Haunting Harold

by Jenna Bennett

  “You can’t think I would do something like that!” Greg exclaimed, and grabbed my hand across the table. “Gina—!”

  “Of course not.” I gave him a smile, while Mrs. Newsome downed half her vodka tonic in one swig.

  “Heidi did it.”

  “Heidi was sitting next to me.”

  “She hired someone to do it,” Mrs. Newsome said.

  “I’m sure Detective Mendoza looked for that.” Or would be looking for it today. “Can I ask you why you think Heidi would kill Harold?”

  And for that matter, why would she want to get rid of me? I didn’t know anything.

  “For the money,” Mrs. Newsome said.

  “She already had access to all his money. And from everything I’d been able to discover, he wasn’t cheating on her. He wasn’t planning to divorce her. Unless you know differently?”

  They looked at one another, and then they both shook their heads.

  “Maybe she was the one who was cheating,” Greg said.

  Maybe so. I hadn’t looked for any evidence of that. Although I wasn’t sure if it mattered. If she had been, it didn’t seem as if Harold had known.

  “Do you know anything about a burglary that happened this summer?”

  “Harold and Heidi took Cressida to Six Flags,” Mrs. Newsome said. “While they were away, someone broke in. A few small things went missing. Nothing valuable.”

  “Mendoza said that Harold lost a handgun.”

  That’s what crooks are looking for these days,” Greg said, in the tone of someone who knew. “Electronics have become so cheap that there’s no point in stealing them. They look for cash and jewelry, prescription medication, and guns and ammo.”

  “Was there a reason Harold had a gun in the first place? Was he worried about anything? Or anyone?”

  “Not that he mentioned to me,” Greg said.

  “You have a gun, too, don’t you?”

  He grinned. If this line of questioning bothered him at all, he didn’t show any sign of it. “A rifle. It’s in Wyoming. You can tell your friend, the detective, that if he wants to make sure it’s there, he can call the local sheriff and have him check. I’ll tell him where the spare key is.”

  I told him I’d pass it on to Mendoza, just as the waiter dropped off the food. I picked up my fork and started stabbing at the salad while my brain turned over mental rocks and looked at what was underneath.

  “Looks like you,” Mrs. Newsome’s voice said, from far away, “doesn’t she?”

  I glanced up, just as Greg nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. When he saw I was paying attention, he grinned at me. “My mother’s familiar with that look. It’s what I do when I’m turning a plot over in my brain.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s interesting to see it from this side.”

  Maybe so. Or if not, it was kind of him to say so. But he was paying for lunch, and he had probably not invited me so I’d sit across from him and think. I shook off the preoccupation and smiled back. “I’m done now.”

  “Eat your food,” Mrs. Newsome said brusquely, “and tell me about yourself.”

  She plunged her fork into the trout and fixed me with those steely eyes. I turned the conversation to myself, since I didn’t see any way around it.

  * * *

  “She’ll do,” Mrs. Newsome informed her son when we were standing outside the Vittles on the Water after lunch. She was waiting for her ride, and we were waiting with her. “You may keep her if you want.”

  I had some say in that, too, of course, and the look Greg gave me—half apologetic, half amused—told me that he knew it. But all he said was, “Thank you, Mother.”

  “And I meant what I said,” Mrs. Newsome turned to me. “You figure out who killed my son, and I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I told her, “but you can keep your money. The police will figure out who killed Harold and arrest the appropriate person.”

  “Heidi,” Mrs. Newsome said, as a golf cart zoomed into the parking lot outside the restaurant. “Mark my words.”

  She headed for it. Greg followed her. I stood for a second, trying to nail down a scrap of memory that was banging on the inside of my skull. By the time Greg had helped his mother into the cart, and it had taken off up the road, at a more sedate pace, it still hadn’t come to me, so when he opened the door to the Jaguar and handed me in, I gave up and smiled at him. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to come.” He shut the door and walked around the car. And continued the conversation as if there hadn’t been a break. “”It’s not every woman who’ll agree to meet a man’s mother on the second date.”

  No, there wasn’t. I hadn’t met David’s mother until we’d talked marriage. And she had hated me on sight. It was nice that Mrs. Newsome didn’t.

  Although of course the situation was very different. I wasn’t the brash, twenty-two year old wife ousting the old wife and the kids. And Greg was pushing fifty. His mother might have despaired of him ever settling down.

  “How come you never married?” I asked, when we were on our way toward the gate.

  He smiled at me. “Never met the right woman.”

  That would do it.

  “I traveled a lot for work when I was younger, to some not very safe areas, where I didn’t always know if I’d come back in one piece. It didn’t seem fair to put anyone through that. And Harold kept marrying. I loved my brother, but I didn’t want to do what he did.”

  No, I could understand that. Always trading down for a younger and sexier model.

  “Who do you think killed Harold?” I asked, as the gate slid aside and we crept through and hit the road. I looked around for Zachary’s car, but didn’t see it.

  “Honestly? I have no idea. It seems crazy that anyone would.” He glanced over at me. “Mother was right, you know. His staff loved him. His children loved him. Lorraine didn’t wish him any harm. They’ve all got plenty of money, so he wasn’t killed because of that.”

  And Greg had plenty of money, and so did his mother, from the looks of it. The only people who didn’t have money were Tara and Cressida.

  I took Tara out again—so to speak—and looked at her. She’d been there the morning Harold died. We had only her word for it that Harold had set up an appointment with her. And she was one of very few people who’d known that I would be outside Harold’s office last night. And then there was the rifle Mendoza had found in her yard.

  On the other hand, she’d given him permission to search. Surely, if she’d known the gun was there, she would have insisted on a search warrant? And would have made sure to get rid of it before he found it?

  But if that was the case, why not get rid of it last night? Why hang onto it at all?

  Although there’d been no reason to worry about discovery last night. She hadn’t known that Zachary was following her, or that we’d soon find out where she lived. And besides, she might have had plans for the rifle. Plans for using it again.

  “Would you do me a favor?” I asked Greg. “Would you mind dropping me off at the office instead of at home? I can get a ride home later from Rachel.” And I’d be with other people, just in case something happened.

  “Of course,” Greg said. “Just tell me where to go.”

  “It’s on Music Row. Easy to find.”

  “How did you end up with an office on Music Row?”

  I told him, and by the time I was finished, we were almost there. “Right here, and then another right on the next corner. There’s the entrance to the parking lot, behind that red car.”

  Greg turned into it. I glanced around. There was Rachel’s white Toyota, and Zachary’s beater—he must have lost us somewhere along the way, and decided to come back here to wait—and a gray sedan with extra antennae I also recognized.

  Greg put the gear shift in park and smiled at me. “I won’t ask to come in.”

  “You’re welcome to come in,”
I said, since there’s nothing else you can say to something like that, “if you want to.”

  But he shook his head. “Some other time. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?”

  I blinked. He was certainly moving fast. The food hadn’t even settled from lunch, and he was already planning to feed me again. “Will your mother be there?”

  He chuckled. “No. Just the two of us.”

  “Sure,” I said. A woman has to eat.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  He leaned over and kissed me. It was thorough, and perfectly pleasant. He’d clearly had some practice. And if it didn’t give me butterflies, that might have been too much to ask for at my age, and after being married for eighteen years. David’s kisses hadn’t given me butterflies, either. Not for a long time.

  Greg was still smiling when he pulled back. I was, too. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Greg answered. “Wait a second, and I’ll—”

  I pushed my door open. “Don’t worry about it. Drive carefully.”

  I closed the door again, and then stood and waved while he navigated out of the parking lot and into traffic. When the Jaguar was out of sight, I crossed the blacktop and went through the door and into the lobby.

  Chapter 17

  They were all there, watching the door. Rachel behind her desk, and Mendoza and Zachary on the beat-up sofa. Rachel looked perfectly normal, maybe even a little pleased, while the two men gave me identical accusatory stares.

  “You drove too fast,” Zachary said.

  “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t tell Greg to slow down so you’d have time to catch up. That would have defeated the purpose.”

  He snorted, and glanced at Mendoza, who said, “You’re in one piece, anyway.”

  “Very much so. We went to Franklin to have lunch with his mother.”

  His eyebrows rose. Everyone else’s did, too. “That’s quick work,” Mendoza said.

  “She said she’d pay me ten thousand dollars to figure out who killed Harold.”

  There was a pause.

  “We could use ten thousand dollars,” Rachel said.

  “I told her that the police would figure out who killed Harold. But the last thing she said to me—almost the last thing—was that the offer still stands.”

  Mendoza was watching me with narrowed eyes. “Was that the only reason he took you out? So his mother could offer you money to do my job?”

  “Not the only reason,” I said apologetically. “He wanted me to meet his mother, too.”

  Mendoza grunted.

  “He asked me out for dinner again tomorrow.”

  “Good for you,” Mendoza said and pushed to his feet. “Now that I know you’re in one piece and back home—or back here—instead of lying in a shallow grave somewhere, I’ll head out. I have work to do.”

  In addition to the usual car, he was back in his usual uniform again, too. The charcoal gray suit fit like it had been tailored especially for him—and maybe it had—and the white shirt brought out both the glossy highlights in his jet black hair and the gold in his complexion.

  “You look nice,” I said, opting for the understatement. “Where are you going?”

  “Back over to Somerset.”

  To see Heidi, presumably. It was my turn to narrow my eyes. “Did Tara say something you haven’t told me?”

  “I don’t tell you everything,” Mendoza said.

  “Why not? I tell you everything.”

  He looked at me, and I looked back, trying to appear guileless. After a second he sighed. “I tracked down Wyatt, Tara’s boyfriend in Knoxville. He has a rifle. It’s still there. So is he. He has a new girlfriend, and wouldn’t kill anybody for Tara.”

  “So Wyatt’s off the hook.”

  “So it seems,” Mendoza said. “He also said that Tara wouldn’t kill anybody, mostly because if she got caught, it would mean she’d have to leave Cressida. And she’s spent her entire adult life making sacrifices to take care of the girl.”

  “That’s the same thing she said to us this morning,” I told him. “I believed her.”

  Mendoza shrugged.

  “Speaking of rifles, Greg said his is in Wyoming, and that you can call the local sheriff and have him call Greg, and Greg will tell him where to find the spare key, so he can confirm that the rifle is there.”

  “I’ve already been in touch with the sheriff,” Mendoza said.

  “Mrs. Newsome thinks Heidi killed Harold. Or hired someone to kill Harold.”

  “That’s possible,” Mendoza said. “Although if she did, she paid him in something other than cash.”

  “You’ve checked her accounts?”

  “Of course I’ve checked her accounts. It’s my job to check her accounts.”

  “Why are you so irritated with me?” I wanted to know. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I don’t—!”

  He stopped himself before—presumably—telling me he didn’t need or want my help. For a second, he stood there, eyes closed, breathing through his nose—and those long, thick lashes made crescents of shadow against his cheeks. Rachel smirked, while Zachary watched, wide-eyed.

  Then Mendoza opened his eyes again. “It’s my job to check her accounts. She hasn’t made any large withdrawals or transfers to anyone lately.”

  “Did you check Harold’s accounts, too?”

  “Of course I did,” Mendoza said.

  “He’s still wealthy, right?”

  Mendoza nodded. “Of course he is.”

  “Separate accounts?”

  “Him and Heidi? Mostly joint. She had access to everything he did.”

  “So she was better off staying married to him—and his money—than divorcing him.”

  “Yes,” Mendoza said. “I spoke to the lawyer. With Harold dead, Heidi gets a nice chunk of change, but so do Harold’s children, including Cressida. With Harold alive, Heidi had access to everything. There was no sign that Harold was restricting her access or her spending.”

  “So if she killed him, it wasn’t for money.”

  Mendoza shook his head. “If she wanted him dead, it was for a different reason.”

  We sat—and stood—in silence for a moment.

  “I asked Greg what he was doing there on Saturday morning,” I said. “He said Harold called him on Friday night and told him he had a story for him.”

  “A story?”

  “Greg thought it had to do with his writing,” I said. “He told me Harold has taken an interest in the plots of his books before. Sometimes he’d draw Greg’s attention to some sort of interesting true crime plot, or something.”

  “What was the story?”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” I said. “By the time Greg got there, Harold was dead.”

  “Before he could tell Greg the story.” Mendoza looked pensive.

  “Probably had to do with his dead wife,” Zachary piped up.

  I glanced at him. “That’s what I was thinking, too. It sounds like a book. The dead wife, the sister who dresses up like her to drive the husband crazy and make him confess, the two private investigators… Except Harold didn’t kill Carly, and not even Tara thinks he did. He was in the office, with a ton of staff around, right?”

  Mendoza nodded. “Everyone confirmed he was there. And maybe they would anyway, since he was paying their salaries. But he saw a couple of clients during that time, too, and they confirmed it, as well.”

  “So Harold didn’t kill Carly.”

  “No,” Mendoza said.

  We stood—and sat—in silence another minute.

  “Maybe Tara killed her,” Zachary said.

  “Why would she?” I wanted to know. “They were sisters.”

  “Maybe Tara wanted Harold,” Zachary said. “Carly was having a hard time, right? Tara was taking care of the baby. Maybe she was taking care of Harold, too.”

  Ugh. My face twisted. Mendoza looked at my expression and smirked.

  �
�She was just eighteen,” I protested. “Harold was somewhere around forty.”

  “She wouldn’t be the first young woman who married an older man,” Zachary said, with rather a lot of cynicism for someone so young. “You did, too, Gina.”

  No denying that. Although I’d been twenty-two, not eighteen. And David had been thirty-six, not forty.

  “I didn’t get the impression, when we talked to her this morning, that she wanted her sister’s husband,” I said, with a look at Mendoza. He looked back at me, but didn’t say anything about whether he agreed with me or not. “And anyway, Harold married Heidi, not Tara. If you’re right,” I glanced at Zachary, “she killed her sister for nothing.”

  “She couldn’t have known that before she did it,” Zachary said.

  “She said Harold was already sleeping with Heidi, though. And that that was part of the reason why Carly did what she did. Unless Harold was sleeping with both of them…”

  Then again, we only had Tara’s word for it that Harold had had an affair with Heidi before his wife was dead. Tara might have invented that so we wouldn’t wonder whether she’d been sleeping with her brother-in-law.

  “Did you say you were going to Somerset?” I asked Mendoza.

  * * *

  He nodded.

  “Can I come?”

  “Me, too,” Zachary said. “You owe me.”

  Mendoza didn’t respond to that, but he closed his eyes for a second, like a man in pain. “I’m not going there to talk to Heidi.”

  “Who are you going there to talk to?”

  “The gate guard,” Mendoza said.

  “The one who was on duty Saturday morning? Why?”

  “The background checks are finished,” Mendoza said. “He owns a rifle.”

  That was reason enough to talk to him, I guess. “Anyone else?”

  Mendoza shook his head. “None of the other residents or guards own one. There are a couple of handguns in the subdivision, but none of the same caliber as the one that was used on Harold.”