Maybe he was also concerned about his mother. If Peter was somehow involved, it would mean Katrina was married to a not-very-nice person. If Layne had been in his shoes, she’d want to know who was carving a roast with her mom every Sunday, and all the days in between, as well.
“I haven’t gotten to Uncle Will’s personal records yet,” Layne said. “They’re packed up. Uh...in storage.” It was true, they were stored in the house, but she didn’t want to be too specific about where potential evidence might be located.
“Okay. You know, there’s something I don’t understand in all of this.” Matt sounded genuinely puzzled. “Why didn’t your uncle offer Mrs. Hudson as an alibi for the nights the thefts occurred?”
“I talked to Aunt Dee about it the other day. At the time, Aunt Dee was spending Thursday nights with my grandmother up in Mount Vernon—she’d leave Thursday morning and return Friday afternoon. Uncle Will probably decided he might as well work while she was gone.”
“That explains why he was at the office some evenings. I’d heard it was out-of-character for him.”
“He was devoted to Aunt Dee. Normally they did everything together.” Layne didn’t intend to admit to Matt Hollister that her aunt had worries about an affair. Besides, once she heard from Uncle Rob, she might be able to dismiss the possibility altogether and get an alibi for Uncle Will.
“In that case, when we look at the credit card statement, we should also check your aunt and uncle’s home phone bills to see if any calls were made on the evenings when illegal money transfers were made. If your aunt was out of town, logically, Mr. Hudson would have made them.”
Slick the way Matt had gone from saying “you” to “we” in nothing flat.
“Uh...maybe. But I’ll need Aunt Dee’s permission to let you see any of the records.”
“I understand.”
Layne began putting away baking supplies and filling the dishwasher. What had made her think she could make a cake? Regina had claimed it was foolproof, so she’d talked herself into trying it. Granted, it might have come out if she hadn’t put the bowl too near the edge and gone to answer the doorbell, but something else was just as likely to have happened. The last time she’d baked—a pie from the grocery freezer case—she’d nearly burned the house down.
Matt glanced around the breakfast area and kitchen. “From what I’ve seen of it, this is a really nice place.”
“Thanks.”
She loved her late-nineteenth-century home. The kitchen hadn’t been redone since the art deco period, but the prior owners had kept it in perfect condition. As for the rest of the house, the hardwood floors were still pristine and the windows had the original leaded beveled glass. Fortunately the bathrooms had gotten an update before she’d bought it, so that hadn’t needed doing. The only way she’d been able to afford the place, even using her college fund, was because the housing market had taken a tremendous crash and prices fell.
“Mom and Dad are appalled by the kitchen,” she said. “But that’s because they’re really into modern. They got me new appliances as a housewarming gift and it drove them crazy when I wanted everything in a retro style, especially in that light turquoise color.”
“The same shade as your car.”
“Yup. And I’ve been getting reproductions of cookware from the 1920s and ’30s because they look so great in here. It almost makes me wish I could cook like Aunt Dee.”
“Maybe someday you’ll get better.”
Layne shrugged. “I’m not holding my breath. My sisters got all the talent—they can both cook as if they’d gone to Le Cordon Bleu School in Paris. It has to be genetic. When Jeannie was only thirteen she made pâté de canard en croûte from Julia Child’s French cookbook. She must have repeated the name a thousand times—I’ve never forgotten it.”
“What is that?”
“Basically it’s a boned duck that’s stuffed and baked in a pastry shell. And of course, it came out absolutely flawless.” Layne could still remember the golden perfection of Jeannette’s pastry crust, and her own conviction that she’d rather eat hot dogs than spend that much time in the kitchen. Of course, she was only ten at the time and had loved hot dogs.
“Uh...I’ve never cared for duck.”
“Me, either. I’ll take chicken any day. You said you have some info on my uncle’s schedule?”
“Yes.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “By the way, my security staff is available in case we need them to do background checks or something.”
“I’m a researcher—I can take care of that myself.”
“They could save us time. Don’t worry—my security chief is an expert at getting information, along with his staff.”
“Is he the same security chief who did a background investigation on Peter when he courted your mother?”
Matt’s eyes widened. “How did you know a background check was done on my stepfather?”
“I didn’t.” Layne tried to keep from looking smug. “But I’ve always figured that people with serious money investigate everyone they come in contact with.”
Like me, she nearly added.
Matt had undoubtedly had her checked out, but she didn’t think she had any deep dark secrets to uncover.
Let’s see...at six she’d shimmied up a telephone pole, accidentally setting off a fire alarm—the fire department hadn’t been amused. She’d kissed Billy Chalmers behind the library while cutting eighth grade science class, hardly a felony except to her parents. But it wasn’t the kissing that had bothered them, it was her cutting class. And as a college freshman she had gone skinny-dipping in chilly Lake Washington at midnight with a group of friends, only to be caught by the police. The officers had politely asked them to choose a more private location the next time.
Nobody was going to care about those offences, and while she had her share of faults, they hadn’t resulted in her getting arrested, thrown out of college or fired.
“Say, I’m hungry. How about you?” Matt asked. Without waiting for an answer he took out his phone. “I’ll order lunch. What kind of food do you like?”
She regarded him for a long minute. Eating together implied a closer bond than she’d like. Still, it didn’t necessarily mean he had ulterior motives, and getting close to Matt was no more likely than her getting to ride on a space shuttle.
“I like anything that doesn’t move on its own or is illegal.” Layne tossed him the phonebook. “Look for places in the university district that deliver.”
He grinned and started flipping through the pages.
* * *
LATER THAT EVENING Layne returned from her parents’ home in Issaquah filled with a curious mix of happiness and melancholy.
Steffie had announced she was engaged and her fiancé, Owen Fitzsimmons, seemed to be a terrific guy. Only Jeannie had appeared out of sorts following the big announcement—maybe she’d expected to be the first McGraw daughter to get married.
Probably to someone like Matthew Hollister, Layne thought.
But even if Matt and Jeannie did start dating, a long-term relationship wasn’t likely. Matt had made it clear that his feelings about marriage and children hadn’t changed from his partying days.
Yet she frowned as she arrived home.
While her sister could be an opinionated pain in the ass, Layne didn’t want her getting hurt and Matt Hollister was a heartbreak waiting to happen. But surely Jeannie would have said if she was seeing him, so it must be okay.
Layne locked the garage and waved to her neighbor who was watering his flower beds.
“Hi, Sanjiv.”
He waved back. “Hey, Layne. Sorry you’re having trouble with your cable connection again. We finally got ours straightened out.”
“My cable?”
“We saw the repairman go into your backyard. I
didn’t know the company worked so late on Saturdays.”
Layne’s stomach did a slow flip-flop. “I’m not having trouble. Was there a company logo on his uniform?”
Sanjiv turned off the water. “I think so, but I didn’t see him that well. Maybe he got the wrong house.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. How long ago did he leave?”
“Two hours, give or take.”
“Thanks. I’ll check into it.”
Layne walked back to the front of her house and regarded it unhappily, though there were legitimate reasons a cable repairman could have been there.
She climbed the steps to the porch, giving herself a lecture about being a strong, independent woman, able to handle anything.
Liar.
Right now she wished somebody was with her—even Matt Hollister would be a comfort, being at least ten inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than her.
Bending over, she saw scratches on the dead bolt, but couldn’t swear they were new. And it was locked—she turned the knob and shook the door to be sure. Swallowing, she went around to the backyard. The growth was so heavy on the upper slope of the yard, she couldn’t tell if anyone was there, but the rest of the garden was empty.
She checked the locks on the rear door and saw more scratches—marks that could mean anything. And it was secure, the same as in front. It was possible someone had tried to get in, but who would break into a house and lock it up again?
Nevertheless, chills went down Layne’s back as she turned the key in the dead bolt and stepped into the mud porch, half expecting to see the place ransacked. Cell phone in hand, she searched each room, even peering under her four-poster bed, but the windows were fastened and nothing was out of place.
Hmm. Layne sank onto a chair by the phone and willed her heart to stop racing. She was just reaching for the handset to contact the cable company when it rang.
The caller ID display showed “Hudson, Wm.” The phone company still hadn’t updated the listing...or else Aunt Dee hadn’t asked them to. It was curious the small ways you tried to keep someone alive. Layne touched her throat; ever since the funeral she’d been wearing the tanzanite and diamond pendant that Uncle Will and Aunt Dee had given her for Christmas two years ago. She just couldn’t take it off.
Layne pressed the talk button on the receiver. “Uh, hi, Aunt Dee. How are you feeling—do you need me to come over?”
Dee hadn’t come to the family dinner because of a migraine, though Steffie had called and put her on speakerphone when announcing the engagement.
“I’m better. I just want to see how you’re doing.”
For a moment Layne flashed on the supposed cable repairman and the scratches she’d found on the locks, then shook her head. Aunt Dee didn’t know about that; she must be referring to Steffie’s engagement and how Layne felt about it. It was vaguely depressing to see other people getting something she couldn’t seem to find, but she didn’t begrudge Steffie’s happiness.
“I’m all right. Owen is a nice guy and he should fit right in—he can probably even cope with Mom and Dad.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“More or less. I’m sure they’d prefer he was a doctor or lawyer instead of a high school teacher turned writer, but they didn’t say anything. It’s probably easier for them since his last nine books have hit the New York Times’ bestseller list.”
“I enjoy his work.”
“Me, too. Look, you’d better set the security system and sleep the rest of that migraine off,” Layne urged, wanting to be assured that her aunt was safe.
“Why have you started asking about my security system?”
“No reason,” she said hastily. “Except that paranoia we talked about.”
“Okay. You be careful, too.”
“I will. Good night.”
When she was off, Layne dialed the cable company.
“There was a report of cable outage on your street, and on the street behind you,” the operator assured. “Not for a specific address, but we got a call from a gardening service, admitting they might have damaged some lines in that area. Our repairman could have entered your yard while investigating. Have you checked your television and internet connection?”
“No, but I will. Thanks.” Relief filled Layne as she disconnected. Jeez, she was getting paranoid. And she really didn’t think a thief and murderer would come around months later, just to be sure they’d covered their tracks.
Still...
She thought about the documents she was reviewing at Aunt Dee’s house. So far most weren’t significant, but maybe she should scan them and put anything that seemed promising in a safe deposit box. She could even keep a copy on a portable hard drive in her filing cabinet at the Babbitt.
It might be overkill. After all, Aunt Dee had a security system, and while Dee believed she’d sensed William in the house, the spirit of a loved one, whether real or imagined, wasn’t the same as a criminal. On the other hand, there was no harm in being extra careful.
CHAPTER NINE
“GOOD MORNING, DOTTIE.”
Dorothy spun and saw Patrick Donovan. Her heart gave a small jump of pleasure. “My name isn’t Dottie and I’ll thank you not to call me that.”
“Dot, then.”
She pressed her lips together in an attempt to keep from smiling. Her regular Friday shift at the gallery had gone by without Patrick appearing and she’d been unreasonably disappointed. It was ridiculous to feel that way—on Wednesday he’d given her his sister’s address, so he no longer had any cause to come.
Of course, he had stayed on Wednesday. He’d taken her to Muldoon’s Coffee and Tea Shop again, saying something about supporting a fellow Irishman. She’d razzed him for assuming the owner was male, which led to debates about the value of art and science and a range of other subjects. His opinions were interesting, even if she didn’t agree with them. And he’d asked when she was working again at the gallery, making her think he would return. Then when he hadn’t...
“Has your sister received the painting?” she asked. It had only been six days since the gallery had sent the package and international shipping could be slow, but Patrick had paid for the fastest courier service available.
“That she did. Emailed last night to scold her hardheaded brother for spending money on frivolity.”
“Frivolity? Her word or yours?” Dorothy wasn’t bothered that Patrick didn’t appreciate art—she’d gotten the impression that it was hard for him to see a need for something without a practical purpose.
“Mine,” he said with a wry grin. “Alleyne loved the painting. She visited a few years back and said it reminded her more of the grand old mountain than any photo she’d taken. Told me to come and tell you.”
He’d only returned because of his sister? Mild disappointment filled her, yet it was just as well. Dee wasn’t prepared to consider anything except friendship with a man.
“That was thoughtful of her.”
Patrick smiled gravely. “I was grateful for the excuse. Would you care to drink tea with me after you’re finished here, or are you tired of my company?”
“No, I’ve enjoy our talks.”
“Good.” He planted himself on a chair, looking thoroughly out of place, and Dorothy was conscious of his gaze as she walked about, talking with visitors. They were still shorthanded due to illness, but the owner was back today and handling the sales. The artist stints at the gallery were more for show than anything. It was only lately that they’d been helping out more.
Dorothy didn’t mind the extra shifts. The customers tended to be a varied group—ranging from art connoisseurs to casual tourists in flip-flops. And they were a distraction she’d needed from less pleasant considerations.
In a quieter moment she smiled at Patrick. “Wouldn’
t you be more comfortable waiting at Muldoon’s?”
“Not particularly. Have you brought any other paintings in for display? Thought I’d take a look.”
“One. I’m doing illustrations for a children’s book and haven’t had much time for anything else.”
Patrick stood and she took him across the room to where her latest work was hanging. Since he had little use for art, she figured he would see even less value in this one. It showed the remains of Mount St. Helens and Spirit Lake after the volcanic eruption in 1980, but in faint hints of color and brush strokes, she’d superimposed an image of the mountain and lake in its former glory. She had seen it as a girl before the violent upheaval, and the stark contrast still haunted her.
Patrick looked at the painting for a long minute. “You’ve a keen eye for sorrow. Are you certain you’re not Irish?”
In an odd way, she knew it was a compliment.
“No Irish ancestors that I know of. Mostly French, Swedish and Welsh.”
“Is your shift over?”
She glanced at the clock. “Yes, and Patille is here to take my place. I’ll let Sherman know I’m going.”
When she was done they walked down the street and she sat at their “usual” table in the garden seating area while Patrick went inside. As he’d done the previous times, he got a basket of baked goods, which he set in front of her, along with her cup.
“You act as if I’m starving to death,” she commented, choosing a lemon scone.
“I don’t hold with women being so skinny it isn’t healthy.”
“I’m healthy.”
Patrick just shrugged. “My sister faded to near a shadow after her husband died. Wouldn’t care to see it happening again to anyone. You’re pale and underweight.”
Dorothy blinked at the frank reply. “I eat enough. You needn’t be concerned.”
“About you or my sister?” He lifted the tea bags from his cup and poured milk into the dark liquid. “Alleyne refuses to let us do for her.”
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