FOUR 

I turned around to see Steve Murdoch. His jaw was set and a furrow deep enough to plant corn creased his brow.

“Steve? Are you okay?” Clearly, he wasn’t. The tiny black cloud I’d noticed surrounding him earlier at the Bonaparte House was now a full-blown thunderstorm. The skin of my arms broke out into goose bumps.

“Okay?” His voice was hard and bitter. “In less than thirty minutes, as long as it takes me to get squiffed, I’ll be just fine.”

I glanced down. He had one hand in his jacket pocket and the other held a six-pack of beer. Crap. Steve was a recovering alcoholic with a lot of years of sobriety under his belt. Was I supposed to remind him of that? What if I said the wrong thing? I had no idea who his Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor was, which might have been a good thing because now I wouldn’t have to make a decision about whether to butt in. There were probably guidelines about this situation somewhere on the Internet, but there was no time or means to look anything up. So I just said, “Do you want to talk?”

He emitted a bitter snort. “Talking sounds good. Right after I drink this six-pack.”

“Can I . . . call someone for you?” Lame, lame, lame.

Steve eyed me. “Like who? My wife?” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and held up a disk about the size of a half dollar. His sobriety chip. He tossed it and it sailed along the bank of cash registers like a Frisbee, then hit the counter and landed in front of the jewelry display. “She’s home crying over Jim MacNamara. I’m glad that son of a bitch is dead.”

I heard the cashier suck in a breath. Steve’s tone was low and menacing.

I took an involuntary step away from him. I couldn’t help the thought that popped into my head. Steve clearly hated Jim MacNamara. He had access to my ladies’ room and to my kitchen. Could he have killed the lawyer while I was out getting my hair done? “Where’s Ewan?” I said softly.

A look of horror replaced the rage on Steve’s face at my reference to his son. He blinked, his eyes traveling from the cashier, who had her hand on the phone, to me, then down to his own hand. His fingers relaxed their grip and he reached around me to set the six-pack on the counter. “I won’t be needing this,” he said, and trudged toward the glass doors.

I handed the cashier my credit card, my foot tapping as I willed her to hurry. While she ran the card, I went to the jewelry counter and picked up Steve’s chip. I rubbed the edges and read the number: fifteen years. How bad would things have to get before someone would throw away fifteen years of sobriety? I signed the electronic pad, grabbed my bright orange plastic bag, and left the store.

Steve was leaned up against the brick building. His chest rose and fell as he breathed deep and exhaled in turn, emitting frosty clouds that glowed white in the exterior lighting.

“I’m a cheap date,” he said with a small laugh. “In the old days it would have taken at least a two-fer to get me where I needed to be.”

He used the Canadian phrase for a case of beer. I couldn’t imagine downing twenty-four beers in one sitting. Twenty-four dark chocolate bars? Maybe.

Steve filled the silence. “Ewan isn’t home. He’s off visiting a friend in Utica for a couple of days. So at least he didn’t see his mother bawling her eyes out over a man who was just using her.”

Cold sliced through me. I pulled my knit hat into place over my ears and adjusted my scarf around my neck. “Are you going home?” I asked. None of my business, but it didn’t seem like a good idea for him.

“Home?” He gave a brittle laugh. “No, that hasn’t been a home for a while now. Even though she told me it was over with MacNamara and like an idiot I believed her. But nothing was ever the same.”

Awkward. I wasn’t close to Jennifer, but we’d always been friendly with each other. I reached out for Steve’s hand. He looked startled. PDAs were probably not his thing. I pressed the sobriety chip into his calloused palm. “You might want this,” I said.

He stared at the disk, then rubbed the surface and placed it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said, and strode off across the parking lot.

My breath came out in a frosty whoosh as I watched Steve get into his truck. A plume of exhaust blew out the tailpipe. He didn’t wait for the truck to warm up before he left. I wondered where he was headed.

The stars sparkled in the night air as I went in the opposite direction. It was only a two-block walk to the Camelot, but I wished I had my Honda. Not so much for protection from the cold, though that would have been welcome, but because it had been a long, long day and I was bone tired. And even though I’d walked this stretch of sidewalk hundreds of times, there hadn’t been a killer out there. Now there was. And I wondered if I’d just seen him heading out of town, maybe out of the country.

And selfishly, I wondered, if Steve had killed Jim MacNamara, who was going to fix my bathrooms?

A thin layer of ice covered the concrete sidewalk. I walked as fast as I dared. Last thing I needed was to slip and break a wrist. I checked into the Camelot and texted Jack and Liza so somebody would know where I was. After locking my door and window, I climbed into a comfortable warm bed, broke into my chocolate bar, and looked at my phone messages. Sheldon Todd had left me a voice mail, probably while I was in the bathroom. Staying at River Rock. Can you meet for breakfast tomorrow, nine a.m.?

*   *   *

The River Rock was a 1960s-era hotel on the opposite end of town. Too new to have vintage charm, too old to appeal to the younger crowd, it sat in limbo waiting for someone to infuse a whole lot of cash into sprucing it up. Or burn it down so some big investor could come in and build a brand-spanking-new resort on the property. The three-story boxy building was covered in wooden shingles, weathered to a dark brown over the years. Curls of white paint peeled from the trim around the front door. There wasn’t a spot of color anywhere. Angela could have at least put up a wreath of fall-colored silk flowers or something, or hung a bright “Welcome” sign.

Inside I had my pick of tables, so I sat by the windows overlooking the water. The sun’s weak November rays warmed me through the glass, but I still shivered. The water was gray and choppy this morning. The server set a carafe of coffee and a little metal pitcher of half-and-half in front of me, just as a man approached the table.

I’d never met Sheldon Todd in person, only talked to him on the phone. “Georgie?” he said.

“Mr. Todd? Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand, which he grabbed and pumped up and down before lowering himself into the chair opposite me. He pushed his chair back a bit to allow room for his round, Santa-esque belly. “Coffee?”

“Thanks.” Sheldon flipped his cup over in its saucer and I poured from the carafe. I watched, fascinated, as he methodically opened five sugar packets and dumped them into his cup, then began to swirl his spoon until he created a syrupy whirlpool. No cream, just a whole lot of sugar, the way the Greeks like it. But Greek coffee is very strong, stronger even than espresso, and can stand up to the sweetness. This was pure American stuff, probably brewed in a Bunn-O-Matic like I had back at the Bonaparte House. My teeth hurt just watching.

After Sheldon had taken a good long draught, eyes closed, he set the cup down and looked at me. “Normally this would be confidential between me and my client, but your mother said she wasn’t feeling well, so I should call you.” The voice was clipped and businesslike.

Melanie Ashley, formerly known as Shirley Bartlett. Soap opera star and my estranged mother. She’d only been back in my life for a little while, but she was already dumping things she didn’t want to deal with off on me. Not feeling well, my eye. Her gunshot wound had healed nicely and she would have no lasting effects from her splenectomy, other than some scarring from the surgery. Now she was living in the lap of luxury at an exclusive spa, with a personal assistant at her beck and call twenty-four/seven.

Still, I was interested to hear what Sheldon had to say.

“I’m working on a new lead,” he said, not waiting for my reply.

My heart sank. My genealogy had turned out to be a can of big fat lethal worms and people had died because of it. Much as I was thrilled to find out that I had family still living, it was a big adjustment. Not to mention there was a lot of money involved due to a complicated trust that was going to vest in a few months. And there was another complication, one I hadn’t thought about before. With Jim MacNamara dead, who was administering the trust?

“Don’t tell me you’ve found another branch of the family.” I unfolded my napkin and put it in my lap, even though we hadn’t ordered yet. My fingers itched to refold the napkin into the rosette shape we used at the Bonaparte House. Restaurant origami.

“Let’s order, then I’ll explain.”

A reprieve. I opened the menu. Inch-high letters at the top of the first page read, Home of the One and Only Thousand Island Dressing! Curiosity tempted me. What could I order at nine in the morning that would be good with a sauce? Eggs maybe? That sounded a bit nasty. It was too early for a burger. There were bottles of premade dressing at the front, by the cash registers, so my taste test could wait for another time. I settled on scrambled eggs and local sausage, with a side of buttered raisin toast, and vowed to have salad for lunch.

We gave our orders to the server, then closed up the menus and put them back into the metal holder on the table. Sheldon took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back.

“As you know, your great-great-great-grandfather, Elihu Bloodworth, was a bit of a player.”

That was putting it kindly. More like, he was a bit of a criminal, with two wives in different places and children by each one. “Right,” I said. “And my mother and I are descended from one of his children by his second, bigamous marriage. My friend Liza is descended from one of the legitimate children.” I was glad to repeat this information. It helped me keep it straight in my own head.

Sheldon folded his hands over his belly. “Correct. And your mother, the delightful Ms. Ashley . . .” His eyes took on a far-off expression. My nipped, tucked, enhanced, and Botoxed mother seemed to have that effect on a lot of men. “. . . hired me to trace the genealogies of all of Elihu’s children down to the present generation, with help from her assistant.”

I knew all this. Caitlyn Black, my mother’s minion, was a pretty good researcher, as well as being extremely loyal. “And Liza, my mother, my daughter, and I are the only ones left.”

“That we know of.”

Well, nertz. Elihu Bloodworth, lumber king of Northern New York after the Civil War, had given each of his children a set sum of money, then tied up the rest of his millions in a generation-skipping trust that would be ending legally next February. My mother and Liza were the beneficiaries of the trust. My daughter and I had no immediate interest. But upon my mother’s death, anything she hadn’t spent would come to Callista, which was how Melanie had set up her will, and which was fine with me.

“Have you traced all the descendants?” I swear I wasn’t worried about anyone else sharing the trust. Large sums of money seemed to be within my grasp lately, but disappeared almost as quickly as they came, and I was mostly okay with that. Not that I would turn it down if some of that money made its way to my bank account, but my life was pretty good and I had everything I needed and almost everything I wanted. And not everything I wanted could be bought.

But not everybody felt as I did. The trust was reputed to hold multiple millions of dollars, due to compounding over the last hundred years or more. It was a pile of money, and people had died because other people had gotten greedy. If it was just Liza, Melanie, Callista, and me left, I could feel safe. We weren’t about to kill each other.

The waitress set our plates down in front of us. I picked up a piece of raisin toast. Disappointing. I’d hoped for better, but it turned out to be a droopy triangle of grocery store bread drenched in margarine. Not even real butter. The two points flapped like the wings of an unhealthy bird as I set the bread back down on the plate and sighed.

Sheldon, however, attacked his plate with gusto. The fork clinked against the plate as he speared a piece of ham and a hunk of fried egg, dripping with yolk. I wished I could take him back to the Bonaparte House and give him a real breakfast. Which would mean I could get one too. But who knew when I’d be able to return?

He swallowed and wiped his rather fleshy lips with the napkin. “I’ve traced all but one of the children from both marriages and your daughter is the last of the line, as far as I know. But I’ve reached a dead end with one line, which is why I’m in town. I’ll be digging through documentation at the newspaper, the library, the village and town historical societies, as well as some private sources.”

So this might not be over. No. No more heirs will be found, I told myself firmly. Still, I had to ask. “Do you expect to find anyone?” I fiddled my fork into my scrambled eggs. They looked dry and hard with an unappetizing brownish skin attesting to the fact they’d been cooked in too hot a pan and had probably been sitting under a heat lamp too long.

“I’ve traced the line down to the 1940s. Your distant cousin Percy disappears from the records at that time. He’s the one I need to confirm. After that, I’m confident we’ll have everyone accounted for.”

There was something I’d been wondering about. “Wouldn’t the lawyers have been keeping track of who the descendants were? I mean, the MacNamaras have been overseeing the trust since it was formed.”

Sheldon nodded. “It would certainly help if I could see the lawyer’s files, at least the genealogy charts, which they must have if they’re at all competent. Can you ask them?”

I had, and Jim MacNamara had told me rather snootily that he wasn’t at liberty to say, since I wasn’t his client for this matter. And my mother couldn’t be bothered to ask. Or if she had, she hadn’t told me. When it suited her purposes, she could withhold a lot of information. Of course, the point was moot now that Jim MacNamara was dead. I wondered again who would take over managing the trust. Presumably Ben, the son who was only a couple years out of law school.

“When will you be finished?”

He grinned. “With you, my lovely company, or with breakfast? This was so good I might just order a second helping.”

On my mother’s dime, no doubt. I hadn’t really learned anything new from this meeting, except that Sheldon was not exactly a gourmand, and there was one line of descent that had to be ruled out. Sheldon could have given Melanie or her assistant, Caitlyn, that information in an e-mail or phone call instead of wasting my time. Although you could never predict whether Melanie would talk or not, so I guess this meeting over breakfast, if you could call this pitiful meal that, had been worth it.

My cell phone buzzed in my purse. Saved by the vibration. It was rude, but I pulled out the phone and looked at the display. My cook, Dolly, had sent me a text. “Excuse me, would you, Sheldon? I’ve been, uh, waiting for this.”

He nodded as I rose. “Don’t worry about the bill. I’ll put it on my expense account. You going to eat that raisin toast?”

“Take what you want. And let me know what you find.” I walked toward the display of souvenir items and selected a bottle of salad dressing. “Put it on his tab, please?” Angela Wainwright, who owned the River Rock, had appeared behind the counter.

“You’re not going to try to replicate my secret recipe, are you?” Angela’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She’d never really had the Three Musketeers attitude most Bonaparte Bay business owners had. All for one and one for all. Not a team player. Not a member of the Chamber of Commerce.

I laughed insincerely. “Good to see you, Angela. No, my palate’s not sophisticated enough to do that, though I could probably guess a few ingredients.” I didn’t owe her an explanation, so I didn’t say anything more. She apparently wanted the sale more than she wanted to know what my intentions were regarding the dressing, because she simply nodded.

I made my way out the doors and onto the porch. The sun was bright but it wasn’t enough to warm the air, which assaulted me like an iceberg hitting the Titanic. I thought about Liza and my mother over on Valentine Island and wished Liza had closed up early this year. No one should be out on a boat in weather this cold, and eventually they’d all have to move back to the mainland.

Finally, I looked down at the cell phone in my hand and tapped the icon to retrieve my text message. Call me ASAP. My gut clenched. Dolly rarely texted me, knowing I wasn’t good about keeping my phone charged, something I was trying to be better about. That “ASAP” bothered me. My fingers tingled with cold as I dialed, then shoved my gloveless hand into my pocket.

“Hello?” Dolly rasped, her voice roughened by years of cigarette smoking although she had finally quit.

“Dol, it’s me. Georgie. What’s going on?” My teeth chattered and I moved to another spot on the porch, where the landscaping might provide a windbreak.

“It’s that idiot son of mine. Russ has gone and gotten himself arrested.”

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. During the years Russ had worked for us as a dishwasher, and most recently just a few months ago, he’d had a number of scrapes with the law. Mostly petty stuff, like public urination. Brawling. “Forgetting” to pay his tab at the Island Roadhouse. Largely alcohol-related. “What for?” I asked.

“Murder.”