After a moment, Barton set it aside and looked expectantly at me. My hand touched the wrapped photograph, and I paused to explain its presence before I brought it out.
“My husband believes this might be significant,” I said, “so it’s important that no more fingerprints get on it. I have to hold it. I’m sorry, but he was most insistent.”
“I understand,” Barton said.
I took it out, carefully unwrapped the picture, and then held it so he could see it. I saw Barton frown, so I asked, “Do you know the man she’s with?”
“It’s difficult to say, isn’t it? It surprises me, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“If Cindy had wanted to remove his image, she would have cut him out with scissors. I can’t imagine the circumstances where she would just tear it like that.”
“Maybe she was angry about the breakup. Do you happen to know who she was dating at the time she died?”
Barton sighed. “She was adamant about keeping her personal life and her work with me separate, so I never pried. Honestly, though I always thought of her more as a daughter than an employee, I wanted to respect her privacy.” He smiled softly as he added, “At least I decided to after the first time I asked her something personal. She may have looked serene on the outside, but the young lady had a spirit of fire.”
I set the photograph aside, and retrieved the next picture. It was one of Barton and Cindy together, and as I handed it to him, I saw tears start to form in his eyes.
“I’d forgotten she had a copy of this.”
“When was it taken?”
“Two years ago. We were in Chicago on business at one of my other hotels, and as we were walking through the lobby during the St. Patrick’s Day celebration, my manager took the photograph. I wasn’t pleased at the time—I dislike having my picture taken—but Cindy decided she wanted one of us together, and I had to be smiling. I did as she asked, and had a copy made for her. Excuse me a moment.”
He left me alone in the study, and I wondered if he was stepping away to collect himself. It was clear he was being tortured by my little show-and-tell, but it was at his request, so I wasn’t going to stop unless he asked me to.
When he came back, he was holding an oil painting, and its subject matter startled me. It was the same image as the photograph I’d found, carefully reproduced by someone very good with a paintbrush. “This hangs in my bedroom hallway,” he said. “I never showed it to Cindy.”
“I’m sure she would have liked it,” I said.
“I doubt it,” he said with a smile. “She would have thought I was indulging a whim. That’s why I kept it to myself.”
He leaned the painting against the wall, and then took his seat. I pulled out the jewelry box, and Barton reached for it.
“She made this herself,” he said as he stroked the wood. He opened it, looked through the jewelry, and then set it aside. “I’ll go through it later. Is there anything else?”
I pulled out the last photograph, one clearly taken several years ago. Barton studied it a moment, and then he explained, “This was taken before she came to work for me.” He pointed to the two other girls in the photograph. “This is Samantha, and her name is Kayla.”
“Have you met them?”
“Absolutely. They came to my Christmas party every year. Two delightful young women, I must say.”
“So, the three of them stayed in touch?”
“Yes. In particular, Cindy and Samantha spoke every week, and they often took their vacations together.”
“Where can my husband find Samantha?”
“Do you think she might know something?” he asked, intent on my reply.
“I can’t say, but Zach always says that police work is asking a lot of questions, and then boiling down the answers until something significant occurs to him. It might be nothing, but I’m sure my husband would like to speak with her.”
“I’ll get you her address,” he said.
He picked up the telephone, whispered into it, and after a brief pause, he handed it to me.
“Samantha Riggins can be reached at the following number and address.” It was a local area code, and I knew the address as being in the South End, one of Charlotte’s neighborhoods. At least Zach wouldn’t have to fly across the country to interview her.
I handed the telephone back to Barton, and then looked back into the bag. “Sorry, that’s all that I could find. The police have a few items they’re holding for the investigation, but as I said, the necklace didn’t turn up.”
“Perhaps the cleaning crew will find it.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll send my best maids to work on her apartment right now. When they’re finished, I’ll go through anything else they might find.”
I frowned at that, and Barton quickly added, “Don’t think what you did tonight didn’t matter. You walked in with me, and when I couldn’t take it, you carried out my wishes. These things you found,” he said as he swept a hand toward the coffee table, “mean more to me than this hotel, or any of my other holdings. You’ve done me a great service tonight. Is there any way I can repay you?”
“You’re already putting us up in your nicest suite,” I said. “That’s thanks enough.”
“Nonsense. That was to aid your husband in helping me, more than anything else. The debt I owe you is
