secretive, amused, pleased. “Let’s catch dinner tomorrow night…See you then.”
Several times I was tempted to leave. I was always a restless spirit. Yet I felt almost certain I wasn’t imagining the aura of leashed excitement that emanated from Kim. She fixed an omelet, ate slowly, still reading the fashion magazine, but the purse was in view. After washing her dishes and straightening the kitchen, she walked to her desk and settled behind the computer. She clicked from site to site for travel to the French Riviera. The purse was now to one side, but within her peripheral vision. Besides, even if I found the will, I could scarcely float the envelope through the air. Surely at some point I would have an opportunity to explore the contents of that oh-so- tempting black leather handbag.
Time passed, but Kim made no move to prepare for bed. Every so often, she looked at her watch and frowned.
Was she waiting for someone to come? Was she waiting for the right moment to call one of the heirs?
I forced myself to be patient. Patience is a virtue. Deadly boring, perhaps, but virtuous. Wiggins would be proud of me. I wished I had a pad of paper, but I would organize in my mind. As the minutes passed, I reviewed what I knew to be true:
Susan Flynn announced after dinner Saturday evening that she would make a new will.
Susan died that night from an overdose of digitalis.
Traces of digitalis were found in the pot of cocoa and in her cup.
Susan’s medicines were kept on her bedside table.
Each guest was absent from the living room at some period before Susan Flynn retired.
From these facts, I could make these suppositions:
If Susan’s murder was a direct result of her announcement Saturday evening, the digitalis must have been taken from her bedroom after dinner and before she said good night to her guests.
If so, someone left the living room, hurried upstairs, filched a handful of digitalis tablets, returned downstairs. Either then or on another excursion from the living room, the murderer slipped into the kitchen and dropped the tablets into the pot which would hold Susan’s cocoa.
Unless the murderer had been observed entering or leaving Susan’s bedroom or dropping the tablets into the pot, there could never be proof of that person’s guilt. Jake’s and Gina’s fingerprints would be on the pot as well as Susan’s. I didn’t doubt that Chief Cobb had the results of the fingerprinting of the pot and no unexpected prints had been found.
I was daunted by the enormity of the task faced by Chief Cobb. Since he’d not been privy to Wiggins’s declarative announcement of Susan’s murder, the chief had to deal with the possibility of suicide or accident as well. No matter how strongly he felt that Susan’s death was a result of murder, he could not prove that claim.
I had to find proof for him.
Was I wasting time here in Kim Weaver’s apartment? I felt certain she had opened this morning’s mail, found Susan’s new will, and immediately decided to suppress the will.
However, Kim was not at Pritchard House during the critical time period when the digitalis was taken. She had no access to Susan’s pot of chocolate. Kim, in fact, very likely was unaware that Susan had been murdered. So far as I knew, there had been no public announcement of a murder investigation. Chief Cobb had no duty to announce an investigation, and truth to tell, he would merely bring about increased pressure from Mayor Lumpkin if he did so. Therefore, the general public was unaware that the cause of Susan’s death was in question. Apparently, rumors were swirling that she’d taken too much medicine, but so far as I knew there had been no hint of murder. Her death had come as no surprise to those who knew her. She had been gravely ill for several years.
Very likely, then, Kim’s theft of the will had no direct connection to Susan’s murder.
However, I was almost certain that Kim took the will. The only rational reason for Kim to suppress the will was in the belief that doing so would profit her.
I felt tantalizingly close to understanding what had unfolded that morning in the law office: Kim opened the mail, saw the new will, understood at once that the current heirs would receive a nice amount of money but nothing to compare with the several millions resulting from a division of the estate. Further, as an heiress, Peg Flynn might be even more attractive to Dave Lewis, and he was present at Pritchard House Saturday night.
Obviously, it was to the advantage of those who might benefit from the old will to be certain the new will never surfaced. It could be to Kim’s advantage to have that will and keep it hidden for a share in the riches. This argued that she knew someone who benefited well enough to assume that such an offer would be welcome.
In the course of her job, she had contacted the heirs to invite them to Wade Farrell’s office this afternoon. In that conversation, she could have acquainted one of them with the existence of the holographic will and offered to keep it secret in exchange for…something. Would it have occurred to her to make the offer to Dave Lewis? Quite possibly Kim was well aware of his connection to Peg and his interest in money from Susan.
In any event, I was seeking both the murderer and the will. I might discover one or both through Kim.
She clicked off the computer, rose, and walked restlessly around the room.
I glanced at the clock. Almost ten-thirty.
Her cell phone rang. She walked swiftly to the table, picked it up, flipped it open. “Hello.” She listened, wariness replaced by pleasure. Her smile of triumph was chilling. “I was beginning to wonder if you got my message…Of course I called from a pay phone. You’d better be at a pay phone right now…We can get some of those throwaway phone cards…I intend for us to keep in close touch.” Her tone was silky. “Very close touch. Now”—her face was set and hard—“I know what you want. You know what I want. I’m not going to budge.” A taunting smile flickered for an instant. “Oh, I think the idea will grow on you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I want your word in writing. We can make an exchange.” A frown tugged at her face. “Why so late?…Sure, I understand…The old brick plant? Isn’t it all locked up?…Wait a minute, let me get some paper.” Kim pulled a small notepad and pen from her purse.
I looked over her shoulder as she wrote:
She listened a moment more, drawing a series of bells and an airplane. “I’ll be there at eleven sharp.” She clicked off the cell. Her face drawn in thought, she rose and walked to a worn walnut desk, opened a bottom
