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9:20 a.m. Saturday, August 29th, 1992
BAILEY was still sweeping up the foyer when Talia stormed out of the parlor in a fury. Though her red eyes looked like they were about to cry, all the rest of her bristled with rage. He could have finished twenty minutes ago, but if he couldn’t be in there to hear the will being read, he wanted to observe everybody as they left.
The maid rushed across the foyer to the door to the staff section and went through to the back. Bailey wondered just what had happened to upset her so much, but it wouldn’t be a good time to try finding out, the state she was in. Even if he didn’t prefer waiting here to see everyone else’s reactions.
Not long after Talia had come out, Mrs. Trimble walked out with a stony expression and Padget right on her heels. The butler’s face was blank, but he did not look like a man who’d just won the lottery. They were both composed enough to nod as they passed, but too distracted to question what Bailey was doing sweeping a clean floor.
He did that for a long time before Barbara and her daughter came out of the parlor. Elaine and her son followed not far behind them. Perfectly poised, the ex-wife strode to the stairs and started up with Stephanie stumbling along after in an air of abstraction. Seething underneath a veneer of serenity, the widow stalked to the steps with a tenacious expression. Stanley strolled in her wake, looking vaguely pleased with himself.
A little later, Mr. Quill exited the room on swift feet, his face a thundercloud and his jowls jostling. He managed to spare a glare for Bailey, but his anger appeared to be directed elsewhere. Possibly at a dead man. Climbing to the second floor, Quill made straight for his suite, just as the others had seemed to head toward their own.
And then came Mr. Oak. Obviously having suffered some sort of shock, the man could barely put one foot in front of the other. He struggled to shuffle across the floor. He looked like a disaster waiting to happen.
Bailey took a tentative step toward the man. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Oak? You seem as if you could use some help.”
Oak smiled back sadly. “There’s not a thing you can do for me, but I believe I’ve a bottle in my room that will do the trick.”
Ignoring Bailey’s proffered arm, he managed to make it to the stairs and up the steps, leaning on the bannister all the way. Bailey considered following. In the condition Oak was in, the man might end up saying more than he’d intend, if they were to have a little chat. And as upset as Quill had been, he could let something slip too. But it would be awkward for Bailey to approach any of the guests with questions, no matter how subtly put. And then there was Dobson and Turner still in the parlor, and poor Sam as well. So Bailey stayed where he was, waiting.
When a few minutes had passed and no one else had exited the room, Bailey began to worry whether Sam might’ve been discovered. He had actually taken a couple of steps toward the door when it opened and the lawyer walked out. And then Turner came right behind him, seemingly noticing nothing as he headed down the hall toward the study.
But the lawyer paused to frown at Bailey. “Why are you just standing around like that?”
From the glint of suspicion in Dobson’s eye, the man likely thought Bailey had been trying to eavesdrop on the conversation in the parlor. There would be a great interest in the contents of the will—it was not as if the lawyer was acting paranoid.
Bailey shrugged and nodded over at where he’d left the broom lying against the box full of fragments of the late lamented chandelier. “I finished cleaning up out here, and Talia is...indisposed. I thought I’d see about straightening things up in the parlor, if I wouldn’t be in the way. You’re all through?”
“Yes, we’re done in there, but see that we’re not disturbed in the study. And I don’t want to find you lingering outside the door—the study won’t need to be cleaned when we’re finished in there.”
Dobson seemed to be sure he’d said enough, because he didn’t wait for a reply. Turning swiftly on his heel, the man marched down the corridor after Turner. Bailey wasn’t about to wait either. Hurrying into the parlor, he closed the door behind him, then glanced around to take everything in as quickly as possible. There were a few empty glasses near the bar in the corner and a couple of empty cups on their saucers by a sofa on the far side, but the room seemed to be in good shape otherwise. And totally unoccupied.
Bailey spoke softly to himself in a sing-song as he went through gathering up the used glasses and cups. “It’s me, I’m here, and no one else. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Bailey was rewarded when he saw a hand rising into the air behind the writing desk. A hand holding a folded up wad of paper. He took the note from her hand as he rounded the desk and leaned over to see Sam squatting underneath.
“You can stop hiding. No one’s likely to come in anytime soon. Dobson and Turner are in the study, Padget and Mrs. Trimble in the kitchen, and I think the rest are in their rooms.”
Sam crawled from below the desk and stood up with a sigh. “Thanks.” She nodded at the notes she had handed him. “I hope you can make more out of that than I could.”
He couldn’t help but grin at her. “I’m sure your handwriting is perfectly legible.”
Her fist flew out and hit him in the stomach. “I need you to sort out their motives.” She turned the corners of her mouth down in a frown. “I should be going now, while the coast is clear, to look for some place more comfortable to sit and think. I hope we both have progress to share when we talk tonight.”
“So do I, Sam. Now scoot.”
He watched her run across the room in a blur of motion and slip out the door like a shadow. Then he unfolded the paper in his hand and slowly read over the notes she had made by the light from the French windows behind him. He certainly wouldn’t wish to be caught doing this, but if somebody did happen to come in, Bailey would just pretend to be straightening up the desk.
Perusing Sam’s scribblings, he admired the way she had not only seemed to capture verbatim everything everyone had said but also their gestures, tone of voice, and expressions, and without any apparent bias. She’d refrained from adding any commentary of her own at all. Well, Bailey preferred to make up his own mind anyway, and he’d hear what she made of everything tonight.
When he had finished reading her notes, he refolded the paper and jammed it down into his pocket, then grabbed the cups and glasses he’d collected and left the parlor cleaner than he’d found it. Taking his time carrying the dishes to the kitchen, Bailey considered what he’d learned.
The motives for the members of Keener’s family remained as strong as before. Though they weren’t benefiting in the way they must have hoped, and it sounded as if they’d found the precise terms of the will an unpleasant surprise. Still, Brandt’s son and daughter would split the man’s money.
If they were his children. This business about a DNA test being required for each to inherit brought up another possible motive—one for their parents. If Brandt hadn’t been the biological father of Stanley or Stephanie, that child’s mother wouldn’t want that to be discovered.
Had Brandt really had his doubts? Elaine’s assertion that paternity had already been proved was easily checked. But even if those tests had been run at the time, that would have been over twenty years ago. The results might be unreliable, for a variety of possible reasons. Killing Keener before it might be revealed that one of his children wasn’t, before that son or daughter could be disinherited—that would be a strong motive. It was just speculation though. All of the family had motive enough without.
And still yet an additional potential motive had appeared for Elaine specifically, the possibility she might soon have been replaced, by Talia becoming wife number three. Elaine might have murdered to avoid being left with as little as the first Mrs. Keener had. And to make sure her son inherited before he was supplanted by another heir, one who might be more pleasing to his father.
That was if the maid could be believed. Strange that Brandt would’ve left Talia so much if there had been no relationship between them, but bizarre that he had bequeathed a woman he planned to marry a mere fifty thousand. Along with the implied insult. And Talia seemed the likeliest person to have given the details of Brandt’s death to the tabloids. Maybe she’d done that for what they would pay her, or perhaps she had suspected that the man she wanted to marry had been murdered and wanted to talk.
Bailey found Mrs. Trimble alone in the kitchen, washing up from breakfast. Setting the dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink, he gave her his best smile. “I didn’t expect to find you working, now that you’re an heiress.”
Without looking at him, she snorted. “Padget’s been talking, I see. Not that I mind you knowing all about it. But if work’s got to be done, why shouldn’t I be doing it? That will didn’t say they were going to stop paying me for doing my job, so I won’t stop doing it. And if I’m going to be cooking anyway, might as well cook enough for everybody. The food would just go to waste if I didn’t.”
Bailey kept nodding as she talked. “Speaking of food, Mrs. Trimble, I don’t suppose I could get a cup of tea and a bite to eat while I’m here. It’s still a long time before lunch, and I’ve got a lot of work to do.” Which was true, and being in the kitchen had made him realize how hungry he’d become.
“Of course, Mr. Bailey.” Drying her hands on a towel slung over her shoulder, she shifted across to the stove and turned up the heat under the tea kettle and then headed for the refrigerator. “You sit down and take a load off, and I’ll bring you a bit of cheese and some bread and that cup of tea. I’m sure you’ll need a lot of fuel doing the sort of work you do.” Of course the work he intended to do wouldn’t be quite what she was thinking.
He was happy, though, to stop and sit at the table and be waited upon, especially since Padget was not around. It gave Bailey an opportunity to talk to Mrs. Trimble and maybe find out some things. She came over carrying a plate of ploughman’s lunch in one hand and a cup of tea on a saucer in the other.
After seeing him start in on his snack, the woman sighed and sat down opposite. It looked like she wanted a bit of a rest too, and maybe a bit of a chat. Bailey was willing to oblige.
First taking a sip of tea, he waded in by continuing with his previous question. “So will you be staying on here, Mrs. Trimble?”
She shook her head, but apparently that did not mean she wouldn’t, necessarily. “It depends on the trustees, I suppose, and whether there’ll be anybody here to cook for. Doesn’t seem likely.”
“You don’t expect the family to stay here?”
“Mrs. Elaine wouldn’t be caught dead here, now that Mr. Brandt is gone, nor that son of hers. That’s for sure. Mrs. Barbara, though, she might. She deserves to get something, and it would be good if she could get that girl of hers out of the city, away from those horrible espresso bars she hangs out in.”
“Espresso bars?” What would make them horrible in Mrs. Trimble’s eyes?
“I’ve seen pictures of what that sludge will do to your lungs. Turns them black as tar it does. No, you won’t find me drinking coffee at any price. Even if I do have to make it for some here who won’t abide a proper cup of tea.”
Bailey blinked. He wasn’t sure how he ought to respond to that, or if he should.
Thankfully it didn’t seem to be necessary. Mrs. Trimble continued without waiting for his input. “I hear there are a lot of low characters hanging out in those places too. Sitting around smoking in bars. I don’t think that’s healthy either, not for a young girl like Stephanie.”
He took the safe route of flattery. “Well, I hope Barbara and her daughter do stay here. Your cooking would be just what they need.” Since Mrs. Trimble beamed at him, it seemed to have been the right thing to say. “Do you think Padget will be staying on to help you?”
“Not him. He hasn’t said anything, but I can see it in his eyes, wanting to get away from this place.”
Bailey didn’t suppose he’d want to stick around if he were the murderer, but the only way that made sense was if the butler had been paid to kill Keener. “Well, if he does leave, I’m sure they’ll find someone to replace him. One way or another you’ll have help. What about Talia? I don’t suppose she’ll stay. Fifty thousand isn’t peanuts.”
Mrs. Trimble snorted. “Her. She’s already quit. Didn’t give any notice, just said she wouldn’t be doing any more work. I guess that means she’s going to stop doing what little she had been. Not that I’d have expected any better from her.”
“Well...” This was delicate ground, and he had to tread carefully. “It must be quite a come down—from about to marry a billionaire to getting a mere fifty thousand. No wonder if she’s upset.”
The cook sniffed. “Don’t you believe it. He was never going to marry her, even if he had been thinking of divorcing Mrs. Elaine, and I don’t believe that either. Mr. Brandt told me himself that it was Talia who’d be leaving us soon. And I don’t believe it was because she was becoming another Mrs. Keener.”
“Do you mean she was being let go? When was this?”
“That same weekend Mr. Brandt died. He must never have gotten around to firing her, but I believe that’s what it amounted to.”
Or had Keener given her notice before he died? It would give Talia a powerful motive—not simply a woman scorned, but humiliated by being dismissed from her job as well as jilted. That would mean her whole reaction to the reading of the will had been an act. Bailey wished he’d been there so he could have seen the performance. To judge for himself.
He was wondering how much more he could get out of the cook while she was feeling talkative when Padget entered the kitchen and gave Mrs. Trimble a look of apology. “Mr. Hope rang and asked tea to be sent in to him and that lawyer in the study.”
The cook sighed as she levered herself out of the chair and back onto her feet. It looked like Dobson and Turner would be busy for a while, so Bailey rose with alacrity and headed for the door. Before someone suggested he should take the tea to the study.
He glanced back at Mrs. Trimble on his way out of the kitchen. “Thank you for the snack, but I need to get to work.” The woman would get a huge sum, but Bailey simply couldn’t see her killing Keener to get it.
Walking down the hallway, he checked the locator app on his watch—Sam’s watch, which showed a blip to indicate the position of any other watch that happened to be in range. A little white dot appeared about where the study should be, and that should be Turner. Another blip off to his right was in the area of the garage and ought to be Sam.
Bailey started up the back stairs, thinking over the other suspects as he climbed. Clearly both Oak and Quill had reason to fear what Keener might do to them, especially Oak, and that was motive. They had both apparently been surprised by the content of the will, though. Oak had definitely gotten quite a shock—that hadn’t been faked—but it didn’t take away his motive. Quill’s blustering anger was a different story, but the man’s motive was weak.
The company accounts had been audited before without costing the man his job. And if Brandt had truly believed Quill was incompetent, he could have fired the man at any time. Oak, though, was looking at a possible prison sentence. If he’d suspected that Keener was collecting evidence of embezzlement, it would’ve given him a strong motive. But if the man had sought safety in murder, he hadn’t succeeded.
But Bailey didn’t know what this so-called evidence really amounted to. Maybe he could get Oak himself to confirm what he’d done, the state he was in—he just had to think of a good way to broach the subject. Regardless, both men seemed to have better motives than Bailey had previously thought.
Then there were two more who had supremely strong motives. Maybe they weren’t directly inheriting the Keener riches, but they were gaining effective control of it. Dobson and Turner. And not only were they now in charge of Brandt’s estate, and the children’s trust, but they would also be paid as executors and trustees. Undoubtedly those would be nice fat fees.
On top of that, Turner would become the president of a highly successful company. The salary for that position would surely be astronomical. There would also be the opportunity for either man to use their standing as executor and trustee to take some of those funds for themselves.
The lawyer hadn’t been here when Brandt died, so he’d have had to pay somebody to do it. But Turner had been right on the spot, and he’d had plenty of motive, as Bailey now knew. It was not pleasant to think of Turner as a murder suspect, but neither he nor Sam had a choice about that, not any more. She had said she’d handle their fellow Traveler, but she had yet to search his room it seemed. Perhaps Bailey should handle the man.
Reaching the top of the stairs and starting down the west hall, he thought he ought to at least search Turner’s suite while he had the opportunity. Stuck in the study with Dobson, Turner should not be returning to his rooms for some time. And since the provisions of the will had been revealed, he should know they’d consider him a real suspect. If he had anything he still needed to get rid of, something to implicate him, it needed to be discovered. Before it disappeared.
Bailey moved as quietly as he could to the end of the corridor. He wished he had Sam’s stealth, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t move without making a lot of noise when he wanted. But his bulk just couldn’t be hidden.
Unlike Sam, though, he could claim some legitimate purpose for being just about anywhere in the house. With Talia no longer doing her job, he could say he was coming to clean. Telling himself that excuse might actually fly, he turned the knob and went into Turner’s room, closing the door silently behind him. Then he got cold feet.
With a sigh he thought of Sam and her instructions, her orders to leave Turner to her, and he well knew that meant searching this suite too. And Sam was his leader. He had to either accept her authority and do what she told him, or reject her as leader. And he was far from prepared to do that.
He’d turned and started to open the door when he heard the sound of knocking from the hall. Peeking through the crack, he saw Oak standing in front of Quill’s door with one hand raised to rap again on the door and the other clutching a bottle.
Bailey tensed. He couldn’t just stand and watch as another murder was committed, but he hesitated to reveal himself. He got ready to spring into action and hoped he’d be in time.
But when Quill opened his door with a grimace on his face, Oak smiled at him and held out the bottle like an offering. “We’ve both had a bad shock. I thought maybe you could use a glass, so I brought a nice, single malt Scotch. Brandt’s treated both of us quite horribly. So let’s bury the hatchet and drink to his death.”
Quill, who Bailey knew despised wine, peered at the label closely. “Does that really say fifty-year-old Scotch? I’m certain such a fine spirit wouldn’t upset my digestion in the least, my good man. Won’t you come in? I’m sure we can share a dram.”
He opened the door and stepped back to let Oak into the room. Maybe they were going to get drunk and cry on each other’s shoulders, or perhaps they’d end up killing each other, but there was hardly anything Bailey could do about it either way. He wasn’t going to burst in and demand to know what was going on. And he’d certainly lost his chance for a chat with Oak while the man was in too great of a shock to watch what he said.
So Bailey wondered what he should do now. He couldn’t think of anything better than going back to the kitchen to see if Padget wanted someone to take tea into the study. Until he came up with a brighter idea, doing the job they thought he was here for was probably best. That, and keeping both his eyes and ears open.