“You say Whiteside didn’t tell you about the will?” he asked, for the fourth time.
“No,” Mrs. Griffin said.
“Or maybe Mr. Truitt told you. Maybe you took advantage of a lonely man, got him to write a new will. And you knew just the lawyer to do it for him.” I heard the sneer in the detective’s voice.
“No, we were just friends.”
Mrs. Griffin’s voice cracked with pain and alarm. I raised my hand to push the door open, staying it just in time when Ash intervened.
“That’s enough, Detective. We’ve answered all your questions; this interview is over.”
Behind me, I heard the scurrying of little feet, then felt the blow to my back as Marlowe struck. Together, we fell through the swinging door. I landed face-first while the cat leaped onto the dining room table, hissing his way to the detective.
“We’re lucky Mrs. Griffin was able to grab Marlowe before he did any real damage to the detective. What were you thinking, Jake?” Harry didn’t wait for me to answer. He stalked off to his study. Its door slammed shut a few seconds later.
I hadn’t helped matters by eavesdropping. Marlowe’s aborted attack made it worse. By the time we’d gotten the cat under control the detective sounded like he wanted to arrest Harry’s housekeeper. Somehow, Ash had managed to get him out of the house before he could. But it might only be a matter of time before he came back.
It was my job to make sure things didn’t come to that. I walked home, showered, slipped into jeans, covered Benedict’s belt with a sweater, and jumped into my Honda. I got to Hayesfield quickly, despite heavy traffic, and planted myself at the window of the sandwich shop with a breakfast bagel and a cup of coffee.
I’m not sure why I was there. The buildings across the street looked a sorry lot. Neglect had robbed them of the charm they’d once had. Even the art gallery, with its near empty windows, contributed to the gloomy view. Only the bookshop’s inviting facade offered hope to those seeking safe haven. But that had been a false hope for Paul.
“Jake, what are you doing here?”
I choked on the swig of coffee I’d just taken.
Lucy pounded my back. “Sorry,” she said.
After I recovered I told her I was trying to work out what had happened to Paul.
She plopped her book down on the table and went to the counter. Over her shoulder she said, “Have an exam today — just picking up coffee on my way to campus.”
I rifled the pages of her book as I scanned the shops across the street. Each one had a door opening into the back alley. The killer probably entered and left by the bookshop’s back door. No doubt the police had already scoured the scene. No doubt the ubiquitous yellow crime-scene tape was still up in the alley. But I’d just have to pretend it wasn’t there. I pulled on my jacket.
“What are you doing — I mean, where are you going?” Lucy put her coffee down on the table and picked up her book, tucking it into her backpack.
I didn’t want to involve her in my clandestine plan. “Heading home,” I lied.
We left the shop together. On the sidewalk, I watched as she walked to the bus stop, then I slipped into my Honda. In my rearview mirror I saw Lucy gazing after me. When I got far enough away so she couldn’t see, I turned down a side street and backtracked to the bookshop’s alley.
Just as I’d predicted, it was partially obstructed by yellow tape. I imagine the police had already taken fingerprints off the door — both inside and out — and checked for footprints. An empty garbage can sat close by. If it had held anything the crime-scene detectives would have taken the contents with them.
“Just a shame about that fella.” Surprised, I turned to see a man sporting a full head of white hair and a quilted vest crossing the alleyway. “Don’t read much, but he seemed nice enough. And he always put out a nice spread for our block party.” He held out his hand. “John Potter. I live there.” He pointed to the back of a house a few yards down, across the alley.
“So you were a friend of his?” Potter asked after I introduced myself.
“Yes. You didn’t happen to see anyone back here yesterday?”
“Nope. Just like I told the police. I didn’t see anyone. None of us did.”
My disappointment must have been obvious.
“We all have front porches. No need to be back here.”
Clearly intended for the cars parked on it, dingy gravel extended from the backs of the houses to the paved alley. The corner house was the one exception, with a thin band of grass and several evergreen bushes framing a small slab of concrete where a lone chair sat.
I nodded toward it. “How about that house?”
Potter frowned. “That’s Louetta Pickens’s house. They took her away yesterday too.”
“She died?”
“Nope. In the hospital. That’s where I’m going. Not that it matters. Lou’s still in a coma.”
“What happened?”
“Fell down the basement stairs. Sister found her yesterday. Late afternoon.” He pointed at the house. “The stairs in all these houses are too steep. And Lou’s getting on in age. I guess she had one of her dizzy spells and down she went.”
“I’m starting to think we’re on the right track, Harry. There are too many accidents and deaths to believe they’re not all related. I’m sure Louetta Pickens is in the hospital because she saw Paul’s killer come out the back door of the bookshop.” I leaned across my cousin’s desk. “I’d bet my life it was no accident.”
Harry rubbed his eyes.
I opened my laptop. “It doesn’t look like the police see the connection we’re seeing. Mrs. Pickens’s accident didn’t even make it into the papers.”
“They’re looking at our Mrs. Griffin. They aren’t looking for a pattern of violence.” Harry rubbed his eyes again. They were watering and red.
“Are you allergic to Marlowe too?”
“No, of course not.” He put his hand down but then it went back up to his eyes. “Well, I may have a mild allergy.”
“So biology wins out.”
Harry looked confused.
“We’re cousins. We share some of the same genes, maybe even one for a cat allergy.”
Harry stood and opened the curtains behind him. Light flooded in, momentarily blinding me.
“Blood wins out,” he said.
When my eyes adjusted to the bright light, I realized Harry was pouring himself a scotch. “Did I hit a nerve or something?”
Harry lifted the glass to his lips. “You know, I felt sorry for Paul. He seemed so alone in the world.” He drained the glass. “When I drew up his will, he told me he was estranged from his family. He specifically told me to write them out of his will.”
“Who were they?”
“A sister, Margot, and a first cousin, Julianne.”
“He never told Mrs. Griffin about them?”
“No. Whatever the rift, it ran deep.”
“It would have been better if family had inherited the bookshop,” I said.
Harry agreed. “At least our Mrs. Griffin wouldn’t be the prime suspect in his murder.”
“How could Paul turn his back on his family?” Family can be irritating. There are times I’d like to send Harry on a one-way trip to Kazakhstan. But I love the guy too.
I saw a familiar light in Harry’s eyes. “Find out, Jake. Maybe what was on Paul’s mind had nothing to do with the sale of his building.”
I wondered how much a ticket to Kazakhstan would cost. “Sure,” I finally said. “I’ll look into it before I head out to rehearsals.”
Harry nodded his goodbye.
I grabbed the remaining, paltry leftovers from Josephine’s and ate them cold back in the carriage house as I searched birth and death records. A few minutes in, my fork poised between plate and mouth, Paul’s birth record popped up on my screen. I doubled back, locating his mother’s obituary. It listed Margot’s married name and the California town she lived in. Searching real estate records, I found Margot was still living in the same place. The obituary had only listed cousin Julianne Truitt and her baby daughter, with no other information. I couldn’t find them anywhere online.