The building will be state of the art. Other neighborhoods in the city would kill for a chance to build this.” Grogan paled. “What I mean is—”
“I know what you meant.”
We both fell silent.
Finally, Grogan spoke. “Paul Truitt was being stubborn, but I hoped I’d be able to wear him down eventually.” He nodded toward the drawing. “This means a lot to me. But nowhere near enough to kill someone over.”
I pondered the sincerity in his voice, the tremble in his chin, and his doleful eyes. My years preparing for stage roles had taught me to read those subliminal messages hidden in the expressions and voices of others. But this time I wasn’t sure. Some people are unreadable, even by me. I scooped up both the folder and a cream puff from the tray and thanked Grogan for his time.
When I got back to the carriage house it was almost noon. Mrs. Griffin had left some of yesterday’s casserole in my refrigerator. As it reheated I studied HDC’s folder. It looked like Woodbead Construction stood to gain substantially from the development project since they’d also manage the building. I found the company’s online profile. Its CEO, Don Hallewell, was a member of Harry’s club.
The sweet-spicy scent of cinnamon wafted across the room as the microwave signaled the food was ready. I carefully moved the dish to my small table, sat down, and plunged my fork into the pastitsio, a Greek casserole Mrs. Griffin cooked to perfection despite her Welsh heritage. When done, I walked the stone path to the mansion and was surprised to find Harry standing on the back patio.
“Hello, Jake.” He motioned me to a marble bench. “I’ve just heard, unofficially mind you, the cause of death.”
After a minute Harry continued. “Conium maculatum.”
“Paul was poisoned with hemlock? Oh, no.” College criminal justice classes had taught me that while men killers did use it, poison was more popular with women killers. And when women killers did use poison, “a friend” was near the top of the list of their targets. Even though I knew Mrs. Griffin could never hurt anyone, evidence was stacking up against her. The police would be back to question her.
“We’d better learn how Paul spent his day yesterday, Jake,” Harry said, as if he’d read my thoughts.
I fingered the car key in my pocket. Hayesfield was on my way to rehearsal. I’d start with the other shopkeepers. Maybe some of them saw Paul coming and going. Maybe they saw the murderer too.
Before leaving, I filled Harry in on Jeff Grogan’s plans and the builder who’d be implementing them.
“I’ll call Don, although I can’t imagine him murdering anyone,” Harry smiled, “for such a relatively small amount of money, anyway. He has a lot of irons in the fire with the new mall up north and the office building complex downtown. This sounds like small change.”
“So far, it’s the only motive we’ve got.”
I thought I saw a question in Harry’s eyes. Or maybe it was just my imagination. He stood and looked over the expanse of patio and lower lawn. “I’m taking Mrs. Griffin to the funeral home. We have to make arrangements for when the body is released.” He looked down at me. “I’m assuming, with rehearsals, you’ll be missing dinner tonight.”
I hated missing Tuesday night dinners at the mansion, brought in and served by Teddy, the headwaiter at Josephine’s. Luckily, there were always leftovers.
I drove to Hayesfield and parked, noting just how desolate Paul’s side of the street looked. All the shops on the block, except for Everything Old and an art gallery on the corner, had boards across doors and windows.
I’d never been in the gallery before and was surprised at its paucity of paintings. A woman at a desk in the back motioned me to her.
“I’m Selina Simon.” She extended her hand. I shook it. “Are you looking for something in particular?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I have a huge portfolio.” She saw the disbelief on my face. “I’m packing to move to a much larger space. Just tell me what you’re looking for and I’m sure I can find the perfect piece for you.”
Her short platinum hair was spiked in the same way as Lucy’s and even though she was much older, perhaps fifty, the cut was flattering on her too. In fact, one of the actresses in my current production had just such a haircut and she, as well, looked very pretty—
“Excuse me, what exactly are you looking for?”
Brought back to the task at hand, I introduced myself and told her I was looking into Paul Truitt’s death.
“It’s too bad.” She shuffled several papers on her desk, her interest in me waning.
“I was hoping you saw someone go into the shop. Or come out.”
“I told the police I didn’t see anyone.” Her obvious disdain was a match for Wilde’s Lady Bracknell. “And I’m very busy just now.”
If I was going to protect Mrs. Griffin I needed answers, and I persisted, despite the shopkeeper’s annoyance. “Did you hear anything?”
Selina picked up a paper and studied it. When I didn’t move she finally looked at me. “No. I didn’t see anyone and I didn’t hear anything. That’s all. I need to get back to work now.”
It was obvious turning on the charm wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I left, crossing the busy avenue to the sandwich shop. While Paul’s side of the street looked like a ghost town, this side looked like the vibrant community Jeff Grogan hoped for. I ordered what turned out to be a great cup of coffee and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. The girl at the counter said she hadn’t seen anyone enter Everything Old. It was the same at all the shops.