“Absolutely not.” I was firm. “That would only increase the chief ’s suspicions of Father Bill.”
A flush colored his cheeks. “There has to be something I can do.
It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t gone to Raoul’s apartment, Daryl wouldn’t have been murdered here.”
Kathleen was right, of course. Daryl would have been shot in his cabin as the murderer first intended. Mea culpas didn’t matter now.
She looked ready to jump up and rush out, wanting to do battle for her Bill.
“There’s a lot you can do.”
Her face was eager.
“Daryl’s cell phone.”
She sagged back in her chair. “I’m pretty sure it’s ruined, Bailey Ruth. Besides, I don’t see how finding it would help.”
“We don’t need to find it.” I was impatient. “Look at it, Kathleen.
Why did he save your picture?”
“To cause me trouble.” Her eyes narrowed. “I see. Anybody could 148
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look at my picture and say there was a motive for his murder. So maybe the other pictures—”
I patted her hand. “Exactly.” I flipped open the notebook. “Let’s take the photos in order. Why would Daryl keep a picture of Georgia Hamilton’s signature?” I’d scarcely had a glimpse before Kathleen erased it. “Do you have any idea what kind of document it was?” Kathleen looked thoughtful. “A contract of some kind. The thing that sticks in my mind is that the date wasn’t recent and I wondered why he’d have a picture of it now.”
A legal document? “Who was her lawyer?”
“Bob Shelton. Shelton, Shelton, and Shelton. He’s the middle one.
But there can’t be anything there. Bob was the best senior warden we ever had, and he’s honest to the core.” I wrote down Bob Shelton. “If he’s an honest man, he’ll be glad to help us.”
I felt we were making progress. “Who is the blond man?”
“Walter Carey.” Kathleen brushed back a tangle of dark hair, her gaze intent. “His wife’s in my bridge group. Harriet’s a sweetheart.
Things have been tough for them lately. She’s gone back to work and I know she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.” I didn’t have to tell Kathleen how disturbing that photo had been. If ever a man looked defeated, it was Walter Carey. “We’ll hope he turns out to be innocent, for his family’s sake, but we have to find out why Daryl took that picture. If you know why, you must tell me.”
“Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Walter and Daryl quarreled. No one knows why. Maybe Walter wasn’t bringing in enough money. He hasn’t looked prosperous for a couple of years, while Daryl’s cars got fancier and his clothes more expensive. The partnership broke up a week or so ago. Walter’s opened an office in a seedy little strip shopping center on the edge of town.” She looked in my direction. “There could be something there, Bailey Ruth. I heard 149
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Daryl kept all the clients.” She stopped, looked surprised. “Georgia Hamilton was one of Daryl’s clients.” And Daryl carried a picture of a contract with her signature in his cell phone.
Kathleen sniffed. “Georgia thought Daryl hung the moon. I guess maybe he was pretty good at what he did.” She shrugged. “But Georgia was Daryl’s client, not Walter’s. I guess that wouldn’t have anything to do with Walter. Anyway, about Walter, people have been gossiping—” In a small town, gossip is the second favorite sport after football.
“—and some of them say there has to be something wrong with Walter and maybe he’s been drinking too much. That may be true.
He had way too much to drink last week at a party at the country club. Harriet’s upset. She said Daryl didn’t have to be so insulting.”
“Insulting?” There can be bad feelings when a partnership breaks up, but what would be insulting?
Kathleen looked grim. “Daryl had the locks changed at the office. All of them, interior and exterior. They said Daryl had Butler’s Locksmiths there the same day Walter moved his things out. And that’s . . .” I wasn’t listening. Images popped in my kind: Walter’s despair, a locksmith at work, Chief Cobb surveying Daryl’s trashed den. I slapped shut the notebook. “Got to go. Hope I’m not too late.” I heard Kathleen’s startled cry, was almost away, then whipped back to the table to zoom the notebook and pen to their hiding place.
I called down, “Remember, don’t change your story. Stay calm. And stay away from the people who were pictured in his phone.” It could be dangerous for Kathleen to nose around. “Now I’m off. Back soon.” Daryl Murdoch’s secretary replaced the telephone receiver with a bang and swiveled to her machine. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and words appeared on the screen. She had short, crisp white hair, a long face, lips that pursed as she thought, and a decisive air.
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The phone rang. She picked up the receiver with a grim frown.
“Murdoch and—Murdoch Investments, Patricia Haskins speaking . . .
Oh, thanks, Wanda.” Her voice and face softened. “I’ve already had my coffee break. I’m staying in the office.” She listened, then glanced at the clock.
It was ten minutes after two.
“I intend to put in a full day.” Her tone was prim. “Mr. Murdoch left quite a bit of work for me to update. I was here at eight o’clock as usual and I’ll leave at five. I want everything to be in good order for Mr. Murdoch’s clients. I’ve made progress, but”—and now she sounded huffy—“it would be easier if the phone didn’t keep ringing.
Oh no, not you, Wanda. I’ve had a bunch of calls, the press and the police and some people who don’t have any manners and think I’ll tell them things I don’t even know about when it’s not my place to talk about Mr. Murdoch. Worst of all, during the lunch hour, there were five calls where someone hung up when I answered. I don’t know what the world is coming to. The caller ID said ‘Unknown.’
Unknown and Unwanted.” She sniffed in disgust.
As I wafted through the closed door behind her desk, I made a special note of her name: Patricia Haskins. Hired to do a job, she intended to do it whether anyone knew or not. She could as easily have painted her nails or closed the office early for a long and leisurely lunch.
I suspected that her old-fashioned sense of duty had spared this office a thorough ransacking. Unless I was very much mistaken, the lunch-hour calls had been made to determine whether the office was empty.
I left the secretary at work and sped through a closed door into Daryl’s elegant and surprising office. Nothing was out of place. I felt a whoosh of relief. I had arrived before Walter Carey with the keys I suspected that he’d stolen from Daryl’s desk this morning. I felt certain Daryl’s study must have contained an extra set of keys to the office.
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I’d tell Bobby Mac all about Daryl’s office, red leather sofas, a rich burgundy desk, each wall a different shade of red, from carmine to rose to crimson to a purplish hue. The ridged and serviceable carpet was brilliant fire-engine red. A blue seascape above the faux fireplace was a striking contrast. The office was different, dramatic, and undoubtedly expensive.
The desktop was clear except for two folders. The in-box held several papers. The out-box was empty. A row of red lacquered wooden filing cabinets sat against an interior wall.
I started with the files, opening the cabinet marked g–i. I flipped past Grindstaff, Grimsley, Gunderson . . . I skipped faster. Hadley, Hall, Hasty . . . I backed up. Ah, here it was: Georgia Hamilton.