Like we usually did, we moved into the living room for dessert. Roma had made lemon pudding.
“This is really good,” I said, scraping the bottom of my bowl.
Roma smiled. “The recipe is easy. I’ll e-mail it to you.”
“There’s more,” Maggie said. She got to her feet, took the small glass dish from my hand and walked over to the kitchen. “Roma, what about you?” she asked.
Roma shook her head, “I’m good, thanks.”
Maggie came back with more pudding for both of us, handed me my dish and sat down again, stretching her long legs onto the footstool.
“What happens now as far as the investigation goes into the death of Marcus’s friend?” Roma asked. “Do the police have any suspects other than Marcus—which is ridiculous, by the way?”
“They’re looking for Ira; at least I assume they are. And Hope has been doing what she can.”
Maggie licked her spoon and gestured at me with it. “Marcus’s friend, is her brother Dominic McAllister by any chance?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s kind of odd,” she said. I waited for her to explain but she ate another spoonful of pudding instead.
Roma glanced at me and smiled. “Odd how?” she asked.
“Remember last year when that group of artists in Minneapolis wanted to buy the old shoe factory and turn it into studio space with a café on the main floor? They were going to reinforce the roof and put solar panels up there and a garden so the building would be completely self-sufficient.”
“I remember that,” I said. “But it didn’t work out. The building was torn down and some developer is building a condo high-rise.” I looked at my bowl, wondering where exactly my second serving of pudding had disappeared to.
“Not some developer,” Maggie said. “Dominic McAllister.”
“So his sister’s an ardent environmentalist and he’s not,” Roma said.
Maggie nodded. “Like I said, odd.”
I heard a noise behind us then and a voice called, “Hello.”
Brady.
“C’mon up,” Maggie called. She turned in the direction of the stairs. Her smile got a little wider.
Brady Chapman had his father’s smile and the same strong arms and huge hands. He’d started to go gray very early but the salt-and-pepper hair didn’t make him look old at all. He wore it short and spiked a bit on top.
Maggie got up and took his jacket from him and I noticed the smile that passed between them. Even though she kept insisting the relationship with Brady wasn’t serious I could see that it seemed to be heading in that direction.
“How was your meeting?” she asked.
“Long but worth it, I think.” He smiled at Roma and me. “How was the pizza?”
“Wonderful as always,” Roma said. “We saved you a piece.” Her eyes darted in my direction. “We did, didn’t we?”
“I made two,” Maggie said.
Brady dropped onto the arm of Roma’s chair. He looked over at me. “Maggie said you wanted to ask me about Elliot Gordon?”
I’d told Maggie and Roma about Marcus’s dad arriving the night before while we were eating. “He showed up on my doorstep last night.”
One eyebrow went up but Brady didn’t say anything.
“I really do believe he wants to help Marcus and I don’t think he’s leaving any time soon.” I stopped. Now that Brady was here I wasn’t sure how to continue. It seemed petty to say I wasn’t sure if I could trust him. But it seemed as though Brady could read my mind.
“You want to know if you should give him all your trust.” It was a nicer way of expressing my reservations.
“Yes.”
Brady made a fist with one hand and cupped it with the other. “I really only know Elliot by reputation. I don’t know him personally and I’ve never faced him in court, so keep in mind what I’m telling you is secondhand.”
I nodded, leaning forward a little and propping my elbow on the arm of the sofa. “He argued a case in front of the Supreme Court when he was only twenty-eight and won against a far more experienced and seasoned litigator.”
“Wow,” Roma whispered.
“We studied the case when I was in law school. My professor said Elliot was a cross between F. Lee Bailey and Johnnie Cochran with some Perry Mason thrown in.”
I remembered the man’s somewhat melodramatic arrival at Eric’s Place. The description seemed accurate from what I’d seen so far.
“So he’s good at what he does?”
“Very good,” Brady said. I noticed Maggie was leaning against him, although I wasn’t sure she was aware of that. “He also has a reputation for stepping over or on people who get in his way.”
I nodded.
“Has this helped at all?” he asked.
“It has,” I said. “Thanks.”
Maggie put a hand on Brady’s leg. “Want a slice?” she asked.
He nodded and then held up two fingers. “Two, maybe?”
They moved into the kitchen. Roma touched my arm and I shifted in my seat to face her.
“I have a suggestion. I don’t know if it will help.”
“What is it?”
“Do you remember when we were trying to find out how Tom—my father—died?”
“I remember,” I said. It had been a very painful time for Roma, finding out that the biological father she’d thought had abandoned her had really been dead for almost all of her life.
“The key to figuring that out was learning more about him as a person. Maybe that’s true for Dani as well.”
Some of the things I’d learned about Tom Karlsson were ugly, but they had ultimately led to his killer. Maybe I did need to find out more about Dani the person.
I nodded slowly. “Maybe it is.”
11
It was unseasonably warm the next morning. I took my coffee outside. Owen came to sit on the wide arm of the Adirondack chair. He was washing his face when suddenly his head came up. His ears twitched and he turned his head to look at the side of the house. “Mrrr,” he said.
I waited and after a moment Elliot Gordon came around the side of the house.
I got to my feet. “How do you do that?” I said to Owen. He’d already resumed washing his face and ignored me.
“Good morning,” Elliot said. He was wearing jeans and a close-fitting black sweater with black leather shoulder and elbow patches. And he was carrying a large manila envelope.
“Good morning,” I said. I held up my mug. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I would, if it’s no trouble.”
“It’s already made.” I gestured to the door. “Come into the kitchen.”
I got Elliot a cup of coffee, refilled my own and we sat at the table. He slid the envelope across the table to me.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Everything I’ve been able to find on the McAllister family.”
I pulled out a sheaf of papers. There were notes in fine, neat handwriting made in the margins of some of the pages. I suspected this was research done by a legal assistant.
“Can you give me the short version?”
“American Land Trust, the organization Danielle McAllister worked for, is funded by her grandmother.”
I frowned, flipping through the pages. “Are you sure?”
He didn’t say anything and when I looked up the expression on his face told me he was just going to ignore my question.
“The money is filtered through a number of different corporate entities,” he said.
“Which means it’s not common knowledge—or something the family wanted to be common knowledge.”
“I think that’s a safe assumption,” Elliot said, adding cream to his coffee.
“Do you think Dani knew?” I asked.