Stymied, I climbed into my Honda. On the way to rehearsal I left a detailed message for Harry. I hoped he’d get further with Hallewell than I had with the shopkeepers in Hayesfield. If not, Mrs. Griffin was still the best suspect the police had.
My cell’s ringtone woke me the next morning.
“Jake, we need to talk.”
It was six thirty.
“Jake, are you there?”
I briefly considered not answering, but the urgency in his voice won me over.
I found Harry at the kitchen table. He’d brewed two macchiatos and rewarmed some of Mrs. Griffin’s lemon blueberry muffins. Their competing scents — earthy and ethereal — filled the air. I grabbed one of the muffins and sat down.
“Don came to dinner last night,” Harry said.
I raised an eyebrow. That meant fewer leftovers for me.
“He, apparently, is very fond of Josephine’s cuisine.”
“Who isn’t?” I grumbled.
Harry tried to hide his smile. “In any case, he says the money he’ll earn from the Hayesfield project won’t make up for all the aggravation.”
Save for the bookshop and the soon-departing art gallery, the shops on the block were abandoned. Whatever the aggravation had been, it was over. Except for Paul’s refusal to sell. But that was over with now too.
“Don’t you want to know what aggravation?” Harry asked.
At my nod, he continued. “Most of the buildings are supposedly owned by one landlord — Millicent Van Pelt.”
“The Millicent Van Pelt? The one who’s going on trial for murdering her world-renowned, art-collector husband?”
“Enigmatic” aptly described the look on Harry’s face.
I groaned. “You’re not thinking of getting involved in her case, are you?”
“Do you remember how she supposedly killed her husband?”
“I don’t like you using the word ‘supposedly’.”
“She supposedly gave her husband an overdose of his own prescription oxycodone.”
“Uh-huh. So there’s no real connection between that poisoning and Paul’s, right?” Hope struggled within me.
“I’d say, despite the different poisons, there’s a city-block-sized connection.”
I took another bite of my muffin and a swig of the macchiato but didn’t taste either.
“Millicent is desperate. She’s selling the buildings to HDC and she’s taking less than they’re worth. She needs to raise money for her legal defense. But her stepchildren are contesting the sale.”
“Sounds like a mess.”
Harry shrugged. “I think HDC was so eager to push forward they didn’t ask the right questions.”
“Still, what does it matter to Hallewell? He’s just the contractor. It’s not his problem.”
“Woodbead is part of the consortium that’s purchasing the buildings for the new project. It would be a partial owner.”
I made the leap. “Did Millicent’s husband want to sell those buildings?”
“He was playing hardball. Asking much more than what they’re worth.”
If the sale did go through, both Don Hallewell and Jeff Grogan would benefit from Van Pelt’s death. Either had a good reason to kill him. And Paul too.
“I can see your wheels turning.” Harry took one of the muffins from the counter and sat back down. “I don’t see Don as a killer. What about Grogan?”
Before I could answer, a black ball of fur streaked across the kitchen and bounded onto the table, upending Harry’s coffee cup. I jerked back in surprise, tearing open scabs from Marlowe’s previous assault. Pain shot through my body, leaving me speechless.
“Marlowe, you mustn’t be naughty,” Mrs. Griffin admonished, following the cat into the room.
The feline jumped from the table to an empty chair and back onto the floor, rubbing against the housekeeper’s leg as she took off her coat.
“I’m so sorry. He just gets so excited when he comes here.”
“We enjoy Marlowe’s visits, don’t we, Jake?” Harry said.
They were both waiting for me to say something, but I was too busy fighting the urge to sneeze. Mrs. Griffin, seeing my panic, scooped Marlowe into her arms just in time.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I do believe you’re allergic.” The black cat struggled to get loose. “I’d better get him into his crate.”
“No, let Marlowe run free.” Harry pushed himself away from the table. “We’ll go to the study.”
I followed him down the corridor and sank gingerly into a wingback chair opposite Harry’s desk. He’d already opened his laptop.
“It looks like Grogan’s been working on this project for several years. Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
I like to think my work on the stage, plumbing the emotional depths of various and varied characters, has given me a certain skill in reading others. The truth was, though, I couldn’t tell with Grogan. “I just don’t know. What about Millicent, do you think she’s capable of murder?”
Harry considered the question. “If she’d wanted to kill her husband she would have taken him on a cruise and pushed him overboard. That seems more Millicent’s style. Poison would be much-too-much work.” Harry sighed. “And I don’t think her marriage was a bad one. I think they loved each other.”
“But maybe that’s just what they wanted people at your club to see.”
“No. I don’t think so.” He patted the top of his desk. “She’s being railroaded. And I’m afraid Mrs. Griffin is next.” Before I could say anything, he added: “The police are coming to question her. I’ve already called Ash. He’s on his way over.”
Even though it was still early in the morning, I wasn’t surprised. Ash Jackson, a brilliant defense attorney, was sometimes Harry’s rival but always Harry’s friend. It was good to know Mrs. Griffin would have him in her corner.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. A minute later, Ash poked his head into the study.
“We’ll set up in the dining room,” Harry said without greeting.
We were all tense, sitting around the dining room table, waiting. Mrs. Griffin looked scared. I reached over and patted her hand. She tried to smile.
The doorbell rang.
“Get that, Jake,” Harry said.
I was already on my way.
A man with a wolflike grin stood behind the door. I was glad there was only one detective. With all of us in the room he’d be outnumbered.
“You’ll have to leave,” he said to Harry and me, after I’d shown him into the dining room and we’d introduced ourselves.
Harry nodded, pulled me away, and closed the doors behind him. “Ash will handle this,” he said at my protest.
Maybe Ash could handle things, but I’d wanted to be there too. I shook loose from Harry’s grasp.
“If you go back in he’ll drag Mrs. Griffin to Police Headquarters.”
I hated when Harry was right. “Fine,” I said. “I’m going to make myself a sandwich before I get back to work.”
Harry headed to his study. I found my way to the kitchen. Marlowe was nowhere in sight. I crossed the floor, stationed myself behind the kitchen’s swinging door to the dining room, and listened.
I’d taken a class that covered interrogation techniques in college when I’d double majored in theater and criminal justice. The detective was going by the book, asking the same question over and over, in different ways, hoping Mrs. Griffin would contradict herself. Although her voice quavered, her answers were always the same. I could tell the detective was getting frustrated.