Sawyer finished up his notes, left his office, and headed for Helen Richmond’s home. He swung by Tavish’s place, but it was unchanged. He deliberately didn’t call Helen first so she would have no time to prepare—or to hide out.
At the main house, he jabbed the doorbell. The double doors were hand carved like Tavish’s, but on a much grander scale.
Shortly a woman dressed in a black, long-sleeved dress opened the door. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Richmond, I’m—”
“I am her personal secretary.” The woman stepped away from his proffered hand. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“She is not available. You will need to call for an appointment.” She started to shut the door.
Sawyer stuck his foot in the opening. “I need to speak to her about her stolen artwork.”
The secretary paused. “What about it?”
From behind her, a voice asked, “What is going on?” The secretary reluctantly stepped away and a second woman came into view. It was easy to see where Tavish got her beauty. Helen Richmond wore a gray silk cropped jumpsuit, black ankle-strap high-heeled sandals, a rose gold Patek Philippe watch, and a massive diamond ring. She was lean to the point of bony. “Are you an insurance investigator? The last one who was supposed to come never showed up.”
“May I come in?”
“Not without identifying yourself.” Helen had a voice that expected to be obeyed.
Sawyer pulled out his FBI credentials and showed them to her.
“FBI? Now what?” Helen shook her head and opened the door wider. “Come in.” Without waiting to see if he followed, she strolled across the two-story entrance hall and through a doorway into an office, then sat behind a mahogany partners desk.
Sawyer followed and sat in a leather chair opposite her. The room smelled of lemon oil and fresh-cut grass. The large windows behind her were open to a pleasant courtyard with yet another fountain, this one with elaborate blue ceramic tiles and a bronze child staring into its depths. Her water bill must be astronomical.
“Why is the FBI investigating my art? The paintings were stolen and recovered. A man was murdered. Right out there.” She nodded at the courtyard. “The art was recovered by the police, who got in a shootout with the killer. Killer died. End of story.”
“Ummm . . .” Sawyer rubbed his chin. “Why did you ask if I was with the insurance company?”
Helen glanced down and plucked an imaginary piece of lint off the immaculate desk surface. “Why are you asking?”
“Why are you stalling?”
When she looked back at him, her eyes glittered with fury. “The works were insured for a great deal of money. Millions, if it’s any of your business. I hadn’t installed the security system I have now. The insurance company felt I . . . may have been somehow involved in the theft. Absolutely rubbish. Libel. I’ve told my attorneys to deal with it. But the insurance investigators are still snooping around. There now.” She stood. “If that’s what you came here for—”
“What about your daughter?”
“What does the FBI want with my daughter? What’s she done now?”
“What’s she done before?”
She waved a perfectly manicured hand in the air as if brushing away his question. “Seeing things that aren’t there. Believing things that aren’t true.”
“Like what?”
“She tends to see murder everywhere, first her fiancé, then some man she claims was murdered at his home. You’d think she was some kind of mystery writer.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Probably at my guesthouse.”
“She isn’t. But her car is in your garage.”
“Oh.” Helen’s jaw tightened slightly. “Well, I suppose she’s around someplace.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday. At a party I held.”
Sawyer kept his face expressionless. “What kind of party was it?”
Helen’s lips briefly formed a thin line. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but it was a soiree for potential clients, business associates, and a few friends. She didn’t even dress the way I requested her to. I’m afraid she’s . . . shall we say a bit prone to nerves and hysteria. I’ll ask you again, what’s she done?”
He leaned back into the chair and tapped his lip. Tavish is almost mowed down by gunfire and blown to smithereens, somehow escapes, and drives home. She probably dressed to cover up her bruises and cuts—and her mother doesn’t even notice or care that she’s now missing. “What do you think she’s done?”
“Mr.—”
“Agent Price.”
“Agent Price, my daughter has been deeply disturbed ever since her . . . fiancé”—she sniffed and cleared her throat—“committed suicide. It was a totally irresponsible act on his part. I didn’t approve of her marrying him, of course.”
“Of course. Did you ever meet him?”
“No. I hired a private detective to find out about him. My daughter’s a very wealthy woman, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said dryly. “What did the detective find out?”
“Oh, he hadn’t started before the man killed himself.”
“Why do you think he did that?”
“I know why he committed suicide.” She glanced at her watch. “I found his phone number in my daughter’s things. I called him and left a message that I would be hiring a private detective to look into his background and he’d better be squeaky clean.”
“You believe he had something to hide?”
“I’m sure he was after her money. I saw a photograph of him. A man that handsome would never be attracted to my daughter. For heaven’s sake, she wears a size 14!”
What does that mean? “And that’s a bad thing?”
Helen stared at him as if he’d just loudly belched at her dinner party. “That man could have even been with the Mafia or some other unsavory group. For a while my daughter believed he was murdered. Maybe he was—to keep him silent.” She glanced at her watch again. “Agent Price, I really must conclude this interview. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
Sawyer stayed put. “Did Tavish know you’d hired a detective and called her fiancé about it?”
“No. It was for her own good.”
Sawyer struggled not to throttle the woman. “When she said he was murdered, did you tell her you might believe her?”
“Well, he wasn’t, was he? The police didn’t see it that way, and I wasn’t going to encourage her wild imagination.”
“If something happened to Tavish, who would inherit her estate?”
Helen’s face paled and her jaw tightened for a moment. She stood and stalked to the door. “Unless you are charging Evelyn with some crime, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t contact me again. I will do what is necessary to protect myself and my daughter. Do I make myself clear?” She’d reached the front door and opened it.
“You do. Now let me be clear. I’m running a criminal investigation and have the authority to do so with or without your permission. If I need to return for more questions, I will.”
“Then you’ll deal with my attorney.”
“And you’ll deal with my handcuffs.”