Haunting Harold

by Jenna Bennett

  “I found a gun,” Mendoza said.

  “But probably the gun, right?”

  “It’s likely to be the gun,” Mendoza admitted, a little grudgingly.

  “Although you told me you checked before, right, and Tara doesn’t have a gun?”

  “Not a legal one,” Mendoza said. “It could be her ex-boyfriend’s gun.”

  It could. “Wyatt. Have you tracked him down yet?”

  The tech slammed the hood of Zachary’s car and came over to the window for payment. I dug out my credit card and handed it to him while Mendoza answered.

  “Not yet.” He sounded annoyed. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “That’s OK,” I said magnanimously. “You’ll find out, though. Won’t you?”

  “Of course I will.” He sighed. “Please go home, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “I’m going home.” The tech handed my credit card back, and waved me forward. I tucked the card away with one hand while I steered the car with the other. “Right now, as a matter of fact.”

  “And stay there.”

  “I can’t stay there,” I said. “I’m having lunch with Greg.”

  There was a moment of silence, into which I felt compelled to babble. “He called. And if you have the rifle, there’s not much chance that anyone’s going to take a potshot at me again. Right?”

  “There are other ways to kill people,” Mendoza said, but he sounded annoyed more than worried. “Harold was shot with a small caliber handgun. Where is he taking you?”

  I had no idea, and told him so. “The rifle you found isn’t the gun that shot Harold?”

  “No,” Mendoza said. “Although it might be the gun from last night.”

  “I had a thought. I know it’s crazy, but…” I trailed off, waiting for Mendoza to encourage me to go on. When he didn’t—the jerk—I went on anyway, with all the pros and cons I had thought of, of Cressida being the shooter. And ended up with, “What do you think?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Mendoza said. “I didn’t get the feeling that she was hiding anything, but I don’t suppose we can discount it. The rifle was found on their property.”

  “On the back patio, though. Not inside. Easy to get to?”

  “Extremely,” Mendoza said.

  “So someone else could have put it there.”

  “Anyone could have put it there.”

  Although if it had been used to take potshots at me yesterday at nine, it could only have been put there last night. “We sat outside all night.”

  “If it’s the same gun,” Mendoza said, “chances are it was already in place by the time we got here. Whoever used it left Brentwood at a couple minutes after nine, and would have been in Tusculum fifteen minutes later. Or less.”

  True. “Whoever it was knew where Tara and Cressida lived, then.” Which was more than we had known at that point.

  “I’m sure everyone in the family knows where Cressida lives,” Mendoza said. “Have Zachary follow you to lunch, to make sure Greg doesn’t drug you and drive you to some lonely patch of woods where he can strangle you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Absolutely,” Mendoza said. “I told you he owns a rifle. The one we found might be his.”

  Well, yes. But… “There’s no reason to think Greg would shoot at me,” I protested.

  “If it’s his gun, he shot at you last night,” Mendoza said. “I’m not saying you can’t go out with him. You can go out with anyone you want. But he’s still on the shortlist of people who knew Harold. And we have no idea what he was doing at nine last night. So take precautions.”

  I sighed, since he had a point. “I’ll ask Zachary to stick around and follow us.” Maybe it would make up for me taking his car and not coming back until now. Along with the oil change. And the full tank of gas I was planning to put in his car before I took it back to him.

  “Do that,” Mendoza said, and hung up. I gave the phone a dirty look, since I couldn’t give Mendoza one, and dropped it into my purse for the drive back to Hillwood.

  Chapter 16

  Zachary was not happy with me, and the oil change was not enough to mollify him (although he did thank me). The opportunity to follow me and Greg, and to make sure nothing happened to me, helped a little. The fact that Mendoza had suggested I give him this task, clinched it. Zachary idolizes Mendoza.

  So he made himself at home in the living room—the family room in the back of the house still sported some damage from the fire two months ago—and turned on the TV. I went upstairs to shower and change.

  By the time Greg’s Jaguar pulled up to the door, Zachary had watched a couple hours of true crime, and had fed himself an early lunch as well as had stocked his car with whatever soft drinks and snacks he thought he might need for the job. The car was tucked away in the garage, and would stay there until Greg had pulled out of the driveway and onto the road.

  When the doorbell rang, Zachary wished me good luck and ducked through the door into the garage. I opened the front door and blasted Greg with my best smile. “Greg.”

  “Gina.” He beamed back. “You look stunning.”

  It’s amazing what a shower and a cucumber mask and some makeup can do. I simpered. “Thank you.”

  “I thought we’d do something different today,” Greg said, handing me into the car.

  “Oh, really? What’s that?”

  He shut the door behind me and didn’t answer until he had slid behind the wheel. Then he grinned at me across the console. “Lunch with my mother.”

  I blinked. “Your mother?” That was moving rather fast, wasn’t it? Our second date, and I was already meeting his mother?

  “I’m not here for long,” Greg said and turned the key in the ignition. The Jaguar started with a roar. “I was supposed to leave yesterday, but of course what happened to Harold changed that. But I have obligations in Italy. I have to move fast.”

  He shot me another grin as the car descended the driveway at breakneck speed. Maybe he was trying to scare me to death.

  “That’s very kind of you,” I began, and Greg’s face fell. And I thought, to hell with it. If I had a chance to meet Mrs. Newsome, maybe I’d learn something new. “I’d be happy to meet your mother.”

  “You would?” He looked thrilled. I was a little less so, as the Jaguar rocketed from the driveway onto the road—there was no way Zachary’s little beater was going to be able to keep up with us all the way to Franklin—but I didn’t let him see it.

  “Of course. It’ll give me a chance to give her my condolences on the loss of her son.” And pick her brain about what had happened. Just in case she knew of someone who might have wanted Harold dead.

  As the Jaguar shot out of sight, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The garage door was only halfway up, and there was no sign of Zachary’s car. I was probably going to end up being on my own. But it was OK, I told myself. The chances that Mrs. Newsome had killed her son were probably pretty slim, and unless Greg got us into a traffic accident on the way to Franklin, I’d be safe.

  But even so, I gave Greg a half embarrassed smile. “I hate to ask, but would you mind slowing down? David died in a car accident. He was going too fast and hit the guardrail and then the ditch. Ever since he died, I’ve been a little nervous about driving fast.”

  “Of course, Gina.” Greg slowed right down. And reached over and took my hand. I let him, even thought I would have preferred for him to keep both hands on the wheel. On the upside, it might give Zachary a chance to catch up before we made it to the interstate.

  * * *

  Greg’s mother lived in an upscale 55-and-up community in affluent Williamson County. It was only a mile or so from Harold’s office, and I glanced in that direction as we zoomed past a block south. There was nothing to see, though, except for a string of yellow crime scene tape flapping from a tree on top of the hill.

  Then Greg turned in the opposite direction at the light, and after that, into the gated entrance of a senior living community. You could te
ll it was exclusive not just because of the address, but because of the cobblestoned roads and the elaborate landscaping and the jetted lake—complete with swans—in the middle of the community. The lake was surrounded by small, individual bungalows, and a couple of three- or four-story buildings which I guessed housed apartments for those residents who couldn’t manage on their own.

  There was even a restaurant beside the little lake. Not an institutional dining room (although there might have been one of those, too, in one of the bigger buildings), but an honest-to-goodness restaurant, called Vittles on the Water. Greg pulled to a stop outside it and glanced at the dashboard clock. “Right on time.”

  If twelve-thirty was the appointed time, he was right. We had made good time getting here. I had no idea whether Zachary had managed to keep up or not. I hadn’t seen him, but I also hadn’t wanted to keep an eye on the rearview mirror in too conspicuous of a manner, since I didn’t want Greg to realize that we were being followed.

  But either way, Zachary would be stuck outside the gate. This place was as heavily guarded as Somerset.

  “So your mother’s here,” I said, as he pulled my door open and extended a hand to help me out.

  Greg nodded. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m almost fifty. I don’t have any time to waste.”

  He didn’t give me time to answer, just put his hand on my lower back and nudged me toward the front door. And it was probably a good thing, since I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to the implication that he was making a dead set for me. Flattered, probably—and part of me was. The other part was saying, “Wait a minute. You just got out of one marriage…” and then, of course, there was Mendoza.

  Not that I was involved with Mendoza, or planning to become so. Not that Mendoza seemed like he was having a hard time resisting me, either. But still, there was Mendoza.

  I didn’t say anything about any of it. Just let him open the door for me and squire me inside, and make a beeline for an old lady enthroned at a table for four in the middle of the restaurant. “Sorry, Mother.”

  Greg leaned down and dropped a kiss on her cheek while he pulled out my chair with the hand that wasn’t plastered against my back. “This is Gina.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said politely.

  Mrs. Newsome harrumphed. “I know you. You’re David Kelly’s wife.”

  She was in her late seventies, and had the rawboned look of a strong, healthy woman who had turned frail and stooped as she aged. Her hair was iron gray, and still immaculately coiffed in a modified bouffant. Her makeup was impeccable, and so was the slate blue wool dress that encased her diminished figure. The color matched her eyes.

  “I’m David Kelly’s widow,” I corrected, even as my heart sank. “He died a couple of months ago.”

  And please, dear God, have this woman not be one of the victims of the embezzlement scheme that David’s death had been intended to hide.

  She sniffed. “I heard. You discovered who killed him, didn’t you?”

  I had, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, not in time to avoid being drugged and locked in a vault for a few hours. It was mostly thanks to Zachary that I’d escaped with my life.

  “Let me take your coat, Gina,” Greg murmured, and slipped it down my arms. Mrs. Newsome sniffed at the plaid dress I’d put on for the occasion—it was a very tasteful plaid, and elegantly cut—but didn’t comment.

  “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to catch my son’s murderer,” she said instead.

  My jaw dropped, and I hiked it back up. “Excuse me?”

  She opened her mouth, surely to repeat it, and I waved her off. “Never mind. I heard you the first time. The police are investigating. You should let them do it.”

  “I’d rather have you do it,” Mrs. Newsome said. “The detective was very nice. And I’m sure he’s capable. But he’s very young, isn’t he?”

  While I wasn’t so young, I guessed. I suppressed a grimace as I turned to Greg, who had seated himself on the other side of the table, and on the other side of his mother. “Is this why you brought me here?”

  He shook his head. “But it isn’t a bad idea. I’ll pay half.”

  “Detective Mendoza is investigating,” I said, although why I was actively trying to avoid taking their money I’m not sure. “He’ll figure out what happened.”

  “But you knew Harold,” Greg answered. And went on, smoothly, before I could say that I hadn’t, really. At least not well. “And you know Heidi. And you have to admit that Detective Mendoza is young.”

  “He’s thirty-three. If you think that’s young—”

  And of course they did. I did, too. “I’m not a detective,” I tried. “I mean, I have a PI license, so technically, I guess I am. But I’ve never solved a murder—”

  Not quite true, either.

  “There’s no question about who did it,” Mrs. Newsome said. “All you have to do is find the proof.”

  I arched my brows, and she added, “His wife shot him.”

  “That’s slander.”

  “Only if it isn’t true,” Mrs. Newsome said.

  Well, yes. “They were alone when it happened. I’m sure the police searched for the murder weapon.” And didn’t find it, or Heidi would be under arrest already. “Besides, I think Heidi was in the kitchen when Harold was shot. The coffee stains on her robe…”

  “Might have come from his coffee.”

  I suppose they might. “I don’t think whoever shot him was close enough to get splattered with his coffee, though. Mendoza called it a distant gunshot.”

  “All that means,” Greg said, “is that the shooter stood more than three feet away.”

  Three feet? “That’s not far.” Approximately the same distance as Mrs. Newsome was from me right now, on the other side of the table. “How do you know that?”

  “Research,” Greg said.

  That’s right. I kept forgetting that he wrote crime fiction for a living, and knew a lot about stuff like this. “So just out of curiosity—”

  But the waiter materialized next to the table before I could finish the sentence, and Mrs. Newsome ordered a vodka-tonic. “Son?”

  Greg opened his mouth, and then seemed to think better of whatever he had thought of saying. “Water,” he told the waiter. “Gina?”

  I ordered a diet drink. The conversation was already crazy without having to add alcohol to it, and I have to keep an eye on my weight. Greg’s mother snorted, but didn’t comment.

  The waiter withdrew, and we returned to the conversation. “Just out of curiosity,” I said again, “what makes you suspect Heidi?”

  “Well, who else had motive?” Mrs. Newsome wanted to know, tartly. “Lorraine has moved on. His children love him. His staff loves him. And Greg and I certainly wouldn’t murder Harold…”

  She glanced at her younger son, who shook his head.

  “But you were nearby on Saturday morning,” I told him. “You showed up sooner than you should have, if you’d driven all the way from here.”

  “Harold and I had an appointment,” Greg said.

  “What kind of appointment?” I’d had an appointment with Harold on Saturday morning, too. So had Tara Cullinan, if she could be trusted. Had Harold wanted to see the three of us together?

  “He called me on Friday night,” Greg said, “and told me to stop by, because he had a story I could use for one of my books.”

  A story? “Did he do that a lot?”

  “It happened occasionally. He’d hear of something, or read something, or see something on TV, and he’d call and tell me about it.” Greg’s lips curved reminiscently. “I dedicated my third book to him. He had a nice, logical mind, and he was always happy to help me talk through a plot.”

  Good for Harold. “Just to get it out of the way,” I said, “would you mind telling me where you were at nine last night?”

  I’d spoken to Greg, but he and his mother looked at one another. “Home,” Mrs. Newsome said. Greg nodded.

  “Togeth
er?”

  “I was working,” Greg said. “Mother was watching the news.”

  “Neither of you was outside Harold’s office, taking potshots at me with a rifle?”

  Mrs. Newsome snorted. Greg turned pale. “Potshots? Someone was shooting at you?”

  He looked like he wanted to get up from the chair and pat me down, to make sure I was in one piece.

  “Either at me or Heidi,” I said. “We had an appointment to meet Tara Cullinan.”

  “Tara?” It took Mrs. Newsome a few seconds to put it together. “Carly’s sister? What’s she got to do with this?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. Other than that she’s been following Harold around in a wig and her sister’s clothes, trying to make him feel guilty.”

  “For what?” Mrs. Newsome wanted to know. “He didn’t have anything to do with what happened to that girl.”

  “You mean his wife?”

  She waved this away. “They weren’t married long enough to matter. And he wouldn’t have married her in the first place if she hadn’t been pregnant.”

  Whether that was true or not, it gave Harold even more of a motive for wanting to get rid of Carly. If he hadn’t wanted to marry her in the first place, and she was turning out to be more trouble than she was worth, that only made it more likely that he’d want to rid himself of her.

  “Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Newsome said when I brought it up. “Harold would never kill anyone. He’s a doctor.”

  “Doctors kill people every day.”

  “Not in that way,” Mrs. Newsome said, which I guess was true. “Harold was at the office when Carly died. The entire staff swore to it.”

  “As it happens,” I said, “Tara doesn’t think he killed her sister. She just thinks he wasn’t very sympathetic to Carly’s illness.”

  “Illness.” Mrs. Newsome snorted. “Malingering, is what I call it. She had a baby to take care of. And instead of taking care of it, she moped around and left the job to her little sister. Barely out of high school, and being more of a mother to that baby than Carly was!”

  “She was ill,” I began, and then I gave up, since it didn’t matter what Mrs. Newsome thought of Carly, at least at this point. “Somebody was on top of the hill across the road from Harold’s office last night. When I opened my car door, someone shot at me. And then fired a second shot that broke the windshield of my car.”