“We’d just like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Lowell,” Kincaid said. She looked exhausted and untidy, as though she’d hardly slept or looked in a mirror since Saturday. A tank top exposed freckled shoulders pink with sunburn, and her dark hair was pulled carelessly back into a ponytail.
“I’m sorry.” Jo glanced apologetically at her hands. “I was just trying out a new glaze. We can go in the house—”
“This is fine, really,” he reassured her. “It won’t take a minute.”
“All right, then, but there’s not much room.” She stepped back and they followed her into the shed. The single room was clearly a retreat, and he understood her reluctance to allow their intrusion.
The worktable held a tin pail of garden roses and daisies as well as cans of decorating emulsion and brushes. Squares of board showed translucent yellow paint in various stages of crackling as it dried. On the back wall, shelves held an assortment of gardening and design books as well as bits of old pottery and dried herbs. A friendly- looking gargoyle regarded them from atop the iron frame of a mirror.
Jo gestured towards the single rush-seated chair and a small stepladder, then turned over an empty pail as a seat for herself. “Have you found something?” she asked.
Kincaid took the ladder for himself, offering Gemma the chair. “Mrs. Lowell, were you aware that your sister left her interest in Hammond’s to your children?”
She stared at them blankly. “Her shares? To Harry and Sarah? But … She never said.” Her dark eyes filled with tears and she wiped at them with the back of her hand.
“She designated their father as trustee,” Kincaid continued, watching her.
“Martin?” Jo’s face lost what little color it had, and for a moment she seemed too shocked to speak. Then, swallowing, she said, “Surely not … There must have been some sort of mistake.…”
A bumblebee blundered in through the open window and buried itself in the petals of a rose. The scent from the flowers was almost strong enough to mask the paint. Kincaid stifled an urge to sneeze and said, “Annabelle’s solicitor said the arrangement was made several years ago, and that Annabelle had recently discussed changing it when your divorce was finalized, designating you as trustee. But she never got round to it.”
“But this is dreadful. You don’t know … Martin can be so … unreasonable. And this will give him a substantial voting block. How could Annabelle have done such a silly thing?”
“She didn’t know there was any hurry to change it,” Gemma said. “And perhaps Martin wasn’t so difficult when she made the original bequest?”
“No. No, he wasn’t. But that seems a very long time ago.”
Gemma opened the notebook she’d taken from her handbag. “How exactly are the shares dispersed, Mrs. Lowell?”
“My father, Sir Peter Mortimer, and I own the majority—along with Martin, now. My mother bequeathed her shares equally to Annabelle and me upon her death. It’s my income from the firm that’s allowed me to start my own business, and to work from home. If Martin buggers it up …”
“We’ll need to have a word with him, Mrs. Lowell. The solicitor gave us his home address but not his work. If you could tell us where we might find him?”
“Is that really necessary?” A look at their faces seemed to answer her question, and she went on reluctantly. “He manages the bank just as you come into the town center. You can’t miss it.” She stood. “Look, if that’s all —”
“Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Lowell.” As Jo subsided onto her makeshift seat again, Kincaid added, “You said your sister and Reg Mortimer had a row at your dinner party? Can you tell us exactly what happened?”
“I … I was washing up a bit before the pudding. Annabelle had been helping clear the table. Then she came in and said she wasn’t feeling well, that she’d made her excuses to the other guests and Reg was waiting for her in the lane. She left through the garden.”
“But you didn’t believe she was ill?”
“It was so awkward, and so sudden. And Reg didn’t even tell me good night.” Jo managed a smile. “I’ve seldom seen his manners fail him.”
“You didn’t think it odd that your sister didn’t tell you what was wrong?” asked Gemma.
Jo hesitated a moment. “Annabelle didn’t always confide in me. Even when we were children. Still, I thought she’d ring the next day.…”
“But you were close, weren’t you?” Gemma pressed. “I could tell from the photographs she kept that she was a very devoted aunt—much better than I am with
“Annabelle loved the children. She’d have liked babies of her own, I think, but the company always came first.”
“Was Annabelle partial to Harry?” Gemma remembered the discrepancy in the number of photos of the children.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t say ‘partial.’ ” Jo pleated the hem of her khaki shorts between her fingers. “It’s just that once she became managing director, she hadn’t as much time for them. Harry took it rather hard. He’s very—” She paused, head cocked as she listened. “I think I hear Sarah. I’d better—”
“Just one more—” Marveling at the acuity of maternal ears, Kincaid stopped as Sarah’s plaintive voice came through the open window. He hadn’t heard a thing until now. “Just one more question, Mrs. Lowell. Do you know a man called Gordon Finch?”
“Finch?” Jo repeated, clearly distracted by her daughter’s calls for her. “Not Lewis Finch?”
“What do you know about Lewis Finch?”
