by Sara Rosett
He contemplated me for a second. I tried to look as if I was willing to stand in the sun all day and wait for him. He pulled some levers and the backhoe lumbered off to one side. I thought how thrilled Nathan would have been to see it up close. We’d read every picture book the library owned about construction equipment many, many times.
Dennis came walking back to me, moving quickly over the distance. He took off his hard hat and removed his sunglasses. “Over here,” he called, leading the way to the gaping hole that would be a large rolling door when the warehouse was finished. Once we were in the shade, he turned to me as he tucked the stem of his glasses into the neckband of his dusty T-shirt.
“Working with Gabrielle, uh?” he said. “Now, you look like a nice, reasonable sort—except for showing up without an appointment.” He said it with a flash of a playful smile. “Why would you want to get mixed up with Gabrielle?” He didn’t really want an answer because he barely paused before pouncing. “Can’t say I’d recommend it. There’s only one thing I can tell you about her. She’s as stubborn as she is beautiful,” he said as he squinted over my shoulder, his dark lashes crinkling around vivid blue eyes.
“Is that why you got divorced?” I asked.
“We got divorced because of money.” He put the hard hat down on a pile of steel beams and crossed his arms. “Or lack thereof.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” He shrugged and broke eye contact again.
“I think she might be having a hard time . . . financially,” I added.
“So she’s trying to bring you on . . . bring in some capital? Everyone’s got it tough right now. This is the first job I’ve had in six months, so there’s no way I can send anything to her. I’ve still got four months of missed mortgage payments to clear off my house note and two kids in college. If she’s asking you for money to keep her organizing business afloat, you’d better think long and hard on it. I won’t be sending any cash her way.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” I said, deciding I better clear things up quickly. “She asked me to help her find out who murdered Jean and I’d like to help her—”
He snorted. “Thinks she can do better than the police, uh? That’s classic Gabby, right there. Always knows better than everyone else. She should just stay out of it.”
Since I’d heard the mind-your-own-business line quite a bit, I felt a little affinity with Gabrielle. “Actually, the police aren’t making any progress.” I didn’t mention why they weren’t making progress. No need to bring myself into this discussion.
He looked skeptical, then tossed his hands up. “You know what—I don’t care. She can play Nancy Drew all she wants. Not my concern. Not anymore.” He moved to pick up his hard hat.
“Look, I’m just concerned about one thing—if you’ll tell me if it’s true or not, I’ll get out of your way. I’ve heard about something—something from her past that makes me wonder if I can trust her. I figured you were the person to ask about her past. There’s no one in North Dawkins who’s known her for more than a few months, well, except for Simon and he’s not someone I want to bother right now.”
“Okay,” he said, looking resigned. “Shoot.”
“Did Gabrielle and Jean ever argue about a house? An inheritance?”
Dennis wiped the film of dust off the hard hat as he said, “Yes, ma’am, they fought like two cats, squalling and clawing each other.”
“Why?”
“I answered your question,” he said as he put his hard hat back on.
“But it’s related. Please.” I sidestepped along beside him as he walked toward the open doorway. “Can you just tell me what happened?”
He stopped walking and braced one hand on his hip. “They inherited the house from their mom. Their mom’s will left it to Jean with the provision that if she sold it or rented it, Jean got sixty percent and Gabby got forty. That lit up Gabby pretty good, that it wasn’t divided fifty-fifty, but her mom reasoned that Jean was the executor of the will and would handle the estate. She figured Jean should get more. And Gabrielle isn’t what you’d call farsighted. Their mom probably figured Gabby would put it on the market and sell it dirt cheap.” Dennis grinned, his cheeks pushing his eyes into slits. “Of course, that’s exactly what Gabby wanted to do. There was a buyer and all, but Jean said they should wait until the housing market came back. Even if it was in Buckhead, they’d get more for it if they rented it out now, then sold it later.”
“Buckhead?” I asked, because Buckhead meant big bucks. It was one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Atlanta.
“Yes, ma’am, Buckhead. The neighbor was hot to buy it and expand his house over the two lots, but Jean wouldn’t hear of it.”
“So Gabrielle didn’t take it well?”
“No. She was furious the day the rental contract was signed. So furious that she called me to complain—old habits die hard, I guess.”
“But they were talking and getting along when I saw them together at the party,” I said.
His face softened and he said, “Gabby was still upset, but there was nothing she could do about it. Probably figured she should let bygones be bygones. Gabby has a quick temper, but it does die down fast.”
“So they split the rental income sixty-forty?”
He nodded. “As far as I know.”
Then why had Gabrielle needed food from the food bank? A house in Buckhead should rent for quite a bit.
“. . . ’Course, they had just signed the rental agreement, so now with Jean’s death, I don’t know what happens to the house. It’s probably tied up in probate. Doesn’t really matter, I suppose, since the rental agreement is for two years. There’s no way Gabrielle can kick them out now and sell the house.”
“Thanks, you’ve been really helpful . . . I think,” I said. Dennis touched the brim of his hard hat and strode away.
“Oh, wait!” I called out as I pulled a paper from my pocket. “I almost forgot. Do these numbers mean anything to you?” Gabrielle had sent me all the photos she’d taken and I’d printed the page with the jumble of numbers to bring with me today.
He shook his head after a quick glance. “No idea.” He handed the paper back and resumed his fast pace.
I followed him more slowly. So Cecilia was right about the argument, but apparently Jean and Gabrielle had made up by the time the Christmas party rolled around, enough that Jean had brought Gabrielle along to help her find clients. Gabrielle must have reconciled herself to the situation. Maybe she decided the idea of some monthly rental income, even forty percent, was a good thing.
Or, did she still want it all, I wondered, thinking about those five to ten minutes that were unaccounted for before she arrived at Jean’s house and found me over Jean’s body. If she caught a few red lights, that could account for the delay, but still . . . Perhaps Gabrielle had already been to the house. If Jean was out of the picture, wouldn’t Gabrielle control all the income from the house? What if Gabrielle left for a few minutes while I found the body, then returned?
Suddenly, it seemed very important to find out if Jean had a will.
Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season
Make Your Decorating Easy
Wrap the end of each strand of holiday lights with a piece of tape, noting whether they are indoor or outdoor lights and where you used them. This simple step will speed up decorating next year.
If you use the same decorations in the same room each year, consider storing items that are displayed together in the same box or bin. Label the box with the name of the room where the decorations will be used and you’ll save yourself many trips back and forth across your house.
Chapter Fourteen
The traffic wasn’t as light on the way back to North Dawkins, but I still arrived back in town well before school let out. I called Gabrielle. She answered on the first ring, sounding harried.
“Gabrielle, it’s Ellie. I’d like—”
“Ellie!” she said, interrupting me. “Just the person I wanted to tal
k to. The book club was a total bust—they didn’t know anything, but I found a handwritten list in the pocket of another jacket that Jean borrowed from me. We traded clothes all the time and I got to thinking that she was always leaving bits of paper in the pockets, so I went through the last few things she borrowed from me and found a list.”
“What kind of list?” I asked as I took the exit for North Dawkins.
“The date is at the top—last Thursday,” Gabrielle said, her excitement quickening her normally languid speech patterns.
“Yes, I know.” The day Jean was murdered, I thought with a little shiver.
“The list says,” Gabrielle continued, “borrow G’s red suit, printouts, and an address.”
“So this list wasn’t in the pocket of the suit she was wearing that day she died?”
“No. The sheriff’s department still has that suit. This one was from another jacket. I haven’t worn this jacket since Gabrielle returned it to me. I bet she made this list a day or two before to help her remember what she needed for that day.”
“Where’s the address?”
“I don’t know. I’m on my way there now. You should meet me,” she said, and rattled off a number and street so quickly that I didn’t catch it.
“Whoa, slow down. You didn’t just look it up online?”
“No, I just found the note a few minutes ago. I’m between appointments. I don’t have anything until two, so I just punched it in the GPS. It said I was only a few miles away.”
“Where is it again?”
“2717 Sweetgum Way.”
I heard the sophisticated voice of her GPS instructing her to turn left. I had enough time to meet her before school let out. Mitch had gone by the house at lunch to let Rex out, so I didn’t have to head home right away. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet with Gabrielle alone, especially since I’d wondered if she’d been in the garage wielding the paperweight.
“You have arrived at your destination,” said the clipped British voice through the phone.
“Oh,” Gabrielle said, her voice deflating like a popped balloon. “It’s a restaurant. The Red Dragon.”
“I’m not far from there,” I said, thinking quickly. “I can be there in a few minutes. Have you had lunch?”
“No.” She didn’t sound enthusiastic about a lunch meeting, but I wanted to find out if she knew anything about Jean’s will. For instance, if Jean had one. I wasn’t going anywhere near Waraday until I had all the details and I certainly didn’t want to be alone with Gabrielle. What better place to ask my questions than a crowded restaurant? I’d been there a few times with Mitch and the lunch clientele was mostly business types and local government employees from the smattering of office parks and county offices located nearby.
“See if you can get us a table. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said.
Since it was after one o’clock, the Red Dragon wasn’t packed, but there were enough full tables that I felt comfortable as I slid into the high-backed red leather booth across from Gabrielle. She wouldn’t make a scene in here or do anything . . . outrageous. At least, I didn’t think she would. I’d waved to the mayor and two county counsel members on my way to the table.
Gabrielle slapped the plastic menu on the table, causing a small square of yellow paper on the table to jump. “The hostess doesn’t remember anything.”
“It has been a week. Let me check something,” I said as I found a number on my phone and dialed. When the receptionist at the food bank answered, I asked to be transferred to Diane. After I said hello, I asked, “Where were you and Jean meeting for lunch the day she died?”
“The Red Dragon,” Diane said, her tone immediately infused with sadness. “I still can’t believe I was sitting there waiting for her while . . . ,” her voice trailed off.
“I know,” I said quickly, because I could tell she was getting choked up. “Look, I’m sorry to dwell on this—I know it upsets you—but did Jean usually dress up for your lunches?”
“Dress up? No,” Diane said, her voice sounding more normal. “She always wore the same thing . . . jeans, sweatshirts, that sort of thing. Why?”
“Just wondering. Gabrielle and I were talking and we were trying to figure out if Jean had some other appointment that day. She was wearing a really nice suit when she died.”
“She never mentioned anything to me,” Diane said.
I ended the call and said, “You got most of that, right? Jean was supposed to meet Diane here and she didn’t mention another appointment.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Gabrielle said, almost sulkily, reminding me of Livvy when she was in a bad mood. She rotated the square of paper one quarter of a turn and said, “I’d hoped that there would be something else . . . some sort of breakthrough.”
“Is that the note?” I asked.
She pushed it across the table and I examined it. It was just as she described. “Well, at least you found the restaurant,” I said. “Any clue on what the printouts are?”
Gabrielle shook her head and the waitress arrived to take our order. Gabrielle carefully put the note back in the pocket of a fitted caramel-colored blazer while I ordered cashew chicken and a Diet Coke. Gabrielle ordered sweet and sour pork. “You probably should give that to Waraday. It could be important.”
“I might give him a copy,” she said.
I didn’t think Waraday would be satisfied with that, but she clearly didn’t want any more advice on the note. I picked up my silverware bundle and folded back the napkin. “Gabrielle, I heard that you and Jean had a disagreement about your mom’s house.”
She raised an eyebrow a fraction. “So?”
“I heard it was a pretty vehement disagreement.”
She leaned over the table. “Who did you hear this from?”
I didn’t think I should rat out Cecilia, so I said, “Someone in the squadron overheard you arguing, but does that really matter? Why did you say there were no conflicts or disagreements in the family, when you and Jean were fighting over the house?”
“We weren’t fighting over it when she died,” Gabrielle said, adjusting the collar of the creamy white shirt she wore under the blazer. “We’d worked it out. And it was nothing, anyway. Sisters argue all the time. It’s like a natural law or something.”
“So you were okay with not getting your way? Not selling the house?” I said as I carefully laid out my silverware on the table.
Her eyes narrowed. “What is this? Some sort of inquisition? Checking up on me wasn’t the deal between us.”
“No, the deal was that we’d find out who killed Jean. You were straight with me. Now, I’m going to be straight with you. You told me you didn’t suspect me, but the more I hear about this fight, the more I wonder about you. Did Jean have a will? Are you going to get your way now that she’s gone?”
Neither of us heard the waitress approach and I was startled when she set our steaming plates in front of us. “Watch those plates. They’re hot.” She placed my drink on the table, refilled Gabrielle’s iced tea, and glanced from one to the other of us uncertainly. Gabrielle was staring at me with a hard, cold glare. The waitress asked tentatively, “Y’all need anything else?”
I raised my eyebrows at Gabrielle. She drew in a deep breath and I braced myself. I wasn’t sure if she was about to launch into a screaming fit or stand up and stalk away.
She said, “No. We’re fine. Thank you.”
The waitress gave us an extra long look and backed away. I bet she wouldn’t be back to check on us anytime soon. She was probably going to give our table a wide berth.
The intensity of Gabrielle’s gaze dropped from a glower down to merely a frown as she busied herself flipping open the napkin vigorously and then aligning her silverware. I ate a few bites to give her time to decompress a bit more. Tangy and sweet, the food was wonderful.
Finally, she said, “Okay. While I think what you’ve done is underhanded, I appreciate you considering every possibility, but suspecting me is absurd.” She
dug into her pork and after a few bites, she said, “We disagreed about the house, but I wouldn’t murder her over it.” Her tone was earnest. I studied her face and thought she was probably telling the truth. Probably. “And in the end maybe Jean was right,” Gabrielle said slowly as if it was painful to say the words. “The monthly income will be a good thing. As far as the will, Jean had one, leaving everything to Simon. She told me she was going to have a new one drawn up that left the house to me, but I don’t know if she did that before she died. So you see,” she waved her empty fork in a circle, “killing her would be the absolute worst thing I could do. Now her estate will be tied up until Simon figures out if she made a new will.”
“But wouldn’t that be something he’d know about?”
“She mentioned using one of those online legal services, so she could have done it all herself, had someone sign it—you’d think it would be Simon—but he says he didn’t sign anything.”
Was there a hint of disbelief in her words? “You don’t believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” she said with a sigh. “Simon is a good guy, but he’s been so unpredictable these last few days. I asked him about Kurt’s birthday, which is coming up in three weeks, and Simon had completely forgotten about it. I know he’s dealing with a lot right now, but to forget your son’s birthday? Especially now. I just don’t understand it. I wonder if the stress and the grief is messing with him . . . mentally. Does grief do that to you? Mess up the way you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking of how normal he’d acted at Helping Hands. Was he putting on a good front there or was Gabrielle exaggerating things?
“Anyway,” she continued, “Jean might have run over to the neighbor’s house or asked some friends to witness her signing a new will. So I don’t know. I have all her files and paperwork back at my apartment. I’m going through them as quickly as I can.”
