DECEMBER 22
I woke up a little after ten o’clock. I still felt groggy and also vaguely anxious, though it took a minute or two to remember why. Christmas was only three days away, all my outgoing presents were already wrapped and under the tree, the comforting odors of bacon and baking bread were teasing my nose—why wasn’t I feeling more holiday spirit?
Ian. Memory came flooding back. I’d spent much of yesterday dealing with Ian. Running interference between Ian and the people he ran roughshod over. Gathering information about Ian’s misdeeds to help Festus terminate the contract with AcerGen. Or, more accurately, to help us convince Rob that we needed to terminate the contract. Festus already seemed to have enough information. And now Ian’s death threatened to cast a blight over the entire holiday season.
There was a small silver lining. We still needed to deal with AcerGen. But not with Ian. Although unfortunately dealing with AcerGen would probably have to take a back seat to finding Ian’s killer. For that matter, would Ian’s murder hamper our efforts to break things off with AcerGen? Would it look heartless, ending the project while AcerGen was already dealing with the loss of its CEO? And worse, could AcerGen claim that Ian was the cause of our problems, and that his death meant we no longer had grounds for termination?
Probably not. Ian might be—almost certainly was—the cause of AcerGen’s financial problems, but his death wouldn’t make them go away. And the company would still be liable for any bad actions Ian had committed while CEO—like releasing DNA data without proper permission. What if Cyrus Runk wasn’t the only felon with a grudge against Ian?
Just for a moment I wanted to burrow back under the covers, dial the electric mattress pad up a notch, and forget about everything connected with Ian and AcerGen. But it was ten. Which meant that in theory, even allowing for the time when I’d been tossing and turning, I’d probably managed nearly my target eight hours. It didn’t feel that way, but I doubted I’d get back to sleep. And I was curious to see what had been happening while I was asleep. For all I knew the chief might already have caught the killer. So I threw on some clean clothes and headed downstairs.
I found Rose Noire sitting cross-legged in the front hall, eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply. Either she was deep in meditation or she’d finally mastered the art of sleeping vertically. I was about to slip past her and head for the kitchen when she opened her eyes.
“Morning,” she said.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Horace is still working the crime scene,” she said. “Since they’re still under a deadline, the Canadians all went to the Mutant Wizards office, and the chief is interviewing them there. Your father took most of the relatives down to the zoo for a VIP tour.”
A brilliant idea, that last part. With any luck, by the time they all got back from watching the meerkats and koalas, the chief would release the ice rink. Except—
“Even Cordelia?” In the interest of family harmony, she and Grandfather had forged a kind of truce, but it worked much better when they stayed out of each other’s way.
“Of course not. Your mother took her over to Trinity to help Robyn with a project. I saved some breakfast for you—do you want me to come and heat it up?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Then I’ll run my errands.” She stood up in one graceful motion and began putting on her wraps.
I confess, I was a little disappointed. I was hoping she’d announce that while I had been sleeping, the chief had solved the case and arrested Ian’s killer. Ah, well.
In the kitchen, I found Cousin Nora chopping up a mountain of onions into bits of remarkably small and consistent size. I could feel my eyes watering slightly from afar, but the onion fumes didn’t seem to affect her in the slightest. Clearly nature had endowed Nora with superhuman culinary powers, and I should stop feeling guilty about my lesser skills.
“Morning,” I said.
“Breakfast in the fridge,” she said.
I nodded, hunted out the covered plate with my name taped to it, and stuck it in the microwave. While I was waiting for it to finish, I looked out the window. All seemed quiet out at the rink. I could only just spot Horace moving slowly across the ice on his hands and knees, holding a magnifying glass to the surface. His figure was tiny at this distance and nearly round thanks to all his wraps. It occurred to me that even after the chief released it, the rink would need a little bit of cleanup to remove the blood. Should I—
The doorbell rang. Nora glanced at me with a slight frown, as if to suggest it was distracting her from her work, and I should do something about it.
“I guess Rose Noire took off,” I said. “So I should go answer that.”
She nodded and went back to her rapid chopping. By the time I reached the front hall, our impatient visitor had rung the doorbell again. Tinkerbell had roused herself from her usual warm spot by the fireplace and was standing in the archway between the hall and the living room, staring at the door. Was there something about our visitor that roused her suspicions, sight unseen? Or had the fact that the house was almost completely empty activated her protective instincts?
Maybe she was just annoyed at being awakened by the doorbell.
“Good girl,” I said. Since there was still a killer on the loose, I rather liked having a real, live Irish wolfhound sitting there, visible to anyone who stepped in, ready to play protector.
I peered through the peephole. Our visitor was a tallish, clean-shaven man. I could see pin-striped trousers below his bulky down jacket. Probably in his thirties. His hair was blond and carefully groomed, and he had a long face and a thin nose. Not quite handsome, but more than presentable. His cheeks and nose were slightly reddened by the cold. If he had his DNA analyzed, I’d expect his profile would show a lot of Scandinavian ancestry. Not exactly a threatening figure—especially not with Tink at my elbow. So I opened the front door.
“Can I help you?”
“You must be Mrs. Waterston.” He smiled what I’m sure he intended as a charming, ingratiating smile. But it came across as insincere.
So I didn’t say yes or no—I just looked expectantly at him. And decided that for the time being, he could go on staying on the other side of our threshold. After all, unlike me, he was dressed for the arctic air.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, when he realized I wasn’t going to divulge my identity. “But I heard that Mr. Ian Meredith was staying here, and I really need to get in touch with him.”
“Sorry,” I said. “No Ian Meredith staying here.”
“But you know who he is, right? The CEO of AcerGen—they have a team in town working with a local software company, and I heard he might be staying with you.”
“Sorry,” I said. “He’s not.”
“Do you know how I can get in touch with him?” he asked.
“Have you tried contacting him through the local software company you think he’s working with?”
“Mutant Wizards? Yes, and they just gave me the runaround. They’d be happy to take a message for him, but no, they can’t tell me where he is.”
I made a mental note to praise Kristyn the next time I saw her, and maintained my polite, inquisitive expression. I’d read enough of Dad’s beloved mystery books to know that the best way to get information out of people was to shut up and let them talk to fill the silence.
“And I really need to talk to him,” the man added, with another oddly off-putting smile.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, either.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. I didn’t know exactly where Ian was by now. Probably in the morgue at Caerphilly General. They’d eventually get the Caerphilly Funeral Home to arrange shipment back to Canada, and they might already have transferred him over there, but I had no way of knowing. And as for talking to him—maybe a Ouija board could help with that, but I certainly couldn’t.
“It’s— Sorry.” The man took a breath and smiled again. “I should probably introduce myself. My name is Alfred Sloan. I’m an attorney representing a party who’s brought a legal action against Mr. Meredith and AcerGen, and I’m kind of afraid my client has gone off the deep end and come down here to … um … accost him.”
Now this was interesting.
“Are you suggesting that your client could be dangerous?” I asked. “To this Ian Meredith or anyone else?”
Sloan looked uncomfortable.
“I wouldn’t say that she’s exactly dangerous,” he said. “She doesn’t have a history of violence, if that’s what you mean. But she’s very … emotional. Confrontational. I’d really rather avoid having her come into contact with him.”
An idea popped into my head.
“What’s the name of your client?” I asked.
“Katherine Anne Koenigslutter.”
My face must have shown some reaction.
“You’ve met her?” He sounded hopeful.
“No.” I allowed myself a chuckle. “I think I’d remember being introduced to someone with a name that … unusual. You said you were afraid she’d ‘come down here’—where is your client from?”
“Wisconsin,” he said. “Little town near Lake Superior. And maybe I’m worrying in vain, but it’s hard to imagine someone coming over a thousand miles to see someone she’s mad at and just … telling him off, you know? I only want to make sure nothing happens.”
Which suggested that he’d lied—that maybe he really was worried about the possibility that his client might be dangerous.
“Why is your client so mad at this Mr. Meredith?” I asked.
He frowned and compressed his already thin lips. I’d seen this reaction before, from Festus and the several other attorneys in the family. I was expecting him to say that was attorney/client privilege. Then he sighed.
“It’s a matter of public record now, I suppose. Now that we’ve filed our suit, that is. Ms. Koenigslutter submitted her DNA to AcerGen for testing. AcerGen notifies its clients of any DNA relatives who are also in its database, so they can contact them if they so choose. My client maintains that she did not want to be contacted by any DNA relatives and that AcerGen violated her privacy by giving them her contact information.”
“Sounds as if she might have a good case,” I said.
“We think so.” His quick tight smile was just a little on the smug side, but maybe that was understandable. “Our situation is complicated by the fact that Ms. Koenigslutter is very upset about the possibility that her half brother will succeed in claiming a share of the substantial estate she inherited from her late father. The idea of having to give him anything—well, she reacts very negatively to that. I just don’t want her to do anything that would complicate matters. Or get her in trouble.”
“I wish I could help you,” I said. “But as I told you, Mr. Meredith isn’t staying here and I don’t know how you can contact him. Is there a way I can let you know if I do run into him or Ms. Koenigslutter?”
He frowned. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a pen and a business card.
“I’ll give you my cell phone.” The porch pillars were wrapped with holly and ivy, but he managed to find a space big enough to write on the back of the business card. “If you see her or Mr. Meredith, please call me. Any time. I’d really appreciate it.”
“You might want to get in touch with the police,” I said. “I think they’d share your interest in preventing any kind of confrontation between your client and her nemesis. Of course, you’ve probably already done that.”
“Not yet,” he said. “I didn’t want to alert law enforcement if I could find her and calm her down myself. I thought I’d be able to find her by checking the hotels, but she’s not at the Caerphilly Inn—is that really the only hotel in town?”
“Yes,” I said. “There are quite a few bed-and-breakfast places. You should be able to pick up a list of them at almost any shop in town.”
“I’ll do that.” He shook his head slightly. “They seem to be full up at the Inn, and if I don’t find her pretty soon I’ll be looking for a place myself for tonight. I also asked about Mr. Meredith at the Inn, but he wasn’t there, either.”
And maybe that was how Mr. Sloan found his way to our doorstep—by talking to an Inn employee who was more gullible than I was. I’d have a word with my friend Ekaterina, who managed the Inn. It was one thing to have respectable lawyers showing up on our doorstep. What if someone like Cyrus Runk showed up asking about Ian’s whereabouts? Or Katherine Anne Koenigslutter?
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share this address with your client,” I said. “Obviously I couldn’t be of any more help to her than I can to you, and if she’s inclined to be confrontational—”
“Of course not,” he said. “I can’t promise she won’t find out on her own, you understand—although I will certainly be trying to convince her to go back to Wisconsin and let the justice system do its work. But if she does show up—”
“I won’t blame you.”
“Thanks.” He looked harried, as if suddenly worried about the possibility of his client confronting innocent bystanders along with Ian Meredith. I felt a sudden surge of sympathy for him.
“Look, maybe it’s none of my business and maybe you’ve already thought about this, but you know what I’d do if she were my client?”
He shook his head.
“I’d get new DNA tests,” I said. “On your client and her supposed half brother. From some other DNA company—the most reputable you can find. I mean, this is AcerGen, right? How do we know they’re even doing the testing right?”
“I think they send it out to a lab.” Sloan frowned and stiffened as if my suggestion upset him.
“To the cheapest lab they can find,” I said. “And I’ve heard rumors they’re having quality control issues with whatever lab they’re using. Do you really want to trust whatever cut-rate lab AcerGen found? Remember how John Glenn felt when he went into orbit, knowing every single part in his spaceship was supplied by the lowest bidder.”
Sloan didn’t find that amusing. And didn’t seem to like my idea.
“DNA tests are expensive,” he said. “What if we spend all that money only to get confirmation of exactly what AcerGen told us?”
“Then would you be any worse off than you are now? And DNA tests only cost a few thousand dollars—wouldn’t a trial be a lot more expensive?”
He nodded absently, while staring at me as if he wasn’t particularly happy with my suggestion. Maybe he was annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it. Or maybe he was one of those attorneys who didn’t find a case interesting if there wasn’t going to be a trial involved.
Or one of those less-than-ethical attorneys who only cared about running up the client’s bill. He didn’t come across that way, but I only had his appearance and a few minutes of conversation to go by.
“Just an idea,” I said. “Your case, after all. Good luck with your search.” I stepped back to close the door. He looked as if he wanted to stick out a hand or a foot to keep me from closing the door and thought better of it.
Possibly because Tinkerbell had edged closer and was now leaning against my hip, eyes glued to him until the second the door was closed.
I rewarded her with a treat from the supply we kept in the closet. Then I peeked outside to see how Mr. Sloan dealt with disappointment. He was standing at the other end of our front walk, looking up and down the road. Looking for Ian’s car, perhaps? Which might actually be parked here. Then he got into a car that was parked right in front of the walkway, in the space we’d marked off with official-looking HANDICAPPED PARKING ONLY signs to remind people to leave it open for less able fellow guests. I noted the license number on his dark-blue Ford Taurus.
Then I settled down by the fire and dialed the chief.