I could hear the relief in his voice. But then I heard him mutter a curse under his breath. He had a meeting, he said, with Canfield, Ramsey and the other powers-that-be.
“About me,” I suppose. It quailed me when I thought about how much trouble I might’ve caused for Sam and my colleagues.
It was as though he’d read my thoughts.
“Don’t worry, Lanie. We’re all behind you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, make sure those new locks are tight. And maybe …”
“Yes?”
He took a deep breath. “Maybe you should just move out. Stay with me. Nothing—nothing inappropriate. I’ve got a spare bedroom and—“
“No. But thank you.” I reminded him that Blackie had come and gone over security with me.
Sam was less than satisfied with that answer, but he accepted it, and repeated that he’d be by the moment he was done.
I told myself that I wasn’t about to let Echo chase me out of my own house. Brave words, but the moment Sam and I hung up, I went to the door and double-checked the locks.
A deep pain pulsated behind my left eye. In the bathroom, I washed my hands and splashed warm water on my face. Then I changed into some worn flannel pajamas, but I didn’t go to bed. I couldn’t afford to. I returned to the living room and tried to pick up my deliberations where I’d left off.
After thirty seconds of impatient reflection, I fetched a couple of sheets of typing paper from my writing desk, grabbed up a copy of Opportunity magazine to use for backing, and curled up on the sofa.
Many detectives will tell you that most people are killed or victimized by people they know or at least have met. It seemed to be true for Esther. Was it true for Whitfield?
I wrote down his name and drew a circle around it. Then I added Esther’s name, encircled it and connected the two names with a short line. On impulse, I added Beth and Ruth, linked them to one another and linked them to Esther. A little farther up, I wrote Mrs. Goodfellowe’s name. She got strokes for her relationships with Esther and Beth. I added the butler, Roland, to Mrs. G’s links, too. I paused and looked at what the sketch showed. Everyone had multiple links but Sexton Whitfield. His sole link was to Esther.
But was he so isolated from the others involved in this case?
Whitfield had met Esther at a party at Goodfellowe House. Obviously he was there at Katherine’s invitation, not Esther’s. I drew another line, directly linking him to Mrs. Goodfellowe herself.
Again, I studied the diagram. To one side, I wrote, “All roads lead to Goodfellowe House.” After some reflection, I added Eric Alan Powell’s name and hooked it up with Mrs. Goodfellowe’s. It’s true that Powell was dead and buried when Esther disappeared, but he was alive and in the house when she and Whitfield met. It was a small detail, but it helped flesh out my understanding of who was in and around the place when their affair began.
Who else was there to watch the drama unfold?
The first person who came to mind was Mrs. Goodfellowe herself. She had denied the affair, but I had to wonder. Was she lying or simply unaware? Had she really noticed nothing? Had her husband? If so, had he mentioned it to anyone?
Mrs. Goodfellowe and her husband, however, weren’t the only ones who could’ve known about Esther and Whitfield.
What about Beth? She’d been there. And Roland? Had he noticed it? Probably. I had the feeling that Roland missed nothing of what went on in that house. But did either Beth or Roland tell anyone about it? I’d have to ask them.
It was nearly three in the morning. I walked around the room two times to stretch my arms and legs and sat down again. I studied the sketched diagram of who knew whom and reread the little notes I’d jotted at odd places on the page. When all was said and done, one sentence jumped out.
All roads lead to Goodfellowe House.
I stretched out on the sofa and let my eye dance over the diagram. My eyes hurt and I was exhausted. There was a pattern in the diagram, a hidden image I could sense but not see.
My eyelids drooped.