“Oh, no,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “The agreement between Russ and Bill stated that upon death, the surviving partner gains complete control of the business.
Growl is all Bill’s now.”
Twenty-Two
Dale didn’t look happy to see me. I didn’t take it personally. An air-conditioned breeze swirled around my ankles from his open doorway.
“What can I help you with? We’re not interested in a yard makeover.”
Not exactly the welcome wagon, was he?
“You don’t need one. Your yard is beautiful as is.” Nothing like a little buttering up to get what I wanted.
“Look I’m sorry to be rude, but I only get an hour for lunch.” The blue in his striped tie matched his eyes. “I have to get back in a few minutes.”
I cut to the chase. “I know you’re being blackmailed.”
His head snapped back as if I’d hit him. Well, maybe as if Kit had hit him. I didn’t know if I had that much force in me.
Over his shoulder, he called out, “Be right back, Kate,” and quickly closed the door behind him.
His handsome face transformed into something dark and ugly. He grabbed my arm. “How do you know that?”
I twisted out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”
Long fingers dove into his hair. “I’m sorry. It’s just—this whole thing has been crazy.”
193
“I overheard you in Greta’s kitchen the other day. The window was open, your voices carried. I heard you threaten Greta.”
His eyes widened as my meaning sank in. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t kill her.”
“No?”
“No!”
“But you did go through her house. Looking for?”
“The pictures.”
“Of?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“How did Russ contact you?” I asked.
“By letter. Anonymously. But it had to be him. Who else wanted that lawsuit dropped?”
“You never confronted him, face-to-face?”
“I did. Once. He played dumb.”
“Maybe he didn’t know,” I suggested.
“Had to have. Who else would have sent that letter?”
“Greta.”
His eyes widened. “No way.” He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“She was too . . . Mother Hubbard. No, it wasn’t her.”
“Do you still have the letters? Could I see them?”
“Why?”
“Comparison value.”
“Comparison? You mean someone else was getting blackmailed too?”
I nodded.
“Who?”
I borrowed his line. “I’d rather not say.”
“You’re married to that police detective, right?”
Six more days. “Yes.”
Worry lines creased his forehead. “Does he know . . .
about the blackmail?”
194
Heather Webber
