“Sergeant McCrea and I can take it from here,” Russ continued. “An officer is headed over to the junkyard right now to document the condition of the car and to take the MacVanes’ statements. I’ll be sure to let you know what we find after examining your mother’s records.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Stillman said. “Olivia, what are you doing here?” He picked up his niece in a toe-dangling hug.
“Will and I want to look at Mom’s papers along with the rest of you.” She darted a glance toward Russ. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is, sweetheart.” The doctor frowned at Russ.
“This isn’t a matter for civilians anymore. Sergeant McCrea and I will call in assistance from the department if we need any help in the investigation.”
Clare could tell Russ was trying to keep his temper. She shouldn’t feel so gleeful about that. “Russ?” She was a bad Christian. “Do you have a warrant to search Ellen Bain’s documents?” A bad Christian, and a bad fiancée.
“I don’t need one when I’ve got the permission of…” He trailed off. His eyes narrowed.
“Trip, Olivia, will you allow all of us to go through the papers?”
They nodded.
“Then let’s all go in, shall we?” She shivered. “I’m getting chilled out here.”
The detritus of Ellen Stillman Bain’s life was in the Stillmans’ finished basement, packed in a wall’s worth of 18″ by 22″ moving boxes. Clare read the marker-scrawl on the ends and sides: LP’S, WINTER COATS, WOODEN ITEMS, VANITY. She spotted some that would be of interest right away: PRIOR TAX RETURNS and BILLS and HEALTH/SS/INVESTMENT.
Russ bent over the boxes. “Are these in any order?”
Trip indicated the cardboard wall. “This is it. It’s all labeled. What is it, exactly, that you’re looking for?”
“A lead. Some sign of financial hanky-panky. Evidence of conspiracy.”
Stillman looked offended. “My sister was the epitome of financial rectitude. Her living depended on her honesty and reliability. There’s no way she would have been involved in any sort of hanky-panky .”
Eric patted Trip’s back. “Sorry, Doc, but the prospect of free money has a way of bending people’s, uh, rectitude. Just look at what it did to Tally McNabb.”
Clare figured now would be a good time to step in. “Trip, is there anyplace upstairs where we can look at the contents? That way, Will can help, too.”
Russ made a noise that sounded like a suppressed groan and picked up a box.
“The dining room table, upstairs.” Stillman bent to pick up another box. “Plenty of room, and we won’t have to stoop over.”
The dining room had the elegant, unused air of a historic house exhibit kept pristine behind a velvet rope. Clare moved a porcelain bowl from the table to a sideboard for safekeeping. Russ was clearly reluctant to set his box on the snowy tablecloth until Trip thumped his down without ceremony. He hit a rheostat and the chandelier sprang to life. “You get started,” he said. “We’ll get the rest of it. But I can tell you already, you’re not going to find anything.”
“He may be right.” Russ hauled one of the chairs out of the way to accommodate Will’s wheelchair. “We’re only guessing at the motive behind sabotaging her brakes. It could have been a jealous lover, or her ex-husband come back, or somebody she pissed off at work. Hell, it could be a family member, looking to inherit. Maybe the daughter.”
“It was not!” Will’s voice was vehement.
Russ looked at him. “No. You’re right. I think we can take that one off the board.”
They opened up the cartons on the table and got to work. They sorted the contents into two piles: the obviously irrelevant and documents that needed a closer look. Trip and Olivia and Eric brought up everything that might possibly be of interest, then stayed to open and sort. The piles grew higher and higher, then divided, then divided again. Eventually, they had the contents of eight boxes spread across the room, covering the table, piled in chairs, heaped on the sideboard.
“It looks like your office,” Clare said.
“God. I hate paper trails.” Russ polished his glasses on his shirtfront. “Give me ballistics and blood splatters any day.”
There was a soft ringtone from the other end of the house. A door opening. “Hello?” They could hear a wary British voice from the kitchen. “Trip? Why is there a police car in the drive?”
“We’re in here, darling.” Stillman straightened from where he’d been hunched over a stack of old checkbooks.
Mrs. Stillman’s eyes widened when she appeared in the dining room door. “Good Lord. What’s going on? It looks like an office exploded in here.” She spotted her niece. “Olivia, darling, why aren’t you at University?” She looked at Russ. “Has there been some sort of trouble?”
“No trouble.” Russ held his hand out to her. “I’m Russ Van Alstyne. Chief of police.”
“Flora Stillman.” She shook automatically, her face turning toward Clare. “You’re the Episcopal priest, aren’t you? At St. Alban’s.”
“Clare Fergusson.” Clare waved from the other side of the table.
“We go sometimes. Well. Christmas and Easter, really. I’ve been meaning to try to attend more often, but you know how busy Sundays can get.” Flora Stillman bit her lower lip. “Oh dear. I suppose you do.”
Clare smiled. “You’re welcome anytime. Come for Choral Evensong. It’s less hectic.”
Flora looked around her, as if trying to put a priest together with a soldier and a young man in a wheelchair. “What are you all doing here?”
“We have reason to believe your sister-in-law’s death wasn’t accidental,” Russ said. “We think she may have been connected in some way with several people who stole a lot of money from the government.” He indicated the papers stacked everywhere. “We’re looking for a lead. Something to tell us why someone tampered with her brakes.”
“Her brakes?”
Will spoke up for the first time. “They’d been engineered to snap the first time the calipers were engaged. It’s not that hard, if you know what you’re doing.”
“That’s… good Lord. I thought that only happened in old television shows.”
Russ shifted his weight. “Did Ellen ever mention the name Wyler McNabb to you?”
“No.” Flora looked at her husband.
“Never heard of him,” Trip said. “Who is he?”
Clare and Eric and Will stared at him. Finally, Eric said, “He’s Tally McNabb’s husband. She talked about him in group. Several times.”
“Ah.” Trip got that waxy, stuffed look again, the same one he had had in his waiting room.
“How about finances? Did she ever say anything about coming into some money?”
“No, but she would have talked to Trip about that, not me.” She turned toward her husband. “What about when we had her and Olivia for dinner? Just a few days before she died?”
“I remember,” Olivia said. “Iola and I went swimming, and Uncle George made shish kebab.”
“That’s right.” Flora looked at Russ. “Ellen must have spent an hour that evening closeted with Trip in his office.”
“Huh.” Russ frowned. “How about it, Dr. Stillman? Is there anything your sister said that in retrospect throws up a red flag?”
Trip looked blank. “I don’t know.”
“What did you talk about?”
Trip stood there, still, pale, his mouth slightly open. Only his eyes moved, darting from side to side as if trying to find an escape from his head.
“Dr. Stillman?”
Clare could hear the man’s breath rasping in and out.
Flora Stillman’s face pinched in worry. “Darling, you must remember. It was the last time we saw her alive.” She glanced up at Russ. “I assumed they were talking about their mother. She’s been getting a bit difficult, and he tries hard not to drag me into it.”