by Carolyn Hart
“We are looking at everyone, including those who will benefit.”
He nodded. “Wilbur was generous. Even to his ex-wives. I ragged him about that. I wouldn’t give a dime to mine. But his exes don’t live here. Local beneficiaries are Harry Hubbard, five hundred thousand dollars; Minerva Lloyd, five hundred thousand; Todd Garrett, five hundred thousand; Susan Gilbert, one hundred thousand; and Juliet Rodriguez, one hundred thousand. Fifty thousand each to his butler, Carl Ross; housekeeper, Rosalind Millbrook; and cook, Marta Jones.”
The sums weren’t huge to a very wealthy man, but they surely amounted to a small fortune to the recipients. I glanced at an ornate bronze clock on a side table. A quarter after four. Wednesday was spinning past, as time always does when it is limited. I had less than forty-eight hours to find a murderer and forestall Susan’s arrest. I was glad I didn’t need to add the butler, cook, and housekeeper to my list of suspects. They could scarcely be aware of Susan’s sister, Sylvie, much less know that Susan could open Wilbur’s safe.
“That covers the bequests.” He gestured at the stack of folders on his desk. “If that’s all you need, I’ll get back to work.”
I rose. “Thank you for your assistance. I imagine the estate will consume most of your time now.”
“Yes. I’m honored that Wilbur entrusted the matter to me.” He exuded satisfaction.
“What is your hourly rate?” From my contact with a law firm on a previous mission to Adelaide, I now understood that lawyers usually bill for time spent on a project.
“Three hundred dollars an hour. Five hundred for exceptionally complicated matters.”
I expected settling the Fitch estate would make that category. “How long do you think it will take?”
“That depends upon many factors.”
“Will you make five hundred thousand dollars in fees?”
“Perhaps.” There was arrogance in his gaze. He knew a police salary was modest. “I’m good at what I do. Ben Fitch will be pleased. I’m confident he and I will be working together for a long time after the estate is settled.”
At the door, I looked back. “Information received indicates Wilbur Fitch intended to fire you as his lawyer. His death is rather opportune for you.” I gave him a steady look, closed the door quietly behind me, though not before I saw his face flatten a little in shock. He had been quite relaxed when I spoke of the profit motive for others. It wasn’t quite so pleasant when it became personal.
Chapter 8
I disappeared in the hallway outside the law offices and wished myself to the broad front steps of the Fitch home. The police cars and forensic van were gone. A single modest black sedan remained. The huge Mediterranean-style home looked dull in the late-afternoon gloom beneath heavy clouds.
I hovered in the great entry hall, looked through an archway into the majestic formal living room, where the occupants of the house waited to be interrogated by the police this morning. Straight ahead rose a sweeping double staircase to the second and third floors.
I wanted a better sense of the layout of the mansion. I stepped through the archway to my left into a long hallway and explored the rooms in turn, a magnificent library, a narrow office with files and a computer and printer, and, finally, near the end of the hall, the study where Wilbur met his death. The study had an empty feel to it. It had been restored to order, the floor scrubbed where blood had seeped, the painting again flush against the wall, covering the now closed safe, the door to the garden shut.
At the end of the hall, I looked toward a central back portion of the house with a view of the terrace. Here was the informal living and dining area, intended for family use, comfortable chairs and sofas, a game area, a small dining table, small in the sense it would seat eight instead of the twenty or so in the baronial dining hall. Stairs at either end led to the second floor.
In the west wing upstairs I found Wilbur’s suite. I admired the living area, noted an open book splayed pages down on a mahogany coffee table. I looked at the title: Hillbilly Elegy.
I heard familiar voices. I found Detectives Judy Weitz and Don Smith in a huge masculine bedroom that overlooked the terrace and lake. The view was chilling this late November afternoon, scudding clouds, the lake slate gray.
Don gave an impatient glance at his watch. “Okay, you wanted one more look at the rich guy’s bedroom. Now can we call it a day?”
Judy was pointing at the bed. “Kind of like a fancy hotel. The covers are turned back, a Godiva chocolate bar on the pillow. The drapes closed. Look at those curtains. I’ll bet they weigh a couple of hundred pounds. Somebody pulled those shut every night, pulled them open in the morning. They’re thick enough to make this place blacker than a pot of fresh asphalt when he turned off the lights. Can you imagine if somebody turned your covers back and brought you chocolates and closed the curtains every night?”
Don was amused. “You sound like a disapproving Puritan. Hey, I could live with it. Like Fitzgerald said, ‘They are different.’ He was talking about the very rich.”
Judy was precise. “Fitzgerald thought the rich believed they were better than everybody else. I don’t think that was true of Wilbur Fitch. Maybe because he made those millions all by himself. Anyway, being rich wasn’t lucky for him. That’s why he’s dead. But the real point is the drapes were closed. You can bet he didn’t do that. We can check and see.”
“So the drapes are closed.” Don sounded bored.
For an answer, she opened the door into the sitting area, pointed at the book on the coffee table. “The butler says Fitch often stayed up late, only needed four or five hours’ sleep a night. So he has the big party, everybody finally leaves. It’s probably a little past midnight and he’s relaxing, reading a book. What happens next? Here’s how I see it. He’s in his private place. This house has massive walls. He wouldn’t hear anything from downstairs. Look at the cushion on the sofa. Still kind of depressed. Fitch was seated, reading. He wasn’t looking outside and the drapes are drawn in here, too. Anyway, it’s absurd to think that someone burglarizing the study would turn on the lights to spill out into the garden. Why not throw in a brass band? So, why does Fitch go downstairs?”
Don shrugged. “Maybe he wanted a different book.”
She pointed at a bookcase that filled one wall.
“Okay, maybe he wanted a pastrami sandwich.”
“Maybe”—her voice was silky—“somebody knocked on his door. Then the door opens. Someone he knows—and trusts—pokes a head in, says, oh, there are a lot of different ways it could have happened, but I’m betting the visitor said something like, I walked out on the terrace tonight and sat down to make a call and left my phone on a table. I came back a few minutes ago to get it. I was walking down the sidewalk by the west wing and the door to the study was open. I knocked, but there was no answer. I thought this was odd so I stepped inside and turned on a light. There’s a painting that’s been pulled back against the wall. Maybe we should go down and you can check and make sure everything’s okay.”
Don folded his arms, looked combative. “Or Fitch decided he wanted another book, schlepped downstairs, saw a light beneath the study door, wondered what the hell, went in. The secretary’s back for her second go at it. She hears the knob turn, darts across the room, hides behind a sofa. He comes in, sees the open safe, charges toward it. She moves like a flash, and whack, he’s down and dead.”
Weitz was equally combative. “It doesn’t compute. Think about it, Don. She gets a ransom call and hightails it here and takes the cash box. She gets away with it. Takes the stuff to her house. Why would she come back, take another chance of being caught?”
“Greed.” His somber stare held memories of years in law enforcement.
Judy was impatient. “If I have the timing right, and I’m sure I do, she would no more than have reached her house than she would have had to start back.”
Don sh
rugged. “It’s kind of nuts. You ever know any nutty crooks?”
She waved the sardonic query aside. “I don’t buy it. Fitch went into that study with someone he knows. He wasn’t attacked by a burglar. No bruises. Nothing but the bash on the back of his head. He was a big man. Maybe a burglar could use a gun, force him to open a safe, but I don’t think so. I don’t think he was expecting trouble. From the way he fell, he was standing at the safe. I don’t think the safe was open. I think Fitch saw the painting ajar and opened the safe to check and see if everything was in place. If that’s the setup, then the secretary’s claim she was framed adds up. Somebody arranged for her to sneak in, get the cash box. Why would she come back? If she wanted those coins that were hidden beneath a tub in her backyard, she would have taken them when she got the cash box. Instead someone at the party and/or somebody who lives in the house came to Wilbur’s door and persuaded him to come downstairs. He had to be killed in the study because that’s where the secretary came. Somebody is a hell of a chess player, but this time the pieces are other people’s lives. Somebody wanted Fitch dead and made sure the secretary took the rap. It was never about taking what was in the safe. The killer took the coins and hotfooted it to the secretary’s house and tucked them under a tub. The secretary’s not that stupid. She’s being framed.”
Don had a supercilious male expression. “Just because you know Gilbert at church, you’re spinning her a way out.”
Judy glared at him. “I do not spin. I look at facts.” With that she stalked toward the door.
I regret to say Don slouched after her with a smirk on his face.
I felt sure Judy’s take was right. The murderer attended the party, was familiar with the layout of the house and the location of Wilbur’s suite, knew Wilbur stayed up late. During the party, the murderer at some point slipped downstairs and into the study to unlock the garden door for Susan. The murderer likely was in the hallway near a window, waited until Susan left, then went back into the study. Instead of returning to the party, the murderer may have remained in the study, possibly sitting in darkness, waiting for guests to leave and the house to fall silent. Finally, sure no one was about, it was time to open the door into the garden, turn on a light, pull the painting away from the safe. Now there was a breath-catching ascent up the private family stairs near the informal living area to the second floor. Another cautious survey, a dash to Wilbur’s door, a knock. Wilbur opened the door, saw a familiar face, and the sands of time began to rush away for him.
When Judy Weitz and Don Smith stepped into the hallway, I waited until the door closed and then I appeared. I was in a hurry but I gave them time to reach the stairs. I eased the door open. The hallway was quiet. The police, of course, had interviewed everyone present in the house. But I doubted they had the same goals.
I continued to explore, and my search was rewarded on the third floor of the west wing. Two doors contained nameplates: Rosalind Millbrook, Housekeeper. Carl Ross, Butler. I knocked on the butler’s door, then twisted the knob. He stood at the windows overlooking the garden. He turned as I stepped inside. His crisp white shirt, red tie, black trousers, and leather shoes had the look of a uniform. He projected an aura of toughness, a burly man who could hold his own in any confrontation. He had shaved since I glimpsed him this morning in the formal living room.
I held out my leather ID folder. “Glad I caught you, Mr. Ross. We have a few more questions.”
He glanced at the clock on a metal desk. A quarter to five. “All right.”
“Were you on your way home?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I live above the garages. One of the perks. No rent.”
He didn’t offer me a seat. He remained standing so I did as well.
“Mr. Ross, please describe your normal evening duties.”
He had a heavy face beneath the balding head, a fleshy nose, thin lips. His eyes were flint gray, observant, cold. His muscular shoulders lifted in a shrug, fell. “Depended. A regular night Mr. Fitch ate dinner around seven, maybe worked in his study. Sometimes he played pool with me or we did some skeet shooting. He has an indoor range on the other side of the lake. But he usually went upstairs around eleven. Some nights he was out all evening with Ms. Lloyd. When he spent the night at home, he had a glass of milk and peanut butter cookies in his suite around midnight.”
“And chocolate on the bed as well?”
“Yeah.” A slight quirk to those thin lips. “He liked money, women, and food in that order.”
“Who was in charge of locking up the house at night?”
“Me.”
“How about last night?”
“I checked the ground floor doors except for the kitchen and the main entrance. The caterer was responsible for closing up after the cleanup. I closed the front door at half past twelve and I was done.”
“What time did you check the door from the garden into the study?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“The door was closed and locked?”
“Right.”
Likely the ransom caller waited until around eleven to slip downstairs and into the study to unlock the door.
“You arranged Mr. Fitch’s room last night?”
“Right.” He was matter-of-fact. Nothing in his impassive face reflected the reality that he would never perform those duties again.
“You worked long hours.”
“My time didn’t start until four in the afternoon, weekends off. I like working nights. The cook served breakfast and lunch unless there were guests, then she brought in some girls from the college to wait the table.”
“How about last night?”
“I brought the milk and cookies about twenty after twelve. He was sitting on his sofa, gave me a wave, asked what I thought about the music. He was kidding me. I don’t like the kind of stuff they play now. I stopped going to a bar that started playing all this squealy stuff. I like rock ’n’ roll. I told him it sure sounded like he had a pig farm in the ballroom. He slapped his hand on his knee, said, I like that. I can see it now. A bunch of pigs in tuxes and gowns. He was still laughing when I went out.” The heavy face squeezed a little. “That’s the last time I saw him.”
“When you stepped out in the hall did you see anyone?” It must have been near the time that someone knocked on Wilbur’s door.
He raised an eyebrow. “Like who would I see? The house was shut down for the night.”
“Wilbur went downstairs.”
“Yeah.” A considering tone. “Funny.”
“Unusual?”
“Yes.” He folded his powerful arms across his front.
That had been his posture in the living room this morning as he waited to be seen by the police. I wondered if this was his pose when he was deep in thought.
I remembered Don Smith’s comment to Judy Weitz. “Do you think he might have gone to the library for a book?”
The thin lips curled in a wry smile. “The library was a showpiece. Classics. Rare books. The books he read were in his living area.”
“Some work he’d forgotten?”
The cold gray eyes were dismissive. “He never forgot anything. Whatever he intended to do yesterday, he’d done.”
“Possibly he heard a noise downstairs—”
“No noise in his suite.”
“If he looked outside would he see a light shining from the windows of the study?”
“The curtains were drawn. Besides”—he was more animated— “I get the idea some stuff was taken from the safe. I don’t think a burglar would be stupid enough to turn on a light.”
Nor did I.
“So you have no idea what led Wilbur to go down to the study after you said good night to him.”
He turned up two beefy palms, a physical display of puzzlement, but he looked like a man who had his own thoughts.
“If
you know anything, it’s important to tell the police.”
His fish gray eyes told me he had little respect for either authorities or women. “What would I know?” His tone was just this side of insolent.
• • •
Following Ross’s directions, I returned to the second floor and walked up the west wing to another massive oak door, knocked.
In a moment, the door swung inward. I held out my ID folder, introduced myself.
“Come in.” Ben Fitch was very young to look so bleak. He gestured toward a cream leather couch next to a fireplace. The suite wasn’t quite as large as his father’s, but it was very nice indeed, expensive comfortable furnishings, bright paintings on the walls. An open door in one wall likely led to a bedroom and bath.
Ben Fitch was pale beneath his Hawaiian tan. His curly dark hair needed a comb, and his cheeks were heavily shadowed. He looked like a young man who’d been the life of the party and suddenly the party was over. I noted his red-rimmed eyes and that he looked at me expectantly. “Any—” He broke off, pressed his lips together. How hard would it be to ask about the murder of your father?
I liked him. I reminded myself that the person who killed Wilbur would make an intense effort to appear appropriately concerned. Still my voice was gentle after I settled on the couch. “You’ve not been back in town long.”
He flung himself into a massive red leather chair, jammed a hand through his thick dark hair, stared at flames dancing among crackling logs. “Too long.” His face ridged. “But not long enough.” He gazed at me and there was misery in his young face. “Dad—he was bigger than big. Always in command. We were like fireworks and somebody drops a match. We couldn’t ever be in the same room for long without all hell breaking loose. I should have left last week, but he wanted me to stay. Dammit, he wanted me here, wanted me in the business, but I knew it would never work. You know”—and now there was a shine in his blue eyes—“he really was proud of what I did in Hawaii. I took a little surf shop and now I’ve got shops on all the islands and business tripled last year. He liked that, said I was a natural, then yesterday I told him he needed to dump Todd Garrett—he’s the COO—and it was like old times, he was hot and mad and telling me I was a wet-nosed kid and what the hell did I know about Todd and I should spend a year working for Todd and maybe figure out how to get along with people and find out what a chief operating officer does. We were both shouting—”
