Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin

by Nancy Atherton

  I sat back in my chair and regarded him ruefully. “I’ve created a monster. This morning you couldn’t imagine making small talk with the woman who sold you toothpaste. Now you’re ready to tackle Mr. Moss on your own.”

  “I’ve had an excellent tutor,” said Gabriel. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Hold on,” I said, motioning for him to keep his seat. “Before you throw yourself into the lion’s den, there’s something I need to say.”

  “Go ahead,” said Gabriel.

  “Blinker could have been a dangerous nutcase instead of a harmless one,” I said, “but you jumped him anyway, to protect me. I should have thanked you sooner, but Blinker’s news distracted me. So, for the record, thanks.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Gabriel’s gray eyes brightened. “Truly, it was. I enjoyed every minute of it. I’ve never rescued anyone before. It was a strangely exhilarating experience.” He stood. “And now I must be off. Wish me luck!”

  As Gabriel left the café, I found myself sizing him up for a suit of shining armor. “Poor Mr. Moss,” I said under my breath. “He’s not going to know what hit him.”

  I watched closely as Gabriel crossed the street, climbed the steps, and entered the premises of Pratchett & Moss, and laughed at myself when I realized that I was listening intently, as if I could, by willpower alone, hear what was being said inside the building’s cream-colored stone walls.

  Whatever was said, it didn’t take long. Fewer than ten minutes had passed before the green door opened again and Gabriel sprinted down the steps. He seemed to be in a tearing hurry. He dodged fearlessly through traffic, ran into the café, and bent over me, breathing heavily.

  “I’ll explain everything in a minute,” he said urgently. “But we have to leave here. Now.”

  I had to trot to keep up with his long strides as he led me out of the café, around the corner, and halfway down the block to a pricey-looking Italian restaurant.

  “In here,” he said, and pulled me into the dimly lit restaurant.

  When the maitre d’ came to take our jackets, Gabriel informed him that we required a quiet booth at the back of the restaurant, and that someone would be joining us shortly. When we reached the booth, Gabriel sat facing the door, while I sat with my back to it.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “You’ll find out,” he replied, and kept his eyes trained on the restaurant’s front door.

  A moment later, he caught his breath. I craned my neck to look behind me and saw that a woman had entered the restaurant.

  She was wearing a shapeless black raincoat over a gray tweed skirt suit, but the dowdy clothes couldn’t disguise her slender figure or her natural grace. She came through the front door like a ballerina, head up, shoulders back, one foot gliding lightly after the other. Her dark hair was straight and clipped quite short, but the severe style only served to emphasize her long neck and fine bone structure. Her brown eyes seemed enormous, and her pale skin was flawless.

  Through the table, I felt Gabriel quiver.

  “Thank you,” she said to the maitre d’, when he offered to take her raincoat. Her voice was soft, breathy, and slightly high-pitched, almost childish. I recognized it as the voice that had answered the telephone when I’d called Pratchett & Moss from Miss Beacham’s apartment.

  Gabriel rose to his feet as she approached our booth. He didn’t seem to be shrieking inwardly. To the contrary, he had the addled look of a man whose brain had ceased functioning on any but the most elementary levels. It’s her bone structure, I said to myself, marveling. The portrait painter’s fallen head over heels for her bone structure.

  “Lori Shepherd,” he said, “this is Joanna Quinn. Mrs. Quinn works for Mr. Moss.”

  My juicy thoughts evaporated when I heard him attach “Mrs.” to Joanna’s name, but I smiled bravely, said “How do you do?” and slid over to make room for her. What a pity, I thought. Gabriel could gasp and quiver until the cows came home, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the woman whose exquisite cheek-bones had managed to defrost his frozen heart was unavailable.

  “I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger,” she said to Gabriel. “But Woolery’s windows are quite large and I didn’t want to risk being seen by Mr. Moss. He wouldn’t approve of me talking with you.”

  “He wouldn’t sack you, would he?” Gabriel asked worriedly.

  “He might,” she replied. “He hasn’t been himself lately. But if push came to shove, I’d give up my job and much more to help Elizabeth.”

  Gabriel spoke to me without taking his eyes from Joanna. “Mrs. Quinn worked with Elizabeth Beacham.”

  “If I’m to call you Gabriel,” said Joanna, referring to an exchange they must have had in the office, “then you must call me by my Christian name.”

  “All right . . . Joanna.”

  The two of them were gazing at each other as though they’d forgotten what the simple gold band on Joanna’s left hand meant. I was the last person on earth to lecture anyone on the strict interpretation of marriage vows—I’d heard the call of the wild myself on a few occasions—but I didn’t want an enraged husband spoiling Gabriel’s return to the land of the loving. A heads-up seemed in order.

  Gabriel looked dazedly at the waiter who was passing out menus.

  “I’ll have the lasagna,” Gabriel said, without opening his.

  “The same for me,” I said, though I wasn’t hungry.

  “For me as well,” said Joanna. “And take your time. We’re in no hurry.”

  The waiter filled our water glasses, gathered up the unused menus, and departed.

  “Won’t Mr. Moss notice that you’re gone?” I asked, hoping to draw Joanna’s attention away from Gabriel.

  “I told him I was leaving for the day,” Joanna replied, turning to me. “A family emergency.”

  “A family emergency,” I repeated, emphasizing the word family. “My husband and I know all about them. Bill and I have two sons, Will and Rob. They’re twins. How many children do you have?”

  “One,” she said. “A daughter. Chloe.”

  “What a beautiful name. She must be a beautiful child,” murmured the man who had, only twenty-four hours earlier, shuddered at the mere thought of sharing a meal with my truly adorable sons.

  I gave him a dark look that went entirely unnoticed.

  “Will and Rob turned five a couple of weeks ago,” I went on. “How old is Chloe?”

  “She’s five.” Joanna turned knowing eyes on me, as though she understood quite clearly why I was hammering away at the subject of family life. Then she added, very softly, “Chloe was born six months before my husband died.”

  “Oh,” I said, and my assumptions did an abrupt about-face. Joanna Quinn wasn’t a wandering wife. She was a widow, and a not very merry one, to judge by her drab attire. “I’m so sorry.”

  “So was I,” said Joanna. “It was a bolt from the blue—a road accident. Jeremy left for work one morning and never came home.” She folded her hands on the table. “I’m not telling you my story to win your sympathy, but to help you understand how much I owe Miss Beacham. When Jeremy died, I found myself suddenly alone, with a child to support. I’d trained as a legal secretary before my marriage, but my skills were rusty, and even if they hadn’t been, most firms wouldn’t consider hiring a young widow with an infant at home. I was reaching the end of my rope when I walked into the offices of Pratchett and Moss. Elizabeth, God bless her, hired me.”

  Joanna lapsed into silence while the waiter placed bread plates, a basket of crusty bread, and a bowl of butter on the table. When he’d gone, Gabriel spoke up.

  “You said that Miss Beacham hired you,” he observed. “Weren’t Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Moss involved in the decision?”

  “Elizabeth ruled the firm, not the partners,” Joanna explained. “She’d come to them with years of experience and they respected her judgment, but there was more to it than that. I don’t know if you realize it, but Elizabeth was a very wealt
hy woman.”

  “I suspected as much,” I said. “One look at her flat was enough to—” I broke off as Joanna fixed me with an astonished stare.

  “Have you been inside Elizabeth’s flat?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Haven’t you?”

  “Never,” she replied. “Elizabeth was very good to me—generosity itself—but she never invited me into her home. What’s it like?”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said. “Filled with fine antiques. I still don’t understand how she was able to afford so many lovely things. How does a legal secretary become a wealthy woman?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Joanna, with a wry smile. “I adore antiques, but I can’t afford them. Of course, Elizabeth never married, so she was always in control of her finances. And she had no children, which is, you must admit, a great savings.”

  “Kids aren’t cheap,” I agreed.

  “But in the end, I suppose the best answer is that she was clever with money,” said Joanna. “She knew when and where to invest, and she reaped the rewards. It gave her a great deal of power at the firm. If Mr. Moss wanted to keep her as a client, he had to allow her to run the office as she saw fit—an unusual arrangement, to put it mildly, but one that certainly benefited me.”

  “How?” Gabriel asked.

  “Elizabeth hired me when no one else would,” said Joanna. “But she did more than that. She helped me to find day care for Chloe, and she understood that there would be days when I simply couldn’t come to work—grief overwhelms one at the oddest moments. As a result, I worked ten times harder for her than I would have for anyone else, and my absences gradually dwindled to nothing.” Joanna took up a slice of bread and tore it in two. “I suppose you could say that she was employing a form of enlightened self-interest. By helping me to recover from my husband’s death and feel secure about my daughter, Elizabeth created for herself the most loyal, hardworking assistant imaginable. By the time the intensive training started, I was ready and eager to come early, stay late, and take on as much responsibility as she cared to give me.”

  “When did the intensive training start?” I asked.

  “A year ago.” Joanna’s voice softened and she lowered her eyes. “I didn’t know it then, but she was preparing me to take her place. She’d received her final diagnosis. She knew that she’d be dead before the year was out.”

  “Her final diagnosis?” said Gabriel.

  Joanna raised her eyes and said levelly, “Elizabeth’s cancer had been discovered in London. That’s where she received her initial diagnosis, and that’s why she came to Oxford. She knew that the treatments would extend her life, but that the cancer would kill her in the end. She wanted to spend what time she had left near her brother.”

  “Kenneth?” Gabriel and I cried.

  Joanna recoiled as Gabriel and I shot simultaneous, venomous glances at the waiter, who’d arrived to ask cheerfully if anyone wanted wine.

  “No,” we barked, and the poor man backed away, apologizing profusely.

  “There’s no need to shout,” said Joanna, looking perturbed. She didn’t seem to understand why we’d reacted so strongly to her mention of Miss Beacham’s brother.

  “Did Gabriel tell you why we wanted to speak with you?” I asked.

  “He told me that you were trying to help Elizabeth,” said Joanna. “That’s all he needed to say.”

  “You have to know a little more than that,” I said, and proceeded to explain yet again the curious sequence of events that had sent me chasing after the elusive Kenneth. I was almost through when the lasagna arrived, delivered quickly by a subdued and anxious waiter.

  “You have everything you need?” he asked Joanna, presumably because she hadn’t bitten his head off for asking an innocent question.

  “Yes, thank you,” Joanna said graciously. “I’ll signal you when we’re done.”

  “Very good, madam,” he said with a hasty bow, and scurried away.

  I brought the saga forward, through Blinker’s revelations to Woolery’s Café, and finished with, “That’s why Gabriel and I got a tad overexcited when you mentioned Kenneth.”

  Gabriel nodded. “You’re the only person we’ve interviewed all day who’s been aware of Kenneth’s existence.”

  “If you tell us that you actually knew him,” I chimed in, “I may faint.”

  “Er . . .” Joanna looked at me uncertainly.

  “I’m kidding,” I assured her. “I have no intention of missing a syllable.”

  “All right, then . . .” Joanna drew a deep breath. “I saw Kenneth Beacham quite often when I first started working at Pratchett and Moss.”

  “What did he look like?” I asked.

  Joanna shrugged. “Average height, medium build, brown hair—he was fairly nondescript, though he dressed well. His suits were beautifully tailored and he had excellent taste in ties.”

  “He must have been fairly well off,” I commented.

  “Presumably,” said Joanna. “He came to the office at least twice a week, to lunch with Elizabeth at Woolery’s. They were obviously fond of each other, always finishing each other’s sentences and laughing at the same jokes, the way brothers and sisters do. It went on like that for several months until, without warning, it stopped. Kenneth stopped coming round. I never saw him again. I’ve always wondered what happened to him.”

  I gave her a puzzled glance. “Didn’t you ask Miss Beacham?”

  “I did, once, but all she would say was that Kenneth had to leave Oxford.” Joanna sighed. “The way she said it . . . it seemed to cause her pain. I didn’t like to ask again.”

  “You must have been curious,” said Gabriel.

  Joanna smiled. “I’m a working mother. I don’t have time for curiosity. It seemed to me that if Elizabeth wanted to tell me what had happened, she would. If not, it was none of my business.”

  “It must be your business now,” I pointed out. “I mean, literally. Mr. Moss is your boss, and he’s in charge of the Beacham estate. You must have seen her files.”

  “I haven’t,” said Joanna, and her expression became grim. “Mr. Moss keeps them locked in his desk. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to speak with you. Mr. Moss is being entirely too secretive about Elizabeth’s affairs, and with so much money at stake, I can’t help wondering why. Do you think Kenneth holds the answer?”

  “Possibly.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “He’s her next of kin, right? What if she included Mr. Moss in her will, too? He was her boss, wasn’t he? She might have had a soft spot for him. What if Mr. Moss gets a bigger share of the inheritance if Kenneth stays lost?”

  “I find it hard to believe that a respectable solicitor would betray a client’s trust for monetary gain,” said Gabriel.

  “Need I remind you of the root of all evil?” I asked. “We still don’t know who gets the proceeds from Miss Beacham’s auction, but whoever does will be a rich man. That kind of temptation could corrupt anyone.” I was on the verge of asking Joanna if she knew how to use a nail file to open the locked drawer in Mr. Moss’s desk when the image of Bill’s face loomed in my mind, glaring disapprovingly, and I subsided. Asking Joanna to risk her job was one thing. Asking her to break the law was going a little too far.

  We concentrated on the lasagna. Joanna ate steadily and in silence while Gabriel and I toyed with our food halfheartedly. My appetite had been sated by the sandwich at Woolery’s Café, but I suspected that Gabriel was simply too smitten by Joanna’s loveliness to think about food. While Joanna supped and he gazed, I poked holes in the pasta and pondered the least obvious way of obtaining Joanna’s home phone number and address.

  “Address,” I murmured, and turned to Joanna. “Do you know where Kenneth lived in Oxford? If we knew where he lived, we could talk to his former neighbors. They might know where he went.”

  “I have no idea where he lived,” said Joanna. “But a five-year-old telephone directory might provide a clue.”

  “Where would we find a five-y
ear-old telephone directory?” I asked.

  Gabriel answered readily, “My flat.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Your flat? Why do you keep old telephone directories in your flat?”

  “You never know when you’ll need one,” Gabriel replied.

  “You’d best get back there and have a look,” said Joanna.

  Gabriel shook his head. “We can’t leave you here alone.”

  “I’ve finished eating, Gabriel.” Joanna tapped her empty plate with her fork. “I’m ready to go home. If I don’t get a few loads of laundry done tonight, I will have a family emergency. But you’ll keep in touch, won’t you? You’ll let me know what you find out?”

  “Of course.” Gabriel whipped a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “If you hear anything new, or remember anything about Kenneth, please ring me.”

  Joanna took one of her own business cards from her purse, flipped it over, and scribbled something on the back. “I’ve added my home number,” she said, handing the card to Gabriel. “In case you think of a question you forgot to ask, or have any news to report.”

  My presence had evidently slipped their minds, because no business cards came my way.

  “I’ll get a cab for you,” Gabriel offered, and bounded toward the front entrance.

  “I should have told him not to bother,” Joanna confessed when he was out of earshot. “My budget doesn’t allow for cabs.”

  “Let Gabriel pay,” I advised. “He’s feeling heroic today.”

  Joanna looked over her shoulder. “He seems like a nice man.”

  “If he remembers to get a cab for me, too, I’ll agree with you,” I said. “I’m not used to walking on hard sidewalks. My feet are killing me.”