“But Fowler never gave her money, presumably to support the boy? It was always Erik? And Billy had no clue to the truth?”
“As far as I could tell, Hesmerra managed to keep it all from him. I didn’t repeat to her anything Sammie told me, but Hesmerra figured out for herself about the bridge ‘accident,’ she was certain Erik had killed Greta, she was certain Erik was Billy’s father.
“Billy’s aunts never came there to see her,” Emmylou said, “so Billy wouldn’t have overheard any comments from them. He thinks Erik came to see Hesmerra out of guilt because Debbie wouldn’t visit her. And because Erik seemed to be truly fond of Hesmerra.”
“Was he?”
“Erik’s very smooth, always so charming. I never liked him. When he came, Hesmerra would ask me over for tea, but I was never comfortable. I always felt his friendliness, and the money and whiskey were like a sales pitch, like window dressing.”
“Did Hesmerra see that? Why did she go along with it? She could have come to us,” Kathleen said again. “We could have reopened an investigation into Greta’s death.”
“Hesmerra had something else in mind,” Emmylou said. “Something more.”
Kathleen waited. When Emmylou didn’t continue, she said, “You had a box of papers with real estate letterheads, and with the Kraft letterhead. Do they tie into this?”
“Yes. They were in a metal box, under her bed. I dug it out of the burn.” She reached into her canvas tote, withdrew a thick packet of business papers and letters and laid them on the desk; she had the grace not to deny she’d lifted them. “That’s everything that was in the box. Captain Harper saw it in my car.”
Kathleen nodded, and picked up the stack of papers. Below in the shadows, Joe was so edgy to have a look that Dulcie had to nudge him to be still. Kathleen shuffled through, pausing to read passages, her expression growing more intent as she compared a number of pages. She looked up at Emmylou. “Where did Hesmerra get these? Some of the dates are recent, business that seems still in progress. Hesmerra stole these from Erik?”
Emmylou looked down at her hands, then shyly up at Kathleen. “This was Hesmerra’s retribution. It took her a long time to collect these, working in his office at night, and cleaning Alain’s house, too. It took too long,” she said bitterly.
“Those papers,” she said, “together with what Debbie has, should be enough to put Erik Kraft in prison. Erik may never serve time for Greta’s death, there may be no sure way to prove he killed her. But Hesmerra meant to see him pay.”
“But Sammie saw him kill her, she could have come forward.”
“Sammie was afraid. She felt she had no real proof. She was afraid she wouldn’t have enough to convict him, that he’d go to trial but then go free, and would come after her.”
“He’d be a fool to do that, to harm someone who’d testified against him.”
“No one said he wasn’t foolhardy, that he didn’t make stupid choices.” Emmylou frowned. “Only recently did Sammie seem bolder. I think she was getting tired of being watched and followed, tired of his sly bullying.”
Kathleen sat looking at her. “All along, while Hesmerra was taking his money, she was working to destroy him.”
“Yes. She made copies at night, from Erik’s personal files, then put the originals back. Evidence of fraud, real estate scams, and theft. That’s what she and Debbie were working toward, together.”
“But Debbie—”
“Debbie hated her mother, yes. In her opinion it was Hesmerra’s fault, that Erik was able to lure Greta into bed. Allowing Greta too much freedom, not keeping track of where she was. As if Hesmerra could have done much. Greta was never an angel, Hesmerra said she was headstrong, defied her at every turn. And Erik. I see him as sly and smooth, I think he may be totally without conscience.
“A year or so after Greta was killed,” she said, “though Debbie still hated Hesmerra, they came together in this. Mother and daughter, teaming together to ruin him, each to have her own revenge. Working together, they thought they could put him in prison. If not for murder, then for fraud, for as many felony counts as they could provide.”
In the shadows, Joe and Dulcie were both thinking the same. Right now, Erik was still in control, he had ended each life that crossed him: Greta. Hesmerra. Sammie Miller. So far, all but Debbie herself.
29
Yesterday’s snow seemed long forgotten, the morning was nearly too warm, the birds and squirrels were out everywhere, soaking up the sun. At the edge of the cemetery, Joe slipped down from the branches of a thick and twisted oak onto the manicured lawn. February weather on the central coast was always fitful, cold one day, hot the next, but on this day the events to occur were even more at odds: Hesmerra’s burial this morning that marked the end of an unhappy life. The auction this evening that should bring happiness to any number of lives, human and cat. And then, tonight, a late supper to mark what Joe hoped would be an incredibly long and happy married life, as Ryan and Clyde celebrated their first anniversary—and to top it off, it was Valentine’s Day, a strange day, indeed, for Esther Fowler to choose to bury her mother.
This was Esther’s bit of twisted irony? Sending Hesmerra off on a day of love, when there had been little love between them?
The early dew had nearly burned off, its last glitter broken by trails of cloven hoofprints leading away to the woods that surrounded three sides of the small cemetery. Joe could see deer among the shadowed trees, quietly grazing, relinquishing their nighttime pasture to the unpredictable whims of the human world.
The grave markers were all set flat into the velvet grass, its expanse broken only by three miniature hills: outcroppings of boulders that thrust up out of the earth as if shoved up by an unseen hand, and from which, oak trees had managed to grow. Joe headed for the rocky hill nearest the open grave.
Leaping up the boulders, he lay down among them, between the gray oak trunks so he was nearly invisible except for his white nose and white paws. Below him the freshly dug grave was discreetly covered by a sheet of blue plastic edged by a scattering of black earth to hold it in place. The pile of removed earth, too, was dressed in plastic, like a low blue tent. The plain oak casket stood to one side, facing five neat rows of metal chairs, a box that looked to Joe like the cheapest one available. It was a wonder Esther hadn’t nailed together the slats from old orange crates.
The little access lane that ran near the grave was already filling up, a line of cars parked along the edge, two wheels on the macadam, two on the grass. Clyde’s yellow roadster, in which Joe himself had ridden to the funeral in style with the top down and sitting on Ryan’s lap. Charlie’s red SUV was parked behind it, then a couple of police cars. Then Max’s truck, Emmylou’s battered green sedan, a sleek tan Mercedes belonging to Esther Fowler, and a number of cars he didn’t know. He was surprised to see so many folks turn out for Hesmerra. Esther and Debbie stood far apart, at opposite sides of the gathering, pointedly ignoring each other. Tessa clung to Debbie, who had Vinnie firmly by the hand. A half-dozen more cars drew in and parked, the drivers’ windows open to the warming morning, and behind them, Wilma’s car came up the street.
She paused at the turn-in, her driver’s door opened, Dulcie and Kit leaped from her lap and vanished into the woods. Joe could see Lucinda in the front seat beside Wilma, Pedric in the back. Wilma drove on in, parked, and they got out, all three respectfully dressed, no casual jeans today. Lucinda wore a long, slim black skirt, black boots, a soft shawl in muted tones. Pedric was nattily dressed in a tan suit, white shirt, and plain brown tie, his tall, slim figure fashion perfect. Wilma had resurrected what looked like a dark business suit from her working days, narrow skirt, soft white blouse, flat dark shoes. Among the women present, only Debbie wore high heels, apparently unaware that she could not walk across the grass without sinking in. Joe watched her tiptoe over the turf, hunching in her short, tight skirt. An usher escorted her to the front row beside Esther, who was dressed more appropriately in a plain brown suit and flats. Neither looked at the other, neither spoke.