I walked into the kitchen and saw Trav in the pantry, studying what looked like a box of pancake mix. Beyond him, in the family room, Harris sat slumped in a chair before the TV, abusing the remote.
“Any luck?” I said.
“I’m going cross-eyed reading these labels.”
“Told you from the start,” Harris said without looking up. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Can I borrow your flashlight?” I said to Trav.
He gave me a questioning look as he unhooked it from his belt. I had Harris’s attention too.
“I want to check the floor under the desk,” I explained, loud enough for Harris to hear. “Just in case she dropped something. You know, my hard candy theory.”
He nodded. “Good luck.”
I took a quick look at Harris before returning to the office. He was back to staring at the screen, flipping through the channels at a rate too fast for anything to register.
I headed straight for the filing cabinet, went down on one knee, grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer, and hesitated. Harris could walk in on me at any time. Trav didn’t know what I was up to, so he couldn’t run interference or give me warning. And if Harris did find me pawing through his papers, what would I say?
My palms were moist and I felt shaky inside. I’m a straightforward person in a straightforward profession. I’m not cut out for this type of thing, and I’m sure as hell not experienced in it.
But I had to know.
So I yanked back on the handle and slid the drawer open. Inside sat a row of hanging folders. Each of their multicolored tabs contained a neat little typed label.
Yeah, some definite anal retention going on here. I liked it.
I started at the rear and worked my way forward, peeking into and between each of the folders.
No luck in the bottom drawer so I eased it shut and paused, listening.
I could still hear the TV, but nothing from Trav or Harris. Good. Most likely neither had moved from where I’d left them.
I opened the middle drawer: same contents, same story. Nothing edible.
Another pause, another listen. Nothing seemed to have changed. I moved on to the top. No sign of any edibles there either, but I did come across a pair of neighboring folders, one labeled POLICIES—Marge, the other, POLICIES—Stan.
I couldn’t resist. But as I opened the Marge file and started sorting through it, I caught a shadow of movement in the doorway and froze. Someone was standing there, watching me.
Oh, God. Busted.
I turned my head and went weak-kneed with relief: Trav.
He stared at me, eyes wide, a baffled expression.
“What—?”
I shook my head and put a finger to my lips, then waved him away.
He gave me one last puzzled look, then headed back toward the kitchen.
I was breathing quickly, almost panting as I flipping through the policies, doing a quick survey of their provisions. Marge had three term policies on her life—two for $500,000 and one for $200,000.
I felt my jaw clench. Stanley Harris was heading for a million-plus windfall, all of it tax free.
Someone might call that motive.