Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (2 page)

He frowned. "Did you ever leave the dining room?"

"No." A pause. "Well, I went to the ladies' room."

"Where is that in relation to the dining room?"

"In the direction of the… Oh, I see what you mean. Daddy had gone that same way, the same hallway, perhaps."

Did that admission give Brad a reason to suspect her?

"Did you see him or anyone else at that time?" he asked.

"No, I just looked for a door with the figure of a woman on it. Sometimes they make them kind of, you know, obscure."

I could relate to that, remembering past encounters with restroom doors adorned with pictures instead of
Ladies
or
Gentlemen
. Like I'm supposed to know the difference between a rooster and a hen.

Brad checked with the newspaper account again. "It says Amanda Dillon went into the linen room when she brought the statues. Who else?"

"I don't know." Debra shifted in her chair. "Anyone could have gone into that hall and not be seen from the dining room."

"How about your mother?"

"No." She stopped. "Well, she went to the ladies' room too."

"For how long?"

I glared at Brad. Did he suspect Rose? Did he believe the woman who once served him milk and cookies after school killed her husband and then calmly sat down to eat chicken Kiev? I planned to have a long, serious talk with him. Soon.

I missed Debra's answer. Next, Brad said, "Were you questioned by the police?"

"Yes. They asked me about everything Daddy had done that evening. Asked if I knew of anyone who might want to kill him." She managed to say that without another bout of sobbing, but her hands remained clenched around her leather handbag.

"And do you know anyone like that?"

"Of course not. Daddy is the most kind, gentle…"

Brad waited while she got her emotions under control again, then spoke in a softer tone. "Did you know anything about his business? His company is very successful, and money is a powerful motive."

"I don't see how killing my father would help anyone else. My mother will inherit everything, I suppose." She leaned forward and spoke vehemently. "And she did not kill him. She loved him. You've got to find out who really did it."

"I'll try, but the police don't like private investigators invading their space." He smiled, as if trying to appear more encouraging. "Of course, I can question people, but if I find out anything, I'm supposed to tell the police. On the other hand, they're not obliged to tell
me
anything."

"But you
will
try?" She delved into her handbag and pulled out a checkbook and pen. "And Mother doesn't expect you to do it for nothing, just because we're friends." She looked up at Brad, pen poised over the check she'd started to write. "You need a retainer, don't you?"

Fortunately, novels and films have made lay people aware of the private investigator's need for money up front, and I visualized some of Brad's bills getting paid with his usual five-hundred-dollar retainer.

Debra continued. "As I told Olivia, Mother knows I'm here. She wants you on the case and will take over any further payments. Meanwhile, she wants you to start right away, so I'll give you two thousand right now, if that's all right."

Brad said, "Two thousand is fine," and my throat suddenly made a sound like I'd swallowed a frog. I clamped my hand over my mouth. Besides, having balanced his bank statement more than once, I knew his net worth and suspected the building owner probably never confused charity with rent.

Debra pushed the completed check across the desk toward him, and Brad pulled a client form from his desk drawer and had her sign it.

Having done that, she stood. "I'd better get back to Mother. I've taken a few days' leave of absence from my job to be with her. We have a million things to do, and the telephone never stops ringing."

We followed her to the door, and Brad said, "Don't worry too much about the police thinking your mother's guilty. Probably they don't. Part of their method is to scare people into admitting something. Believe me, they do it to everyone."

That seemed to comfort her a little.

As we returned to the reception room, I said, "May I see her today? Is she up to it?"

"I think she'll
want
to see you, but let me find a good time first. I'll give you a call later, all right?" She picked up a gorgeous suede jacket from the chair she'd been sitting in earlier. She might not live with her wealthy parents anymore, but her taste in clothes hadn't suffered.

Brad opened the door for her. She stuffed her handkerchief into her bag, gave me a brief, tight smile, and walked out.

Brad went back to his own office, and I watched from the open door. He sat at his desk, grabbed a pencil, and jotted more notes on the yellow legal pad.

His first murder case, perhaps, and a case definitely more interesting than his usual ones, had just dropped in his lap. I wanted to know how he'd solve it. Since Brad consulted his mentor only occasionally now he'd opened his agency, I still had merely the barest notion of a private investigator's methods of detection. Brad, like most men, didn't share information readily. Besides, he lived in his own apartment and, had it not been for my helping in his office, might go weeks without contacting me.

"What will you do first?" I spoke from the doorway, my words carrying easily across the small room.

"Make lists, things to do, people to talk to." He tilted his head down, eyes narrowed, and lowered his voice to a deep whisper. "Persons of interest."

"You haven't even begun. Who are you interested in?"

"Everyone who went to the banquet that night is of possible interest. Even someone who
wasn't
invited."

"That's a lot of people you need to question. I thought of chiding you for taking so much of Debra's money as a retainer, but with such a long list, I can see now it won't be nearly enough."

He ignored my gibe. "Hammond made almost as much money as Sam Walton. Their jewelry stores show up in half the malls in the state, and it's a high-markup business." He forestalled my next comments by hurrying on. "But I'm
not
gonna take advantage of them. I won't send another bill until I run out of this." He stabbed Debra's check with the eraser end of his pencil.

Remembering the negative number I'd seen on his financial statement, I shrugged, came into the room, and sat down across from him.

"Okay, Sir Galahad, who are you planning to question?"

"Carl Novotny for one. Maybe he killed Hammond and only
said
he found him already dead. Amanda Dillon. She brought the statues in. Maybe she whacked him over the head with one of them. The vice president, Ziegler. Something may have been going on inside the company. Like I told Debra, money is a powerful motive."

"So we have three suspects."

"'We'? What's this 'we' business? You're not an associate or even my secretary."

"You don't have a secretary, remember? You told me you planned to hire one but hadn't got around to it yet. So far, it's only me."

He shrugged.

"Anyway, I'm here now, and I intend to help. After all, Rose is my best friend."

"You can help like you always do—answering the phone, typing, filing…"

I leaned forward. "I'm capable of much more than that, and you know it. I'm a bridge teacher, and how many times have I been elected president of clubs?"

"Okay, okay, you're right. I'll find something relevant for you to do."

So much for my mother's advice about modesty being a virtue. Not if you wanted to earn respect from your own relatives.

He ignored me to pick up his yellow pad and write on it again. "Thanks for reminding me."

"Reminding you of what?"

"To add Mrs. Hammond and Debra."

"You're not serious? Debra came here to ask you to find the killer. A guilty person wouldn't do that."

"I'm glad you think I'm good enough to find the real killer, but maybe Debra isn't that confident."

"Preposterous. So is adding Rose to your list." Even if he was my brother, he obviously needed some help. "Remember, I
know
her. She's incapable of such a thing."

"You
used
to know her. I haven't heard you mention her in years. People change. Times change. Maybe her marriage to Hammond lacked the candy and flowers part. Besides, Rose isn't the one who asked me to find the murderer."

"That doesn't mean she's guilty. Debra says her mother loved her father."

"What do children really know about their parents' marriage? Even if mom and pop screamed at each other day and night, the kids, even grown ones, make themselves believe it isn't serious."

I knew he spoke the truth, but I still hated to admit it in my friend's case. "Who made you an authority on marriage and families? You have no wife
or
children."

"I studied a helluva lot of psychology, remember? And I was a San Francisco cop. Private investigators have to know these things, especially for murder cases. Like the NRA says, 'Guns don't kill people. People kill people.'"

I gave him a look that showed I didn't think much of that cliché.

Brad counted off on his fingers. "Besides the means and opportunity, they need a motive, and people closest to the victim usually have the best motives."

I put as much disgust into my voice as I could manage. "Oh, you're just like the police. Always pouncing on the closest person instead of doing some legwork to find the real murderer."

One of my favorite films popped into my mind, one I knew Brad had also seen because I owned a DVD and played it for him on a cold winter night when he still lived at home.

"Remember
The Fugitive
? Because he was handy, ipso facto, the husband was guilty. They wouldn't even
try
to find the one-armed man."

"You're talking fiction."

"Don't tell me you aren't aware of how many innocent people get convicted of crimes. Hardly a month goes by that someone isn't released from prison—even from death row—because someone else confessed, or DNA evidence proved he wasn't guilty. The governor of Illinois halted executions for that very reason."

Brad grinned at me again before speaking. "Boy, you're really on a roll this morning. Maybe I
should
let you help me. Put all that righteous indignation to good use."

In my zeal, I'd kept leaning forward, but then I relaxed and slumped back into the chair. Yet I continued to think about my argument. Thank goodness for DNA testing. Even with that, not every innocent person on death row got rescued, and, since nobody bothered to establish their innocence
after
their execution, there might have been a lot more. The thought of dying for a crime you didn't commit made my stomach churn. It was one of the reasons I was against the death penalty.

"Well, you know I'm right," I finished.

"Okay." He stood. "You stay here and…"

"Wait a minute. You just said…"

"You have to wait for Debra to call you anyway, and then you can go up there and talk to Mrs. Hammond."

"I should hope so."

To tell the truth, I hadn't expected him to give in that easily. I thought I'd have to bombard him with an hour's worth of reasons why I should get involved. On the other hand, he undoubtedly knew I'd go to see Rose anyway, so perhaps he felt he might as well give in gracefully.

"The fact is, I have to talk to Rose myself. She's my client. After that, you can ask your own questions, maybe the same ones I asked Debra. The more information, the better."

I thought of his earlier comment to Debra. "By the way, are you sure it's okay for you to be doing this at all?"

"Since Rose said she wanted me, there's no problem." He smiled at me. "Don't worry. I'm not going to interfere in the police investigation. However, like any private citizen, I'm allowed to talk to people." He headed for the door. "Of course, they don't have to talk to me if they don't want to. Or you. Of course, I'm sure Rose will cooperate."

"Obviously she wants you involved."

He stopped at the door and turned to me again, this time as if he actually noticed me. "Under the circumstances, do you think you should be wearing black? Why not a more cheerful color?"

When I'd dressed that morning, I hadn't known I'd learn about a friend's death and, because of the gloomy winter skies, chose my black pantsuit with a black-and-gray striped sweater underneath. Ultimately appropriate, but Brad, like many men, wouldn't know.

"I'm only wearing black until they make something darker."

He grinned and changed the subject. "Express my condolences about Harry, please."

"Aye, Aye, sir." I gave him a salute. "Where are
you
going?"

"I'll start in on the rest of the gang." He put his finger alongside his nose like Paul Newman in
The Sting
—another film we both loved—winked, and went out.

I sighed. He resembled his father, but his energy and curiosity were like mine. With a confidence born of nothing but my flimsy knowledge of detection, mostly gained from my substituting in his office—to say nothing of plenty of hope and too much adrenaline—I was sure we'd solve the case.