“Daryl’s cell phone.”
She sagged back in her chair. “I’m pretty sure it’s ruined, Bailey Ruth. Besides, I don’t see how finding it would help.”
“We don’t need to find it.” I was impatient. “Look at it, Kathleen.
Why did he save your picture?”
“To cause me trouble.” Her eyes narrowed. “I see. Anybody could
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look at my picture and say there was a motive for his murder. So maybe the other pictures—”
I patted her hand. “Exactly.” I flipped open the notebook. “Let’s take the photos in order. Why would Daryl keep a picture of Georgia Hamilton’s signature?” I’d scarcely had a glimpse before Kathleen erased it. “Do you have any idea what kind of document it was?” Kathleen looked thoughtful. “A contract of some kind. The thing that sticks in my mind is that the date wasn’t recent and I wondered why he’d have a picture of it now.”
A legal document? “Who was her lawyer?”
“Bob Shelton. Shelton, Shelton, and Shelton. He’s the middle one.
But there can’t be anything there. Bob was the best senior warden we ever had, and he’s honest to the core.” I wrote down
I felt we were making progress. “Who is the blond man?”
“Walter Carey.” Kathleen brushed back a tangle of dark hair, her gaze intent. “His wife’s in my bridge group. Harriet’s a sweetheart.
Things have been tough for them lately. She’s gone back to work and I know she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.” I didn’t have to tell Kathleen how disturbing that photo had been. If ever a man looked defeated, it was Walter Carey. “We’ll hope he turns out to be innocent, for his family’s sake, but we have to find out why Daryl took that picture. If you know why, you must tell me.”
“Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Walter and Daryl quarreled. No one knows why. Maybe Walter wasn’t bringing in enough money. He hasn’t looked prosperous for a couple of years, while Daryl’s cars got fancier and his clothes more expensive. The partnership broke up a week or so ago. Walter’s opened an office in a seedy little strip shopping center on the edge of town.” She looked in my direction. “There could be something there, Bailey Ruth. I heard
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Daryl kept all the clients.” She stopped, looked surprised. “Georgia Hamilton was one of Daryl’s clients.” And Daryl carried a picture of a contract with her signature in his cell phone.
Kathleen sniffed. “Georgia thought Daryl hung the moon. I guess maybe he was pretty good at what he did.” She shrugged. “But Georgia was Daryl’s client, not Walter’s. I guess that wouldn’t have anything to do with Walter. Anyway, about Walter, people have been gossiping—” In a small town, gossip is the second favorite sport after football.
“—and some of them say there has to be something wrong with Walter and maybe he’s been drinking too much. That may be true.
He had way too much to drink last week at a party at the country club. Harriet’s upset. She said Daryl didn’t have to be so insulting.”
“Insulting?” There can be bad feelings when a partnership breaks up, but what would be insulting?
Kathleen looked grim. “Daryl had the locks changed at the office. All of them, interior and exterior. They said Daryl had Butler’s Locksmiths there the same day Walter moved his things out. And that’s . . .” I wasn’t listening. Images popped in my kind: Walter’s despair, a locksmith at work, Chief Cobb surveying Daryl’s trashed den. I slapped shut the notebook. “Got to go. Hope I’m not too late.” I heard Kathleen’s startled cry, was almost away, then whipped back to the table to zoom the notebook and pen to their hiding place.
I called down, “Remember, don’t change your story. Stay calm. And stay away from the people who were pictured in his phone.” It could be dangerous for Kathleen to nose around. “Now I’m off. Back soon.”
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The phone rang. She picked up the receiver with a grim frown.
“Murdoch and—Murdoch Investments, Patricia Haskins speaking . . .
Oh, thanks, Wanda.” Her voice and face softened. “I’ve already had my coffee break. I’m staying in the office.” She listened, then glanced at the clock.
It was ten minutes after two.
“I intend to put in a full day.” Her tone was prim. “Mr. Murdoch left quite a bit of work for me to update. I was here at eight o’clock as usual and I’ll leave at five. I want everything to be in good order for Mr. Murdoch’s clients. I’ve made progress, but”—and now she sounded huffy—“it would be easier if the phone didn’t keep ringing.
Oh no, not you, Wanda. I’ve had a bunch of calls, the press and the police and some people who don’t have any manners and think I’ll tell them things I don’t even know about when it’s not my place to talk about Mr. Murdoch. Worst of all, during the lunch hour, there were five calls where someone hung up when I answered. I don’t know what the world is coming to. The caller ID said ‘Unknown.’
Unknown and Unwanted.” She sniffed in disgust.
As I wafted through the closed door behind her desk, I made a special note of her name: Patricia Haskins. Hired to do a job, she intended to do it whether anyone knew or not. She could as easily have painted her nails or closed the office early for a long and leisurely lunch.
I suspected that her old-fashioned sense of duty had spared this office a thorough ransacking. Unless I was very much mistaken, the lunch-hour calls had been made to determine whether the office was empty.
