I whirled to the fireplace. Flames danced and the warmth eddied out. If the will had been burned, it was lost forever in the feathery ashes. I reached out, touched the shiny, clean poker. There was no indication the poker had been used this morning.
Why would Wade Farrell care who inherited? Was there some evidence of malfeasance that could better be hidden in an estate divided among five beneficiaries? To the contrary, wouldn’t it be easier to hide theft or misuse of funds in an estate left to a child with him as the lawyer in charge?
In any event, I found nothing to indicate the will had ever reached him.
In the outer office, Wade’s secretary faced her computer, her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. She was a woman who attracted notice, deep-set eyes, long nose, full lips, firm chin. There was a toughness in her expression that suggested a focus on self. I admired the dangling silver earrings that highlighted the embroidered flower pattern on her silk jacket. Especially artful were the occasional small birds in faint pastel shades palely visible among the flowers. She gazed toward the window, her oval face confident and pleased, her lips curved in a slight smile.
I scanned her desk. Her nameplate read Kim Weaver. Several folders were stacked on one side. The center portion of the desk was clear. I zoomed close to the in-and out-box. A half dozen letters and several manila envelopes, ready for mailing, were in the out-box. The in-box was empty. In Farrell’s office, letters and envelopes, neatly slit and ready for his attention, awaited him. Obviously the Monday mail had been received and dealt with.
I’d dropped Susan’s stamped and sealed square envelope in the main post office slot late Saturday night. It should have been delivered today.
I smiled at my reflection in the plate-glass door of the post office. When I’d cheerfully written Officer M. Loy reporting for duty on Chief Cobb’s office blackboard, I’d had no idea how quickly she would appear on the scene. The Adelaide police uniform was quite fetching, French blue cap with a black bill, long-sleeved French blue shirt, French blue trousers with a navy stripe down each leg. French blue was a very nice color for redheads. The Adelaide police patches looked fresh and new (as surely they should) on each shoulder. The metal name tag and badge over the left breast pocket read Officer M. Loy. The black leather shoes were shined to a glossy sheen. I shivered and immediately welcomed the warmth of a wool-lined nylon black raid jacket inscribed Police.
I skirted the long line of patrons, clutching boxes from tiny to immense. I walked to the door with a bell and punched it. In a moment, a plump, cheerful woman opened the door. “You got a—oh, hello, Officer. What can I do for you?”
In less than three minutes I had the name and current location of the postman who had delivered mail to Wade Farrell’s office this morning.
The slender mailman shifted the heavy leather pouch from his shoulder to the floor of the office building. He squinted in thought, faded blue eyes vaguely resentful. “You got to remember I deliver several thousand pieces of mail every day, especially”—he sighed heavily—“during Christmas. You got any idea how much mail we handle in December?”
I beamed my most admiring smile. “Mr. Crandall, I know it’s a chance in a thousand, but you look like a man who notices details. In fact, I imagine you have an unerring instinct for noting anything unusual. Our hope is that you might remember a delivery you made this morning to the law office of Wade Farrell. The particular item, Mr. Crandall, was unusual in its size, a square envelope from an expensive creamy thick stock, unlike most Christmas card envelopes. Moreover, the address was written in a distinctive script.” I had a clear memory of Susan Flynn’s handwriting, looping capitals and leftward slanted lowercase letters. “The W in Wade was quite large and the rest of his name leaned to the left, the letters very thin, almost skeletal. The engraved return address was Susan Pritchard Flynn, 19 Chickasaw Ridge.”
“Oh, that envelope. Sure.” His recognition was obvious and immediate. “If you’d told me right off that you meant a letter from Mrs. Flynn, I could have told you. I noticed the envelope especially. Pretty handwriting she has.”
Of course, he would have no way of knowing of Susan’s death. The announcement would be in tomorrow’s paper. “Susan passed away last night.”
“I knew she was real sick, but I’m sorry to hear that. She was a mighty fine woman. I used to deliver in her neighborhood, and every Christmas she gave me a ham.” He frowned darkly. “You think any of these fancy businesses I deliver to now give me anything? They don’t care if I get their mail to ’em when it’s a hundred and eight degrees or when the ice is so slick the sidewalk’s worse than a skating rink.”
“You delivered an envelope from Mrs. Flynn to Mr. Farrell this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am. Not a doubt.”
“Thank you, sir. This is a huge help to our investigation. We may be back in touch to take your formal statement.”
“Be glad to oblige.” His eyes gleamed. “Think I might get to testify in a court case?”
“That is always a possibility. Thank you, sir, for your cooperation.”
As I turned to leave, he called after me. “If you ask me questions on direct examination on the witness stand, better not ask leading questions. You can ask me to describe the materials I delivered”—he sounded suddenly prosecutorial—“to the office of Attorney Wade Farrell on this day. I’ll describe that envelope and there won’t be any doubt about it.”
I must have looked startled.
He nodded sagely. “I never miss Law & Order. That Connie Rubirosa’s the gal to have in a courtroom.”
As he stepped into the elevator to deliver on the next floor, I disappeared.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The sidewalks were crowded outside Wade Farrell’s office building on the corner of Calhoun and Main. Not all shoppers were at the strip shopping centers anchored by Wal-Mart and Target. Downtown boasted several dress shops, a bookstore, drugstore, and hardware store. I heard the bells of a Salvation Army kettle. The sun was slipping westward, streaking the cloudy sky with rose and gold. The shadows from the buildings deepened and darkened. A skipping wind skittered late-fallen leaves.
I landed in the entry hall. Postman Crandall was emphatic that he had delivered Susan’s letter this morning. Kim Weaver had already sorted and opened mail before the heirs arrived. The will should have been deposited in Wade Farrell’s in-box. If he received the will, he had chosen to secrete or destroy it. What might have prompted such an action would have to be discovered later. If he had not received the will, he had in good faith presented the earlier instrument as valid.
A woman shrugging into a car coat while talking on a cell phone hurried toward the door. I waited until the hallway was empty, then reappeared in the golden mink coat. This time I chose a cashmere sweater and wool slacks. It was time for Susan Flynn’s old friend to make inquiries.
Kim Weaver looked up from her desk as I stepped inside. There was a flicker of envy in her dark eyes as they widened in appreciation of the mink. She noted as well my white sweater, blue costume pearls, and navy slacks.
“May I help you?” Her voice was almost deferential. Not quite. Implicit in her expression was the unstated suggestion that supplicants would do well to remember that the office was hers to rule.
I nodded regally. “I’m here on behalf of Susan Flynn.” My manner was somber but confident. “Her death has made it imperative that I speak with Mr. Farrell about Susan’s new will.” I watched her face with the attention a cat accords a mouse.