“She had various investments and her home. The real estate will need to go through probate. There are numerous legal steps that must be gone through before you will receive the property. It could take up to a year, I’m afraid.”
“That’s not a problem. I don’t need the money.”
“I have inventory lists of her personal possessions. I do that for all my clients. That way you’ll know exactly what you’ll be getting. I can give you a copy now if you’d like.”
Puller shrugged but nodded and Mason produced several sheets of paper stapled together, which he handed to Puller.
“They’re very recent,” said Mason. “We had just gone over her estate about a month ago.” “Did she give any reason why?”
“No. But we usually met about once a year to make sure everything was up to date and that she didn’t want to make any changes in her estate planning.”
“I see.”
Puller ran his gaze over the pages. There were things like books, pictures, jewelry, some Hummel collectibles and the like on there. He didn’t really want any of it.
Mason said, “I’ll take your contact info from you and keep you posted as we progress through the stages. Once the house is titled in your name you can do with it what you want. Live in it, rent it, or sell it.”
“Fine, whatever.”
“And her stock, bank, and bond portfolios were fairly substantial. She made some good investments over the years. I have records on all of that as well.”
“Okay.”
Mason studied him. “But then you don’t strike me as the sort to whom any of that much matters.”
“I’ve never owned a home. And I’m not sure I know what a stock or bond looks like.”
Mason smiled. “That’s actually refreshing.
Most heirs I deal with want it all and the sooner the better.”
“When was the last time you talked to my aunt?”
Mason sat back and clasped his hands behind his head, revealing sweat patches under his arms although the room was cool. “Let me think. Thursday of last week, I suppose. She called me.” “How did she sound?”
“Sound? She sounded normal.”
“What was the call about?”
“Just routine matters. She had a capital gains question she needed an answer for.”
“So nothing that was bothering her?”
Mason lowered his arms. “Not that I was aware of.”
Puller had interviewed thousands of people over the years. Some were telling the truth, most had been lying. Liars gave telltale signs. Breathing sped up just a bit. Eye contact was lost. Arms retreated to the torso and clenched, like the formation of a little cocoon to hide the false statement, or at least the bearer thereof. A good interviewer could spot the liar nearly ninety percent of the time.
Based on that, Puller was pretty sure that Mason had just lied to him, but he didn’t know to what degree.
Puller said nothing. He was waiting for Mason to ask the question that he should have already asked if he had been telling the truth.
Mason said, “Do you think your aunt was worried about something?”
Puller didn’t answer right away. He was thinking about one of his aunt’s statements:
People not being what they seemed.
He wondered if Griffin Mason fit into that category.
And he wished he had not shared the contents of his aunt’s letter with the police. But he couldn’t change that now.
“I don’t know. Like I said, I hadn’t really communicated with her over the years.”
Mason studied him closely and then shrugged. “Accidents happen, I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier to accept someone passing. But you can take some solace in the fact that Betsy thought so highly of you that she would leave you all her property.”
“Would you happen to have a key to her house? And a copy of the will for me to take?” “Actually, I do. Betsy entrusted a set of keys to me when she had surgery a while back. I tried to give them back, but she insisted that I keep them.”
Mason opened a drawer, took out a silver lockbox, opened it, rummaged through some keys in there, and pulled out a set of two.
“Front door and rear doors. Give me a minute to make a copy of the will.”
He ran the pages through a copier that was set against one wall of his office, then handed the still warm pages to Puller.
Puller stood and slipped a card out of his pocket. “Here’s my contact info for down the road.”
Mason took the card. “Are you going over to the house now?”
“No. In the morning.”
“Will you be staying in Paradise long?”
“I don’t know,” said Puller. “I guess once you get to Paradise it’s hard to leave, right?”
He walked out.
CHAPTER 25
Puller parked his Corvette about a block down from the house and walked the rest of the way. Despite what he had told Mason he had decided to check out his aunt’s place now. He kept a lookout for police cruisers. Even armed with keys and his aunt’s last will and testament, he wouldn’t put it past Hooper to bust his balls if he got the slightest chance.
He walked up the driveway and glanced over at Cookie’s house. It was dark now and he envisioned the “young’un” partying into the wee hours in Paradise. He thought he heard Sadie yapping from inside the house, but kept walking.
The yapping made Puller start missing AWOL, his cat.
He used the key to open his aunt’s front door, went inside, and closed the door behind him. The house was dark. He didn’t want to arouse suspicion by turning on any interior lights, so he pulled his penlight from his pocket and started moving around. He had the interior of the place pretty much memorized from his earlier visit.
He walked through the kitchen and entered his aunt’s bedroom. The bed was made. She had not gone to sleep that night, obviously. She had gone into the backyard, either voluntarily or not, and there her life had ended.
A nightstand next to the bed was filled with books. His aunt had been a reader when Puller had known her all those years ago, and she had obviously kept up that habit. He scanned the titles with his light. Mostly mysteries and thrillers. His aunt did not strike him as the love story type. If she was going to cry, it would be for a legitimate reason as opposed to a manufactured one.
Puller’s light skimmed over the top of the nightstand and then came back to it. He risked turning on a light because he wanted to get a clearer view.
With the table lamp turned on he leaned down and saw that his first impression had been right. A small rectangular shape with a slight dust pattern around its edges. He picked up a Robert Crais paperback from the shelf below and laid it on the rectangle. It didn’t fit.
Too small.
He tried a Sue Grafton hardback.
Too big.
He opened the drawer and saw a small black journal inside. He lifted it out, opened it. The pages were blank. He placed the journal down on the rectangle. A perfect fit.
There must have been another journal. And it seemed to be missing. And something told Puller that that
