After Haynes finished his sandwich, Mott said, “If you’d like dessert, Lydia baked some cookies.”
“No, thanks.”
“Then let’s go upstairs.”
Insisting that Haynes take the deep armchair with the ottoman, Mott sat in an old oak swivel chair that matched his equally old rolltop desk whose pigeonholes and slots were stuffed with letters, handwritten reminders, business cards, newspaper clippings, invitations to past and future events and an impressive number of bills. Haynes suspected that Mott remembered where he could instantly locate each item.
“Who was Isabelle’s closest living relative?” Mott asked.
“Her mother. Madeleine Gelinet. She lives in Nice.”
“Then she’ll probably get Steady’s farm in Berryville — or the proceeds from its sale.”
“When?”
“After probate.”
“She could use the money now.”
“It’s possible, of course, that Isabelle made out a will.”
“Unmarried thirty-three-year-olds seldom make out wills,” Haynes said.
“True.”
“I was just wondering.”
“About what?”
“Whether it would be okay for me to go up to the farm and look around. Inside the house.”
Mott seemed to take the question under advisement for several seconds before he nodded gravely and said, “Steady’s will specifies that you’re to have your pick of his memorabilia — keepsakes, souvenirs, snapshots, family Bible and so forth, although I can’t recall his mentioning a Bible.”
“There isn’t one.”
Mott cocked his head to the left and gave Haynes an amused look. “I somehow get the feeling you’re really not much interested in Steady’s mementos.”
“You’re right. I’m not.”
“What you’re really hoping to find is a true copy of his memoirs tucked away someplace.”
“Or even in plain sight.”
“And I also suspect you think Isabelle’s death is an indication, if not evidence, that such a copy might actually exist.”
“That’s occurred to me.”
“Me, too,” Mott said, nodded again, this time more to himself than to Haynes, swiveled around to face the desk, studied the pigeonholes for a moment, reached into one of them and took out a key that was attached by wire to a cardboard tag.
He swiveled around to toss Haynes the key. “It unlocks the front door,” Mott said as he again turned back to his desk, picked up a ballpoint pen and began drawing something on a yellow legal pad. “I’ll draw you a map of how to find the place after you get to Berryville.”
Haynes looked at the tag that was wired to the key with a paper clip. Hand lettering on the tag read, “S. Haynes farm, front door.” He decided to give Howard Mott an A-plus for efficiency.
Mott rose, went over to Haynes and handed him the sheet of ruled yellow paper. “Berryville has two traffic lights,” he said. “When you get to the second one, turn south, go exactly one mile, turn west, go exactly another mile and you’re there.”
Haynes examined the map for a moment or two, looked up and said, “Maybe I’ll take along a guide.”
“You don’t like my map?”
“A guide could also be a witness.”
“To what?”
“To whatever might happen.”
“You have a guide in mind?”
“Erika McCorkle.”
“Ah.”
“What’s’ah’mean?”
“It means you’ll be taking along someone who knew Steady rather well, which might prove useful, and who is also attractive enough to make a pleasant drive even more pleasant.” He paused. “That’s what ‘ah’ means.”
Haynes ignored the explanation and said, “I’d like to retain you as my attorney.”
“I cost too much.”
“This would be strictly on an ‘in case’ basis.”
“In case you land in the shit.”
“Exactly.”
“That’d cost less but still too much. Go pillage some government agency for a few million, then give me a call.”
“What kind of shape is Steady’s ’seventy-six Cadillac convertible in?”
“You’re changing the subject again,” Mott said, his tone suddenly wary.
“Am I?”
“It’s in perfect shape,” Mott said. “Steady babied that car, even nurtured it.”
“Where is it?”
“I had a mechanic in Falls Church go pick it up. He’s the same one who’s serviced it for the past seven years.”
“What’s it worth?”
“It’s the last convertible Cadillac made — until they started making those fifty-thousand-dollar jobs in Italy nobody’ll buy. I guess Steady’s would bring at least ten or fifteen thousand. Maybe twenty.”
“You ever ride in it?”
“Twice, and salivated both times.”
“It’s your retainer.”
“You always strike at the most vulnerable spot?”
“Always.”
Mott sighed. “Okay. You have yourself a lawyer. Anything else?”
“What’s Mr. McCorkle’s home number?”
Mott reeled it off from memory.
“May I use your phone?”
Mott nodded at the phone on his desk, then asked, “Want me to leave?”
“What for?” Haynes said as he rose, went to the desk, picked up the phone and tapped out the number. It rang three times before it was answered with a woman’s hello.
“Erika?” Haynes said.
“Yes.”
“Granville Haynes. Do you know the way to Berryville?”
Fourteen
After the taxi stopped in front of Mac’s Place, Haynes paid off the driver, got out and held the door open for a fiftyish U.S. senator from one of the western states — either Idaho or Montana, he thought — who was accompanied by a pretty woman in her late twenties.
The senator read, classified and dismissed Haynes with a practiced glance and a nod of thanks. But the woman noticed him the way many women did — with a slight start, as if struck by the notion that he must be somebody important, famous or at least rich. But a second glance, which she now gave him, produced the usual counterconviction that Haynes, despite his looks, was nobody at all. And as always, the reassessment caused more relief than disappointment.
Haynes held the taxi door for them until they were inside, closed it carefully and, after a faint smile from the woman, entered the restaurant to keep his midnight appointment with Michael Padillo. Although now 11:58 P.M. in Washington and the rest of the eastern time zone, it was, as ever, twilight at Mac’s Place.
This lighting, or lack of it, had been chosen by McCorkle and Padillo long ago after a series of unscientific experiments had convinced them that midsummer twilight — at a certain moment not too long after sunset, but well before moonrise — was precisely what was needed to flatter the features of customers over thirty, yet enable them to read the menu without striking a match. Customers under thirty, McCorkle had argued, would regard the gloom as atmosphere, maybe even ambience.
Haynes counted four solitary males at the long bar, all of whom bore the stamp of practicing topers. At widely separated tables, two obviously married couples dawdled over coffee and dessert, as if dreading the prospect of home and bed. A pair of waiters, one old, the other young, stood talking quietly in their native tongue. Something the young waiter said made the old one yawn.
Herr Horst, his coat off, was making short work of a trout at the management table near the kitchen’s swinging doors. He looked up from his supper, saw Haynes and pointed, thumb over shoulder, to the office in the rear, then returned to the trout.
When he reached the office door, Haynes knocked, waited for the “Come in” and entered to find Padillo, in shirt sleeves and loosened tie, seated at what Haynes thought was his side of the partners desk, a pot of coffee and two cups at his elbow. Padillo indicated the brown leather couch. Haynes sat down.