“Or real estate agents like Osborne and the Ashes for capitalizing on that want.”
Abruptly, it hit me all over again why I was in this car.
“How did Sunny take it?” I asked.
“’Bout like you’d think,” he said somberly. “Mrs. Ashe went up with Mr. Burke and me to tell her.”
It said something to me that the sheriff would send Underwood rather than go inform a new widow himself. Either he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news in case it became a matter of kill the messenger on election day, or he wanted his chief of detectives to see Sunny Osborne’s reaction for himself.
“She took it hard,” Underwood told me. “Mrs. Ledwig was there and the first thing she said after she heard was, ‘Well, thank God my Carla’s not sleeping with a killer.’”
“They have any idea who would have wanted both men dead?”
“Nope.” He made a final turn into the long drive that led up through the trees to the Ashe home. “Mrs. Osborne isn’t buying the idea that the two are connected. In fact, she almost lost it when Mrs. Ledwig kept going on and on about it. But Mrs. Ledwig says they’d planned to buy out the Trading Post and redevelop that lot together. Wishful thinking according to Mrs. Ashe, and knowing ol’ Simon—”
“Who?”
“Simon Proffitt. Owns the Trading Post. You know.”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I know the name, but I never met him.”
“Old guy? Plays a mean banjo? They say he was dueling with you at the party last night.”
“That was Simon Proffitt?”
“Yeah. They also say he and Norman Osborne had a talk down in the den right before Osborne went missing, not a particularly friendly talk either. I plan to stop by and question him this evening.”
I found myself remembering the twins’ spirited defense of the old man when they were casting about for alternate killers. They said he’d waved a shotgun at Osborne and Ledwig.
If George Underwood had also heard about that incident, he didn’t mention it now. He parked on the gravel landing behind several patrol cars. As we got out, he asked the uniformed officer who was keeping a two-man TV crew at bay, “They find it yet?”
“No, sir. Not that I heard.”
Like last night, the massive oak door stood ajar again and we walked in.
CHAPTER 19
Without their crackling fires, their clusters of chattering guests, or festive tables of glassware and party food, the two upper levels of the Ashe house looked more like beautifully decorated resort lobbies than a lived-in private home.
The third level down was where fantasy met reality. With one wall against the mountain itself, the only natural light came from the wall of glass opposite the stairs. Instead of feeling dark and cavelike, though, the den was as cheerful and friendly as I remembered from last night. The tray ceiling was brightened by concealed lighting, and baby spots enhanced the vibrant paintings on the walls and the brilliant patchwork that adorned the oversize squashy cushions tossed upon pale blond leather furniture. Handstitched quilts were used as both throws and wall hangings.
Beyond double French doors in the glass wall, Sheriff Horton and Lucius Burke stood on the shady terrace with Bobby Ashe and two uniforms. Yellow tape marked off a restricted section of the railing near the far end of the terrace, and all the men were leaning on an unmarked section to look down into the gorge.
As George Underwood and I came down the stone steps, Joyce and a woman I recognized as Mrs. Ledwig from court yesterday sat at opposite ends of one long leather couch. Each had a drink in hand, and not their first, judging from the way Mrs. Ledwig lounged back into the patchwork cushions. A nearby armoire stood open, revealing several bottles, an assortment of glasses, and an ice bucket. There were bowls of nuts and a cheese tray on a low table in front of the couch, but neither woman seemed to have touched them. At the moment, drinks were enough.
Joyce came to her feet the instant she realized who I was, and crossed the room to us, shaking her head mournfully.
“Isn’t this just awful, Deborah? Who would have thought it last night?”
I made the appropriate commiserating noises as she led me over to the couch and introduced me to Mrs. Ledwig, who already seemed to know George Underwood from the investigation of her husband’s death.
“Call me Tina,” she said, extending a cool hand, as Underwood stepped onto the terrace to speak to the others.
A tangle of gold bracelets slid back along her slender wrist, but her clasp was surprisingly strong until I remembered that she and Sunny Osborne played tennis together. Superficially, she even looked a little like Sunny. Her tawny hair was shorter, but as expertly styled and colored and set off by the thin blue silk sweater she wore over black tights. Her eyes were an intense blue in an attractive, suntanned face. I couldn’t decide if the slight puffiness around her eyes and mouth indicated a drinking problem or prolonged grief.
In a tailored russet jacket and matching plaid slacks, Joyce looked as if she’d just come from the office. With a tilt of her head toward the armoire, she asked if she could fix me a drink.
“Perhaps later,” I told her as I sat down in a chair opposite them.
“This must be very painful for you,” I said to Tina Ledwig, gesturing to the men out on the deck. “Bringing it all back.”
“Because of Carl, you mean?”
I nodded.
