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Talk to me,” Becca said as she relieved me of the coffee mugs and the plate Tater had licked. She carried everything to the sink.
“I am beyond confused.” I leaned against the counter and scraped my thumbnail back-and-forth against my teeth. An irritating habit, I will confess, but it honestly helped me think. “I don’t want to believe that someone murdered Mrs. Wade, or that a cold-blooded killer is roaming the streets of Sea Haven. But I don’t see how it could have been an accident. Nobody touched the food but you and me. And I know neither of us did it.”
“Opportunity is only part of the equation.” Becca rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher while she spoke. “Neither one of us had motive. I mean, Mrs. Wade may have had a few quirks in her personality, but she had a good heart. She helped so many women get started with their businesses, especially you. Who could possibly have wanted her dead?”
“It appears that someone may have.”
Becca shook her head. “Any more dishes before I run this?”
“Yeah, up in Mr. Wade’s office. I’ll get them.” I pushed myself away from the counter and headed upstairs.
I had only been to the second floor of the Wade’s house four times in the past three years. Two times in two hours today was a personal best, and not in a good way. Especially since no one else was home. It felt very sneaky, like I was trespassing or something. But I couldn’t very well leave dirty dishes lying around when I locked up. That goes against our personal chef code of ethics.
When I reached for the coffee tray on the desk, my gaze wandered to the discarded morning newspaper, the one with headline about the murder accusation against Mr. Wade. I picked it up and read all five paragraphs once, twice, then a third time. There was not a single shred of evidence, just wild conjecture on the journalist’s part. The story noted the Wade’s marriage was on the rocks—common knowledge to anyone who had joined them for dinner in the past year—but that did not lead to a conclusion that the man had killed his wife. There were no facts, no evidence, no connecting dot A to dot B. But sensationalism sells papers, I guess.
Poor Mr. Wade having to read that this morning. His purpose for hightailing it out of here might have had more do to with avoiding the paparazzi—which would eventually come knocking—and less to do with guilt. I couldn’t say that I blamed him. The question now was where had he gone? And more importantly, when would he be back?
I laid the paper back down.
Another stack of official-looking documents caught my eye. You know the kind, thick expensive paper folded in thirds. The top portion poked up, reminding me of a Pac-Man mouth about to gobble a dot. I have no idea what got into me, but I bent my head enough to read the bold letters at the top of page one: The Last Will and Testament of Penelope Livingston Gardner Wade.
Mr. Wade must have had it handy if he were going through it this morning, only hours after Mrs. Wade’s death. That seemed curious to me. I know when my parents died, I spent days pouring over old photo albums and other mementoes. I didn’t give thought to the dispensation of their meager assets until the lawyer told me I had to.
Mrs. Wade’s will lay there.
My hand tingled. I rubbed it in an attempt to eliminate the urge to reach out.
I shouldn’t.
I really shouldn’t.
I really shouldn’t read it.
It was none of my business.
One little peek.
It was none of my business.
I really shouldn’t read it.
I really shouldn’t.
These are the thoughts that flashed through my mind as my hand reached out on its own accord and lifted the document from the desk and ever so slowly brought it close enough to read.
Well, then. No stopping me now.
I glanced through a long list of Mrs. Wade’s charities, past and present, along with a shorter list of causes she had mentioned for future consideration. They all would split a significant portion of her estate.
Then came a list of local businesses, all female-owned from what I recalled, which would share in another substantial percentage.
Her faithful employees, of which there were only two—myself and the gardener Bill Overton—each were to receive a half-million dollars. What? I read that again, and again. The more the paper shook in my nervous hands, the more difficult it was to read. But the disbursement was there in black and white. A half million dollars. Oh, Mrs. Wade. You shouldn’t have. But thank you.
“Becca,” I shouted.
She might have thought I was being held at gunpoint, the way she came running. “What?”
I shoved the document under her nose.
She took it and read it through, flipping pages back and forth, mumbling to herself.
I waited, with my fingers intertwined and tucked under my chin, for her verdict. A casual observer might have thought me praying, but praying for a huge chunk of money on that back of a dead woman was blasphemous. It was only wishful thinking.
Maybe—probably—my tired eyes had deceived me. The amount was only five-hundred dollars, five-thousand at the most. That seemed more reasonable for three years of loyal service.
“Interesting,” Becca said. “I don’t see her husband mentioned at all.”
Hmm, come to think of it I hadn’t either. I’d just assumed...
“You and Overton make out all right. A half-a-million each.” She wolf-whistled as she lowered the paper and looked me right in the eyes. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“That I can take that culinary tour through France that I’ve always dreamed of?” My hands were clenched together so tightly that the blood supply had been cut off to the tips of my fingers.
She looked me straight in my baby brown eyes. “This means you have a motive for wanting her dead.”
