As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship!—How much of pleasure or of pain it was in his power to bestow!—How much of good or evil must be done by him!
—Pride and Prejudice
The office of Wade Evans, CPA, occupied one corner of an unassuming building on Tillamook’s main street. Evans had suggested ten thirty when Emily called for an appointment, and she was right on time.
She opened the outer door onto a reception room empty of receptionist. A bare, somewhat battered wooden desk took up one side of the room. Across from it, under the windows, stood a row of chairs that looked like refugees from a farm kitchen. The door to the inner office stood ajar.
Emily clicked across the linoleum floor, but just as she raised her hand to knock, a deep voice called out, “Come on in!”
She pushed the door open and found herself face-to-face with a white-haired man who, judging by the length of the jean-clad legs and the size of the cowboy boots slung up on his desk, must be well over six feet tall. He was leaning back in his wooden desk chair and aiming a balled-up sheet of paper at a point above her head. She dodged to the side and looked up to see a wire wastebasket suspended above the door. The paper ball found its target with inches to spare.
He smiled—not at her—then swung his legs off the desk and stepped around it to shake her hand. His spare frame must have had several inches on Luke, who was six foot two. Emily had to crane her neck to look at him.
“Wade Evans. You must be the niece.”
“Emily Cavanaugh.” His grip would have done justice to a blacksmith—a comparison no doubt inspired by the dozens of photographs of horses that jockeyed for wall space with bookcases and framed certificates. Most of the photos included Evans himself.
“Take a load off.” He gestured to the wooden armchair, twin of his own but without the wheels, which stood in front of the desk. So far Emily had not glimpsed a square inch of fabric or upholstery in the entire place.
“So what can I do you for?”
She blinked at the colloquialism but decided that if he really meant to swindle her, he probably wouldn’t advertise the fact. “I’d like to get a general idea of the state of Beatrice’s possessions. Well, mine now, or as soon as probate goes through. I have a list of the properties and their market value, but I’d like more detail—what condition are they in, are they profitable, and so on.”
Evans shot her a shrewd glance. “How well’d you know your aunt?”
“We were pretty close years ago. I hadn’t seen her for a long time.”
“Well, you should know Beatrice only dealt with the best. When she bought a place, she had it fixed up and kept up, and everything she owned brought top dollar. If a place couldn’t pull its own weight…” He slashed his forefinger across his throat and made a pffft sound through his teeth.
“That would certainly be my expectation. Windy Corner is in excellent shape. I just thought it possible that with so many properties and her getting older, things might have started to slip a little.”
“No way. She didn’t do it all herself, mind. She used a property management firm here in Tillamook. Practically kept them in business single-handed. But she made sure they did their job right.”
“I see.” Emily didn’t know how to ask her most pressing question, which was why Aunt Beatrice had chosen to employ Evans, who was now leaning back in his chair again and trying to balance a pencil eraser-down on the tip of his finger. Neither he nor his surroundings exuded professional efficiency. But on the other hand, he did seem straightforward—not the type to try siphoning Beatrice’s money into a cozy retreat in the Caymans.
“I can give you a thumb drive with all Beatrice’s records if you want to have a look-see.”
Emily swallowed. That at least sounded efficient. But although she knew what a thumb drive was—only just—she had no way to make use of one nor any clue how. “I—don’t have a computer with me.” She held her breath, hoping not to be informed she could just use Beatrice’s. She hadn’t seen a computer in the house, but neither had she toured every room.
Evans raised one eyebrow and his mouth quirked. “Chip off the old Luddite block, eh? No prob. I’ve got old-fashioned files too.” He pushed out of his chair and reached the file cabinet in two long strides. With no fumbling, he pulled out a fat but perfectly neat accordion file envelope and placed it in her lap. “That’s everything but the kitchen sink. No mortgage on the sink, I promise.” He winked and returned to his chair.
Emily decided Beatrice’s employing Evans had not been the first sign of senile dementia after all. In fact, she might be able to trust him to give her an informed opinion on the development issue.
“I would like your advice about something. I’ve been approached by a couple of people who are anxious for me to either sell some properties or use them to help Stony Beach grow. I know Beatrice was dead against it, and I can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect either. What’s your perspective?”
Evans leaned forward on his elbows, and his bushy brows drew together. “Dead against it. Funny you should say it just like that.”
An invisible caterpillar crawled up Emily’s spine. “Do you mean…” Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t say the words.
“I mean, those people who’ve been pestering you might’ve taken it into their heads to put Beatrice out of the picture. Beatrice die of acute gastroenteritis? Yeah, and my prize stallion might get up and fly.”
Emily swallowed. “Agnes Beech said the same thing. I thought it was just an old woman’s delusion.”
He shook his head. “Not much gets past Agnes Beech. Ask me, that doctor and that sheriff up there’re either blind, lazy, or in the mayor’s pocket. I’d bet a hundred to one your aunt was murdered.”