Detective Mort Shelley walked into the Grove Real Estate Agency with the late Georgette Grove’s scrapbook under his arm. He and everyone else on the investigative team, including Jeff, had gone through every page of the book, and found not one newspaper clipping in it that might be tied to Georgette having suddenly recognized someone. The scrapbook covered many years, and most of the pictures were of Georgette at civic affairs, or receiving an honor, or smiling with minor celebrities to whom she had sold property in the area.
“She may have had the scrapbook on her desk, but whoever she recognized isn’t in it,” was Jeff’s conclusion.
But it’s serving its purpose, Shelley thought. Returning it gives me a good reason to have another chat with Robin and Henry. Robin was at her desk, and looked up immediately on hearing the door open. Her professional welcoming smile vanished, however, when she saw who her visitor was.
“Just returning the scrapbook, like I promised,” Mort said mildly. “Thanks for lending it to me.”
“I hope it was useful,” Robin said. She had papers on her desk and dropped her eyes to them, her body language making it clear that she was too busy to be interrupted.
With the air of a man who has nothing to do and plenty of time to do it in, Mort sat down on the sectional sofa that faced Robin’s desk.
Clearly annoyed, she looked up at him. “If you have a question, I’ll be glad to answer it.”
Mort hoisted his ample body to his feet. “That couch is comfortable, but too deep for my taste. Can hardly get out of it. Maybe I’d better pull up a chair by you.”
“Mr, uhmm . . . I’m sorry. I know we’ve been introduced, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Shelley. Like the poet. Mort Shelley.”
“Mr. Shelley, I went to the prosecutor’s office yesterday to tell Mr. MacKingsley everything I knew that might be helpful to your investigation. I can’t add a single word to what I said earlier, and while this agency is still functioning I have a job to do.”
“And so do I, Ms. Carpenter, and so do I. It’s half-past twelve. Have you had lunch yet?”
“No. I’ll wait till Henry returns. He’s out with a client.”
“Henry’s a busy man, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I guess he is.”
“Now suppose he didn’t come back till, let’s say, four o’clock? Would you have something sent in? I mean, you wouldn’t wait to have lunch till four o’clock would you?”
“No. I’d put the sign with the clock on the door and run across the street and grab something.”
“Isn’t that what you did yesterday, Ms. Carpenter?”
“I already told you that I brought my lunch in yesterday because Henry was going to take a client out.”
“Yes, but you didn’t tell us that you put that little clock on the door sometime before two o’clock did you? According to that sweet, elderly lady in the curtain shop down the street, she happened to notice that sign on the door when she passed here at 2:05.”
“What are you talking about? Oh, I see what you’re getting at. With all that’s been going on, I had a dreadful headache. I ran to the drugstore to get some aspirin. I was in and out in a few minutes.”
“Uh-huh. On another subject, my partner, Detective Ortiz, was talking to your ex-half-sister-in-law, if that’s the proper way to put it, a little while ago.”
“Lena?”
“That’s right, Lena. Now you told us you hadn’t talked to Charley in three months or so. Lena says you had dinner with him at Patsy’s in New York less than two weeks ago. Who’s right?”
“I am. About three months ago he just happened to phone when my car wouldn’t start. He offered to get it started, then run it over to the dealer. I was meeting a friend in New York at Patsy’s, and he drove me in. That night he said he wanted me to take him there for his birthday, and I jokingly said, ‘It’s a date.’ Then, when he left a message to remind me about it, I left a return message on his phone saying it wouldn’t work out. The poor guy thought I was serious about going.”
“Are you involved with any one particular man at this time?”
“No, I am not. I presume you’re inferring that the ‘one particular man’ is Ted Cartwright. As I told all of you yesterday, he is just a friend. We dated a few times. Period.”
“One last question, Ms. Carpenter. Your half brother’s former wife tells us that you asked Charley to allow you and your rich boyfriend to stay overnight in some of the houses he was looking after for people who were away. Is that true?”
Robin Carpenter stood up. “That does it, Mr. Shelley. Tell Mr. MacKingsley that if he or any of his lackeys want to ask me any more questions, they can contact my lawyer. You’ll have his name tomorrow.”