His return gaze is steady. “Herb and Louisa Rawlings were extremely happy together. They had no problems.”
I nod, but say nothing.
Now it’s his turn to take a step closer. He seems to want to look me in the eyes too. “Their future,” he says, “was secure.”
CHAPTER 9
It’s after five by the time we wrap up. The Kydd has reassembled Louisa’s file, adding the copious notes he took this afternoon to the paltry pages I scratched out yesterday. He amassed a small mountain of legal-size sheets today, writing almost nonstop since we got started, and I’m pretty sure I know why. He’s besotted with our damsel in distress. Note-taking kept him from drooling. At least most of the time.
I rest on the edge of a kitchen stool and face Louisa, who’s leaning against the stove, arms folded, watching the Kydd position her file in the belly of his briefcase. “About Steven Collier,” I begin.
Her gaze shifts to me and she tilts her auburn head to one side. “What about him?”
“Did he handle Herb’s money too? Or just yours?”
She laughs. “Only Herb handled Herb’s money, darlin’. No one else put a hand in that cookie jar.”
I look around the kitchen for a moment, and then into the sunroom, where late-afternoon light reflects off the waves outside and casts intricate designs on the far wall. Of course Herb Rawlings managed his own assets. He must’ve been damned good at it.
“Herb and Steven talked about money all the time,” Louisa continues. “They never tired of it—stocks, bonds, tax shelters, you name it. They were always bandying moneymaking strategies about. Investing was a competitive sport for them. They kept tabs on Wall Street the way other men follow football.”
“Did Steven have access to Herb’s financial affairs? Copies of documents, for instance?”
Louisa pauses for a moment, considering. “Some,” she says. “Herb gave Steven copies of whatever documents he thought would affect my estate planning: the will, the insurance policies, that sort of thing.”
I tell myself to quell my uneasiness over Steven Collier. It makes sense that he has those documents. He’d have a tough time doing his job otherwise. And plenty of people carry firearms for legitimate reasons. I’m one of them. Besides, there’s no reason to think Herb Rawlings was shot. Guns have nothing to do with this case. Plenty of people lie, too, especially if they think it will help someone they want to protect. Clearly Collier has thought about the damage Louisa’s divorce plans might cause under the circumstances.
“And Anastasia’s trust documents,” Louisa adds. “Herb made a point of giving Steven a copy of those. I remember the two of them coming back here after an afternoon on the Carolina Girl to discuss it.”
“Anastasia has a trust?”
Louisa unfolds her arms and holds both hands up, palms out. “Don’t get me started,” she says, but apparently I already did. She barely pauses for breath. “Doting Daddy has the dreadful daughter financed for life. Heaven forbid she lift a finger during her stay on earth.”
It occurs to me that Anastasia’s earthly existence sounds somewhat comparable to Louisa’s, but I don’t mention it. “Why would Herb give a copy of Anastasia’s trust documents to Steven Collier?” I ask instead.
Louisa leaves her post at the stove and examines the floor as she saunters to a stool across the counter from mine. She smiles when she looks up, her rich brown eyes genuinely amused. “That’s a fair question,” she says as she sits, “from someone who doesn’t know Anastasia.”
Something tells me I just might get to know Anastasia before all this is over. There’s more bad blood here than I’d realized.
“To those of us who know her,” Louisa continues, “the answer is obvious. I knew immediately. Steven did too.”
She leaves her perch at the counter, takes a few steps and leans against the refrigerator. I wait.
“Anastasia is specifically excluded from her father’s will,” Louisa says. “And our Anastasia will be apoplectic when she finds out.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why is she excluded?”
“Because she’s already taken care of,” Louisa answers. “Her trust is well funded. It will support her quite comfortably—her and her beatnik boyfriend, I might add—for life. Herb thought it best to keep Anastasia’s financial interests separate from mine.”
Herb thought right on that score. Too bad he couldn’t find separate planets for them too. “I’m not following you, Louisa. I still don’t see why Steven Collier has copies of Anastasia’s trust documents.”
“We’ll need them,” she says, “when the poor little rich girl contests her daddy’s will.”
I should have seen that coming. If Steven Collier were here, he’d undoubtedly ask me if I’m a lawyer.
“And she will contest it,” Louisa adds. “Make no mistake about that. She’ll be in probate court before Herb’s attorney finishes breaking the news.”
Now it’s my turn to leave my perch. It’s time to get out of here. I have other questions, including more than a few about Anastasia Rawlings, but I want to sleep on them before I ask. We’ve covered enough ground for one day. No need to open Pandora’s box before we leave.
“I’d like to meet earlier tomorrow,” I tell Louisa as I take my jacket from the back of the chair. “How’s nine o’clock?”
She shrugs. “It’s fine with me,” she says. “I’ll be here.”
The Kydd takes my cue and starts for the kitchen door, but then stops. He turns and heads for the living room instead, apparently remembering Louisa’s preference. I grab my briefcase and follow, our hostess right behind me.
I’m eager to get going. I’m meeting Harry at his place so we can go out for a quick bite. And Luke should be home by now too. If he doesn’t have a date, and hasn’t already made plans with friends, we might be able to talk him into joining us. Harry and I are good company, Luke always says, if no one else is around.
The Kydd bids Louisa good-bye with a nod, looks down at his shoes as if he’s embarrassed, and then hurries out the front door and down the steps to the brick walkway. She watches as he crosses the oyster-shell driveway, opens the Thunderbird’s back door, and slides his briefcase onto the seat. She leans in the doorway and sips from yet another glass of her terrible tea. I hadn’t realized she’d brought it along.
“Is he yours?” she asks.
“Pardon me?”
She points her tall, perspiring glass toward the Kydd. “That delightful young man. Is he yours?”
For reasons I don’t understand in the least, I feel a twinge of panic. “Mine? I don’t know what you mean.”
A satisfied smile crosses Louisa’s face. “Well, then, he’s not. You’ve answered my question, darlin’.”
I wish to God she’d stop calling me that.
CHAPTER 10
Harry and I pull up to my cottage to find a brand-spanking-new Porsche in the driveway. It’s cleaner than my kitchen table and waxed to perfection, shimmering even in the diffused light of dusk. I’ve never seen this car before, but I’ve heard about it—and its price tag—from Luke. The sight of it makes my stomach hurt.
Luke’s truck is in the shop. He stayed in Boston after classes ended yesterday, went to a Celtics game with a group of buddies last night, and then slept over at his father’s harbor-front condo. Ralph drove him home this afternoon.
It wasn’t necessary for Ralph to make the ninety-mile trip down here, of course. Luke could have taken the bus from Boston to Hyannis, as he’s done a hundred times before, and either Harry or I would have gladly picked him up at the station. Ralph wouldn’t hear of it, though. He insisted on driving. And now he’ll tell me a thousand times how terribly inconvenient it was.