by Carolyn Hart
“I know you appreciate the bequest to you in his will.”
Her glance at me was quick, revealing. There was knowledge in her eyes, calculation, decision. She clapped her hands together. “A bequest? Oh, how wonderful. I didn’t know.”
Of course she did.
• • •
Yellow curtains added a cheerful accent to the pale gray walls in Minerva’s shop. The lighting was bright enough to enhance the texture and color of the clothing, muted enough to create an atmosphere of relaxation. Several pieces of a sectional sofa upholstered in yellow and gray offered islands of comfort near tall mirrors angled for privacy. No customers were present. I paused to admire a pencil skirt in a rich faille fabric and varying shades of blue in a dramatic floral print. Very nice.
I found Minerva in her office at a small French provincial desk. She was on the phone. Her tone was imperious. “. . . no excuse. If the shipment isn’t here by ten a.m. tomorrow the order is canceled.” She didn’t wait for an answer, hung up. She was classically beautiful, waves of golden hair, violet eyes, patrician features. With no one present (so far as she knew), her quite lovely face held more than a trace of petulance. She was impeccably attired in a pink Shetland wool blazer with gold buttons over a matching pink turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and rose pebbled leather flats.
She replaced the phone in the receiver, a faux antique gold-plated phone. The expression of irritation faded. She slumped a little in the chair, and suddenly her face was vulnerable, her eyes held pain and sadness.
I returned to the front of the shop, stepped behind a mannequin. In an instant I was there. I took a moment in front of a mirror to smooth my hair and straighten the hang of my cardigan. I moved to the front door, opened and closed it. A muted bell sang.
Minerva stepped out from the back corridor with the automatic smile and careful scrutiny of a shopkeeper alone in her business. There was an imperceptible brightening and relaxation. The good quality of my sweater and slacks had been duly noted. And I was a distraction from the emotion she’d felt sitting alone at her desk with only her thoughts—and memories—for company.
I moved confidently forward, my hand out with an oblong leather case open to display an ID. “Detective Sergeant G. Latham, Adelaide Police Department. If you can spare a few minutes, ma’am, I’m here about the investigation into the murder of Mr. Wilbur Fitch.”
“Wilbur.” She took a breath and for an instant her lovely face looked older, bereft. “It’s terrible. Unbelievable.” Her voice was low and soft. “His stepson called me this morning.”
I gestured toward a sofa. “If we might sit down, ma’am.”
She sat across from me, laced her fingers around one knee as she leaned forward, her gaze demanding. “Harry said the police took his secretary in for questioning.”
I shook my head in a chiding manner. “There are always misunderstandings in every investigation. The police requested the assistance of the secretary and she was glad to be helpful. Now the investigation is expanding. We understand you and Mr. Fitch were very close.”
“He was my good friend.” Her husky voice was forlorn. “My best friend.”
“Perhaps more than friends?”
“We were friends.” She spoke with finality.
“There’s information that you and he quarreled recently.”
She sat immobile, expressionless. “We were on very good terms. In fact, last night I served as his hostess at the anniversary party for the company.”
“Did you often stay all night at his home?”
Her shoulders lifted and fell in a slight shrug. “Sometimes.”
“Last night?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I chose not to do so.” For an instant, the veneer that protected her cracked. “Oh, I wish I had. I almost did. If I’d been there, he might not have been killed.” She stared at me. “Do you know why he went downstairs?”
I had no idea what Harry Hubbard had told Minerva in his call. “Mr. Fitch was found in his study. He may have discovered a theft in progress. Or there is a possibility that someone he knew came to his door, said there was a light in the study and perhaps they should investigate. If that is what happened, he went downstairs with another person and was struck down from behind when standing near the safe.”
Her gaze bored into me. “The police think he knew who killed him.”
“Yes.”
“Wilbur dead is horrible, but to think someone he knew killed him is truly awful.” Her hands came together in a tight grip. The eyes staring at me were dark with pain.
“What was Mr. Fitch’s demeanor when you said good night?”
For an instant, she pressed her lips together, finally managed a slight smile. “Wilbur had a grand time at the party. He was proud of the company. Proud of himself and he deserved to be proud. He did so much and he did it all by himself. He was so happy. He certainly didn’t expect someone to kill him. I still can’t believe it’s true.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.” She gave her address, a nice area in an older section of town. “The party ended a little after midnight. I said good night to Wilbur, drove home. I was just leaving for the store this morning when Harry called me.”
“Did you return to the mansion at”—I gave it a guess—“around one a.m.?”
“No.”
I nodded and rose. “Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Lloyd.”
She rose, too.
At the door I turned as if struck by a final thought. “I understand you were displeased that Mr. Fitch planned to take a holiday with a Ms. Juliet Rodriguez.”
Her reply was sharp. “That’s not accurate. Wilbur was always too kind to employees. She heard him talking about a flight down to Dallas on business and persuaded him to invite her. He flew his own plane. I doubt she’s ever been on a private plane.” Her tone was dismissive. She, of course, was quite accustomed to private planes. “She’s rather a greedy young woman. She persuaded him to buy her some emeralds.” Minerva’s eyes were hard. “He would have found out soon enough that she was taking advantage of him.”
“You and Mr. Fitch quarreled?”
“Wilbur and I never quarreled.” A confident stare.
“You were overheard.”
She raised a sleek eyebrow. “Those who eavesdrop often mishear. Wilbur assured me she’d asked for a ride to Dallas and he was going to be quite busy but he didn’t mind if she came along.” A negligent wave of one hand with scarlet-tipped nails. “It wasn’t important.”
“If it wasn’t important, I’m surprised you brought the matter up with him.”
She made no reply.
“How much money did Wilbur leave you in his will?”
“I fail to see why you ask.”
“It’s important to establish who profits from his death.”
Her cheekbones looked sharp. “That is offensive. Wilbur was well and strong and should have lived to be eighty. I never expected to inherit anything from him.”
“How much was the bequest?”
She took her time answering. Should she claim lack of knowledge? Should she refuse to answer? Finally, she said brusquely, “Wilbur loved to joke about being worth more dead than alive to his good friends. He counted me as a good friend. If I remember correctly I believe he said I would someday inherit five hundred thousand dollars.”
I rather thought she remembered the sum with great clarity.
Perhaps with Minerva the crime, if she were the killer, came down to both sex and money.
• • •
I hoped Minerva Lloyd truly mourned her lover. She could be a clever murderess playing a role, but I hoped that wasn’t the case. We all need love and I hoped Wilbur Fitch had known love. The young woman who made him feel sixteen again regretted his demise, but there was no sense of
grief. Both the woman with whom he’d shared passion and the charming young professor were quite aware that they would soon be much better off financially than they’d been before. Especially perhaps Minerva. Was her hostility to Juliet based more on the feeling that Wilbur’s interest in Juliet meant Minerva would not be the third Mrs. Fitch? That might have caused not only jealously and anger, but a determination to get money while the getting was good.
Wilbur Fitch was very rich. Now it was time to find out who else benefitted from his death.
In one of my previous excursions to Adelaide, I spent some time in the offices of a well-heeled law firm. I realized immediately that the offices of Kelly and Wallis on the second floor of a frame building near a midtown shopping area were second tier. The waiting area contained two leather sofas, three plastic-covered chairs, and a secretary’s metal desk. A thin, harried-looking woman punched buttons on a copy machine. She had fine brown hair in a bun, a slender gentle face, and a worried expression. “I’ll call the computer service department again. I can’t get it to collate.”
A balding, stork-like man with long shoulders and long arms loomed over her. “That brief has to be filed this afternoon. Take it to a copy shop.”
I found George Kelly in a corner office with windows overlooking the end of a strip mall and a parking lot. Several folders were stacked on one side of a cherrywood desk. The office itself was nicely furnished with dark brown drapes at the windows. I admired framed photographs of desert scenes and a branding iron mounted on a slab of weathered wood on the wall opposite his desk. Two comfortable armchairs faced the desk. A well-worn cowboy hat rested atop a coat-tree. A suit jacket hung from one hook.
George was absorbed in skimming a document and making occasional notations on a legal pad. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. I hovered behind him, discovered the files all pertained to the estate of Wilbur Fitch. Very good.
In the hallway outside the law firm, I checked to be sure no one was near before I appeared. I was ready to open the door when the panel jerked inward and the secretary bolted out and collided with me. “Oh. Sorry, so sorry.” A folder dropped to the floor and sheets of paper slewed out. She gave a hunted look over her shoulder, then bent to scrabble the papers into a stack. I reached past her to close the door. I recognized that look for what it was, a defensive, don’t-shout-at-me, panicked stare of a person accustomed to abuse.
“Here, let me help.” In an instant, I had the numbered sheets back in order and held them out to her.
“I have to hurry. He gets mad if I make mistakes. It isn’t my fault the copier won’t collate.”
“I’m sure it’s not. I’ll walk along with you. I’m with the Adelaide police and I have a few questions.”
We were already downstairs at the main entrance. She opened the door. “I’ll be glad to help if I can.” Her reply was vague. “There’s a copy shop across the street.” She was focused on her task and the impatient lawyer.
I kept up with her as she darted across the intersection and wended past parked cars to the copy shop. I waited until the pages were slapping out of a copy machine, four copies collating neatly, and offered a soothing smile. “I know you are a great success at what you do and I’m sure you can help me. I’m Detective Sergeant G. Latham, Adelaide Police, and Mr. Kelly is assisting us with our investigation into the death of Mr. Wilbur Fitch.”
She scarcely glanced at my ID card. “Oh.” Her voice was a soft stricken coo. “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes were shiny. “He was the nicest man in the world. He heard about the time that awful dog got my cat and she was in surgery for hours and then intensive care and the vet bills were over a thousand dollars and I didn’t see any way in the world I could pay, and Mr. Fitch took care of the bill. Every Christmas I sent him a picture of Cleo, that’s my cat’s name, Cleopatra, she’s very elegant, and he always sent me a lovely gift card and said I should buy Cleopatra a pretty nightgown. It was our joke. I always used every bit of the gift card for her.” Her voice was earnest. “Her food and shots and things.”
Susan told me Wilbur Fitch was generous. There is a special place in Heaven for those who care for “the least of these.” I wasn’t privy to Wilbur’s arrival and welcome, but I knew the angels sang.
She was carefully lifting out the sheets in order. “If I can help you with Mr. Fitch, I will do everything I can. I know Mr. Kelly’s going to be really busy.”
“Mr. Kelly is taking care of the estate. I suppose that will require quite a bit of work.”
“Oh yes,” she breathed. A little frown tugged at her lips. “I heard Mr. Wallis—”
Wallis would be the tall stork-like man who very likely shouted at the secretary when he was irritated.
“—this morning after the police left. They came just before lunch and talked to Mr. Kelly because he was Mr. Fitch’s lawyer. They stayed about fifteen minutes. After they left, Mr. Wallis went to Mr. Kelly’s office. He left the door open so I heard them, and Mr. Wallis was, well, it isn’t nice to say, but he was super excited. Talk about a bonanza. What is the estate? Forty mil? Fifty? You can rack up a half million before that one’s through. Mr. Kelly told him that was no way to talk, that Mr. Fitch was not only a client but a friend and he for one wasn’t thinking about fees now. He said there was too much to do to help the son get everything in order, that the estate was very complicated. He’d be working nights and weekends for a long time. Mr. Wallis laughed and said, Ka-ching, ka-ching. I didn’t think that was very nice, and I’m glad Mr. Kelly doesn’t feel that way.’”
We were quite friendly as we walked back across the street, and she immediately punched her intercom after she settled at her desk. “Mr. Kelly, a police detective is here to see you.”
He came to his door and waved me inside. His height made the desk look small, and I definitely looked up at him. He exuded masculinity. There might be a suit jacket on the coat-tree, but he wore a western shirt and a black string tie. True to Susan’s description, his gaze was a little too familiar. I was willing to guess his wife divorced him because he was too interested in other women.
I was pleasant, matter-of-fact. “I’m following up on our inquiries this morning. Could you give me the particulars of Mr. Fitch’s estate?”
He was just this side of rude. “I listed the beneficiaries this morning.”
“I know, sir.” It was no surprise that Sam Cobb had already gained this information. I hoped to skate past the obvious overlap. “This is simply a confirmation with a focus on beneficiaries currently in Adelaide. We are aware of course that the business and the greater portion of the estate will pass to Ben Fitch. Please give me an estimate of his inheritance.”
Obviously irritated, he gestured at a chair, took his place behind his desk. “As I told the officers earlier, Ben Fitch will have sole control of Fitch Enterprises, a privately held company, as well as approximately twenty-four limited liability companies, considerable real estate holdings in Oklahoma, Texas, and Montana, oil and gas leases in those states and several others, and a cattle ranch.”
“The estimated worth of Ben Fitch’s inheritance.”
George leaned back in his chair, looked expansive. “There are tax ramifications and the process of evaluations and appraisals and possibly some contested matters. I would not be comfortable enunciating a figure. There is much work to be done.”
I persisted. “Enunciate an estimate. Thirty million?”
He shook his head.
“Your turn.” I gave him a sweet smile.
That elicited a boom of laughter. “Wilbur and you would have got on like a house afire. He never minced words. I’ll act like Wilbur, not his lawyer. I think he’d approve. I won’t be surprised if the ultimate worth of the estate to Ben might be in excess of fifty million dollars.”
“What are the bequests to Adelaide residents?”
He raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Why are the police interested in be
quests to local residents?”
I said carefully, “In a murder investigation, it’s important to establish who profits from a death.”
His broad face re-formed in an expression of surprise. He gave a sharp whistle. “Now you have my attention, Detective. This morning I had the clear impression that the investigation was centered on Susan Gilbert. I understood there was a matter of money missing from the safe though she’d offered it back. I don’t know how that worked out. The police gave me a receipt for Wilbur’s money box and two coin collections. I told Wilbur that box of money was going to get him in trouble, but he blew me off, said he didn’t know anybody big enough to wrestle it away from him. I was afraid somebody would hear about the money and hold him up. I guess that’s what happened. As for Susan, she receives a bequest of one hundred thousand dollars. Why do the other bequests matter?”
“This investigation is no longer centered on Ms. Gilbert. In fact”—I took pleasure in the announcement—“she has been very helpful to the police as a witness. The focus has shifted. The other bequests, please.”
He drummed the fingers of his right hand on his desk. “Hell of a deal. I was shocked to hear Susan was a suspect, but I figured the police had some evidence implicating her.” He stared at me.
My expression was bland. “As I said, the investigation now is wide open.”
His large face squeezed in thought. “Since Wilbur was killed in his study, do you figure he knew the person who killed him? But he knew a lot of people. Why are you focusing on those listed in his will? Maybe he’d made somebody mad. Maybe he threatened someone.”
