Mott shook his head. “Tell you what. When the sheriff hauls you in again, give me a ring and we’ll try to work something out.”
“That a guarantee?”
“A guarantee suggests a refund,” Mott said. “We’ll call it a promise.”
Outside the Wendy’s, Mott was unlocking the door of his wife’s Volvo sedan when Tinker Burns, the door of his rented Jeep Wagoneer already open, turned and said, “What’s the best way to Middleburg?”
Mott turned around slowly to stare at Burns for several seconds. “You don’t want to go to Middleburg.”
“Why not?”
“The snow.”
“I got four-wheel drive and snow tires. Besides, a lot of it’s melted by now.”
Mott examined Burns for another five seconds before giving directions. “Straight out the Pike till you get to Leesburg. Then south on U.S. Fifteen till you hit U.S. Fifty. West on Fifty for seven or eight miles and you’ll be in Middleburg.”
“Thanks,” Burns said, got in the Wagoneer, started its engine and drove off as directed.
After watching him leave, Mott went back into the Wendy’s and located the pay phone next to the men’s toilet. He briefly considered the ethics of his decision, then looked up a name and phone number in his pocket address book and used a phone company credit card to place a long-distance call to Letty Melon, the former Mrs. Steadfast Haynes, at her 360-acre horse farm near Middleburg, Virginia.
Chapter 27
At a little past 5P.M. that Sunday, Hamilton Keyes stood at the large window of his library, staring out at the snow-blanketed garden and wondering what it would be like to go outside and build a twilight snowman. Finding it to be a mild temptation, easily resisted, he instead took a long swallow of his iced vodka and, without turning, made an announcement.
“After I resigned yesterday they offered to make me an ambassador.”
Muriel Keyes was sitting on the odd-size leather couch, wearing gray slacks, white Reeboks, a turtleneck of black silk and holding a Scotch and water. The announcement made her slosh a little of her drink onto a burled- walnut parsons table.
Using a paper napkin to mop up the spilled water and alcohol, she said, “You resigned?”
Keyes turned from the window. “I believe we’ve arrived at one of our ghastly need-to-know times.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do believe we have.”
“There’s a catch, of course,” Keyes said as he crossed the room and sat down. They now sat exactly as he and Gilbert Undean had sat on the previous Friday evening: Keyes in the leather armchair and his wife in Undean’s spot on the couch.
Keyes had another quick swallow of his drink, then made an exploratory pass over his bald head with the palm of his left hand and said, “The catch goes by the name of Steadfast Haynes.”
“Who died.”
“But who, before dying, managed to finish his memoirs, entitled
She began a smile that ended as a laugh that was almost a giggle. “He didn’t—call them that?”
“Afraid so.”
“What a juicy read they must be.”
“More than juicy, I’d say. Steady probably told everything he suspected, which is enormous, and all he knew, which is alarming.”
She nodded gravely and studied her husband for a moment. “From what you’ve said, I assume you haven’t read them yet.”
“All I did was dispatch Gilbert Undean to buy all rights from Steady’s son.”
She nodded again, this time as if at some nagging question. “Which is why Mr. Undean came calling Friday night.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember his name,” she said. “The son’s.”
“Granville.”
“He must be fully grown now. Didn’t Steady always keep him parked somewhere—or warehoused? What is he now—twenty-three or -four?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Good Lord. He was here for the services, of course. Have you talked to him?”
“No. I merely instructed Undean to offer him fifty thousand dollars for all rights to his father’s memoirs. The offer was rejected.”
“Do the memoirs have anything to do with Mr. Undean’s death?”
“I really don’t know.”
