The Steward (29 page)

I have no idea what that is.

“…And what else, yes, two rare Packards worth half-a-million ...
each
.” He paused and stared at Dad. “A 1939 Ford Woodie, worth over a-hundred-thousand dollars, a-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollar Jaguar, a quarter-of-a-million dollar Aston Martin, and that doesn’t include the boats—hell, just in the barn alone, there’s at least five million dollars.”

How do they know what cars are in the barn?—Cook’s a better detective than he let on.

“I’m not inheriting this place or any of those vehicles ... so I don’t know why you’re bringing any of this up.” Dad grew more agitated by the moment. His face turned red, and he gripped the top of the mahogany desk, flexing the muscles in his arms and chest.

“You don’t know?”

“No, dammit, I don’t,” Dad said sternly.

The veins in his neck popped out, and his already red face darkened. I hadn’t seen him that agitated before. Mom opened the door, walked over to Dad, and put her hand on his shoulder.

“I called Kevin Fontaine. He is the family lawyer, and he said not to answer another one of your questions until he gets here, which should be any minute.”

I could tell the news didn’t sit well with Cook. He shook his head and appeared inconvenienced at the very least.

“What, uncomfortable with a lawyer on the way,” Mom snapped.

“Mrs. O’Shea, we’re simply trying to gather facts.”

Oh, he clearly doesn’t know the rules about challenging an angry Cuban mother.

“Well, you can gather them with counsel here,” she said quickly, flashing a forced smile. “Now, if you will have a seat. Now! Gentleman … Coffee?”

I felt a profound sense of pride watching Mom in action.
He asked for it.

Several awkward minutes passed, Mom staring a hole through the officers the entire time, before Mr. Fontaine let himself in the front door and came directly to the library. He smiled and shook Dad’s hand, nodding his head in a comforting way, before slowly turning around to face the officers.

“What in the hell are you doing?” he said slowly, in a low, soft voice full of authority.

Cook smiled, his irritation gone, and seeming completely comfortable—if not a little smug. “We’re here investigating Ms. O’Shea’s death, of course.”

As Mr. Fontaine listened to the officer, he stuck his tongue in the side of his mouth so it pushed his cheek out a little, and raised his eyebrows, nodding like a complete smartass.
Now I know where Candace gets it
.

“She was seventy-six,” Mr. Fontaine said, “in bad health, and she died peacefully in her sleep. Help me gentlemen, what is there to investigate? And more importantly, why today? Her funeral was yesterday … really, why
are
you here?” His voice rose just a little.

Cook maintained his smug expression. “Natural causes? No sir. We don’t believe her death was natural, though it was staged to look that way. When the paramedic’s moved her, they noticed water in her airway, and foam. The autopsy confirmed it. She drowned, and she did it while sitting in her bed completely dry.”

He might as well have punched each of us in the mouth given the impact of his news. Mom and I both gasped at the same time, and Dad’s mouth dropped open.

“But you say you aren’t going to inherit this, Mr. O’Shea?”

“Umm, wha … sorry…” Dad started, dumbfounded. “No, my aunt told me two months ago that she was leaving the estate … umm … to someone else.”

I had wondered whether my parents were aware of Aunt May’s plans. This confirmed that they were, though they’d never said a word about it. Mom and Dad exchanged concerned looks and it was obvious, to me at least, that they were trying not to look in my direction.

“Did that make you angry, Mr. O’Shea?” Cook pressed.

“David, don’t answer that question,” Mr. Fontaine interrupted, “I have a copy of the O’Shea family trust, and I have May’s Will with me. Do
you
have a copy of the coroner’s report?”

“Not with me,” Cook said before smiling.

“Convenient,” Mr. Fontaine said, raising his brow.

“No, just poor planning on my part. Sorry. So who is set to inherit this?”

Mom, Dad, and Mr. Fontaine exchanged quick glances.

“David, do you want to do this now?” Mr. Fontaine asked.

Dad paused for a moment and got a nod from Mom. “Sure, maybe it will help.”

Mr. Fontaine opened his leather bag and retrieved a thick envelope. He unfastened the front, unfolded the papers, and read it aloud.

It sounded exactly as Aunt May had said—she left a number of specific items, and several smaller things in her lockbox, to Mom, Dad, Mitch and some second cousins I’ve never met, and she gave me Lola’s tea set and music box, specifically. But that was not all. She also left the Weald, the cottages, and every other item to me. Mr. Fontaine described something called a
life estate
, which basically gave Mom and Dad the right to live in the cottage during their lifetime. Aunt May asked my parents to manage the property on my behalf until my eighteenth birthday.

“Income from the O’Shea Family Trust is divided with one-third to David and Elena, one-third to Maggie, and the remaining third to Mitch,” Mr. Fontaine said, looking over his wire-rimmed glasses. “The children will start receiving their income beginning at the age of eighteen. Until then, it’ll be invested on their behalf.”

Cook stared at me as he began asking new questions.

“So, how much are we talking?” he asked.

“The corpus of the O’Shea Family Trust includes several pieces of real estate and other investments in excess of fifty-eight million dollars. The value of the estate and other holdings is in excess of thirty million.” Mr. Fontaine looked up from the document.

I knew it was a lot, but I wasn’t prepared for that number. I felt a little dizzy as my mind tried to comprehend how much money that was.

Cook changed his tone with Dad—he wasn’t as aggressive. While I tried to figure out what the detective thought, I sensed something else in the room change—we weren’t alone. Through my head and chest, I felt the distinct presence of a Fae. I hoped it was Sara, but I didn’t know because I still couldn’t identify one from another. The presence changed subtly—I guessed it was in some physical form in order to eavesdrop. Whoever it was, he or she made me nervous and left me feeling exposed. Though I refused to look, I knew it was above us in the vaulted ceiling, completely still. It was hard not to stare, and I found it equally difficult to keep from picturing the ceiling in my mind—I had to force myself not to look up at all.

The tone of Cook’s voice was much softer as he questioned Dad about the day Aunt May died. He told them he’d taken the family to a Razorback Baseball game in Fayetteville and they stayed to have bar-b-que that evening. He eventually told them that I didn’t go along.

“Would you mind if we talk to your daughter?”

“Yes, I would!” Dad said. His green eyes flashed and a vein bulged in his neck.

“Dad,” I interrupted.

He stared at me, relaxing a little, and left the room with Mr. Fontaine for a moment before coming back in. He sat back down at the desk and nodded to Cook.

“Maggie, do you remember what you were doing on April 30
^th
?”

I thought back to that day. My memories were foggy because they were dominated by one thing—hearing the devastating news about Aunt May when I came home and found an ambulance in the driveway. I told him that I spent another hour with Aunt May after Mom and Dad left with Mitch for the game—Aunt May and I had tea—it was the last time I saw her. She made Earl Grey.

“She was tired and went back to bed, so sometime around noon, I think, I took the boat to meet Doug at his house.”

“Doug?” he interrupted.

“Doug Monroe. He and I spent the day at his house with his dad, Professor Monroe. I left there at four o’clock and came home to get ready for swim practice.”

The Lieutenant asked me whether I’d seen anything suspicious when I returned to the cottage.

“I only came in long enough to grab my keys and purse—I didn’t notice anything, and I didn’t see Aunt May, either. I assumed she was asleep—I didn’t want to bother her, so I left as quickly and quietly as I could.”

“So you never saw your aunt?” he asked, looking up at me.

“No sir, I didn’t.”

“Any strange cars in the driveway, up by the road? Any open doors, anything out of the ordinary?”

I thought about it, running that afternoon back through my mind from the moment I docked the boat until I jumped in my car to leave.

“No, nothing. Justice, our dog, was curled up by her bedroom door and he refused to leave, but there was nothing else.”

Cook scribbled something on a pad of paper. “About what time did you get back here from the Monroe’s, and when did you leave?”

“I remember looking at my watch when I docked the boat, it was twenty minutes after four o’clock and I think it was about fifteen ‘til five when I left.”

He scribbled again, and then asked, “What time did your practice start?”

“Well, it started at six o’clock, but I didn’t end up going to swim practice. I went to the hospital to see Candace, Candace Fontaine. I called Coach Rollin’s and ditched.”

“Do you ditch practice much?”

“No, only twice since the state championships. Coach Rollin’s hates it when I miss.”

He asked me several questions concerning why I missed practice on that day. I told him I wanted to visit Candace, but he was unmoved. Then he wanted a list of people who could have seen me in Candace’s room. Unfortunately, there was only one. Chloe was there when I arrived, but she left shortly afterwards and didn’t return until that evening.

Emotion stirred in my chest and I felt my throat tighten. My eyes burned as tears threatened to well up in them. I refused to lose it in front of these men, though, so I quickly did my calming technique. It worked. With a deep breath, I imagined myself in the garden the morning of my birthday, with Candace sitting next to me serenely happy. The entire time Cook stared at me—I think he was trying to determine what I was doing.

“But I’m sure someone saw my car at the hospital,” I thought that was probably a good clue for them because the Thunderbird was so recognizable.

“Tell me about that car?”

“It’s a pink ‘57 T-bird with a white soft-top and white seats.”

“That’s a very nice car, isn’t it, especially for a sixteen-year-old?”

“Yeah, Aunt May gave it to me for my Birthday. It was her first car and she wanted it to be mine.”

“According to what I’ve been told, it’s a rare one, even among ‘57 T-birds. I have here…” he said looking at the notebook in his lap, “…that it’s a rare supercharged model, and one of only four ever made in that color.”

Even Mitch didn’t know that. I had to admit that Cook was good, but I was beginning to despise him at that point.

“An expert I spoke with says it might fetch a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or more, at auction.”

“I’ll never sell it, so it doesn’t matter how much it’s worth,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

“What are you getting at, Lieutenant Cook?” Dad sat forward in his chair.

Cook smiled and nodded slowly. “It’s all so confusing. I’m just trying to figure out how a sixteen-year-old girl inherits seventy-five, eighty
million
dollars, but her parents, two lovely people, and her little brother get a fraction of that. It doesn’t make any sense to me, and it makes me wonder what went on between you and your aunt, Mr. O’Shea.”

Mr. Fontaine slapped both hands down on the desktop in front of him. “The questions have just ended—don’t answer anything else, David…” he turned to the officers, “…I’m sure you’ve got enough to follow up on. Now, you need to leave this family alone.”

The officers left and I could feel the tension dissipating. The Fae waiting in the rafters followed them to their car and disappeared with them up the drive. Dad thanked Mr. Fontaine for dropping everything to help us, but Mr. Fontaine wasn’t through dispensing advice.

He advised Mom and Dad to hire a lawyer on my behalf and recommended one from Fayetteville named Danny Johns. When Dad pressed him on why, Mr. Fontaine said that there was probably nothing to worry about, but it was best to have a lawyer on retainer just in case.

“I cannot represent both of you at the same time—it’s a conflict of interest—and while I’d love to represent Maggie, this guy, Danny Johns, is one of the best around. I’d hire him to represent me. He’s a young, tenacious, brilliant guy. Call him, today!”

“Do you really think that will be necessary?” Mom asked.

“Yes, sadly, we’ll have to clear all of this up before you can probate the will.”

“Why?” Dad asked.

“If there is an active homicide investigation involving someone who is set to inherit a decedent’s estate, the probate judge is not going to move forward.”

EIGHTEEN

ACCUSATIONS

After Mr. Fontaine left, I talked to Mom and Dad for a few minutes before I went into Aunt May’s room, closed the door, and sat on her bed. I’d avoided being in the room after she died, and right now it seemed as sad as I thought it would be. I took a deep breath—it didn’t help.

I ran my hand through the dip in her mattress where she used to sleep, and curled up next to it. Regardless of who the detectives believed was responsible, they were right about one thing—I knew in my gut that Aunt May was murdered, and I also knew that I was the last person to see her alive—except for her killer. I felt scared and angry.

Beyond those basic emotions, I had nothing else. Nothing made sense and my mind refused to work. It went blank and I couldn’t force myself to think about anything, except maybe to let the tears go. Ready to let myself have a good cry, I was about to open the floodgates when I felt a Fae enter the room. I wasn’t sure if it was the same one that had been in the library with us, but I guessed it was.

Suddenly, I found that I couldn’t cry. I wanted to. I wanted nothing more than to let go and have one of Grandma Sophie’s
soul cleansers
, but the presence of the Fae, just on the other side of the bed, mere feet from me, kept me from releasing my emotions. Fear and anger turned to terror, constricting my chest, triggering my flight instinct.