Jared Bigelow was waiting when Joe entered his office.
He had a floor in a Midtown building where Bigelow, Inc., ran its investment business. Most of the family money had been in real estate, but online investigation had shown Joe that Thorne had weighed other options and diversified into computers and several other high-tech concerns. He’d been president, but apparently he’d left most of the day-to-day management to his son for many years. He’d allowed himself the freedom to indulge his love of Edgar Allan Poe and to write the book that had brought him so much acclaim. And possibly led to his death.
A secretary let Joe in to see Jared, who indicated, without rising himself, that Joe should sit. There was a long sofa across from Bigelow’s desk, but Joe opted to pull over a chair from the far side of the room; he wanted to be close enough to read the man’s eyes.
“What is it? Why are you here?” Jared asked.
“To talk about your father’s death,” Joe said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I’m assuming you want his killer caught,” he went on easily.
“Of course, I do,” Jared snapped.
“Then you shouldn’t mind helping me out.”
Jared sighed, and for a moment he didn’t look like such a blustering jackass, Joe thought. “Look, my father was murdered. The police questioned me for hours. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m obviously the first suspect on anyone’s list. I inherited his money and this company, for one thing. But I loved my father, and we worked well together. You can question everyone from now until eternity, and they’ll tell you the same thing.”
Joe nodded. “Look, I know you talked to the police. And I know it has to be hard to lose your father, then have to deal with all the questions, knowing that people suspect you. But it will help me a lot if you just go over everything one more time. Everything that happened once you found him.”
Jared Bigelow sat back in his chair, tapping a pencil against his desk and looking up at the ceiling, as if he could better recreate what had occurred.
“We were supposed to go to dinner.”
“You, your aunt and your father.”
“Yes.”
“And your aunt was with you when you got to your father’s house?”
“Yes, I picked her up first.”
“She lives closer to you than your father did?”
“Different direction,” Jared said. He shook his head, then shrugged. “We got there. I have a key, so I unlocked the door and went in. I called for my father, but he didn’t answer. I went into his office and…he was slumped over. I thought at first that he’d just collapsed…maybe had a heart attack. I went a little crazy.”
“You tried CPR?”
“Yes.”
Joe was still trying to figure out how Thorne had ended up slumped over when the paramedics arrived, given that Jared had admitted to trying CPR on him, but he decided not to derail the man by asking about it now.
“And your aunt called 9-1-1?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“You didn’t call them, right?”
“I don’t…I don’t think so. I remember seeing my father…my aunt being there…and then Bennet coming down. And sirens, and then a lot of people.” He looked at Jared. “That’s all I remember,” Jared said.
“Where was the wineglass?”
“What?”
“Your father’s wineglass. Where was it?”
Jared frowned. “It was…on the desk. His desk.”
“Where?”
“On the left, near the edge. What the hell does it matter?” He sounded aggravated again.
“I’m not sure.”
Jared cleared his throat. “Well, then, if that’s it…I have to get through today, and then his memorial service is tonight.”
“And his burial?”
“He’s being cremated.”
“I see.”
“So?” Jared Bigelow asked impatiently. “Is there anything else?”
“Just one more question,” Joe said.
“And that is?”
“How long have you been having an affair with your aunt?” Joe asked easily.
The pencil dropped from Jared’s fingers. His face turned a mottled shade of crimson and he stood up, enraged. “Get out. Get out of my office, and don’t come back.”
“It had to be a man,” Lila Hawkins announced.
She had decided to drop in on Eileen Brideswell for lunch. And Genevieve hadn’t been about to let Lila Hawkins anywhere near her mother without being present herself. It didn’t matter that Bertha was going to be preparing the food, and that she wouldn’t leave Eileen alone for a minute. Genevieve intended to be there.
From there, it had somehow turned into a ladies’ lunch. Lou Sayles and Barbara Hirshorn were both there, too, as they all congregated around Eileen’s balcony table. Henry and Bertha hovered nearby, determined to keep an eye on Eileen at all times.
“Lila, he was poisoned, so why are you so sure his killer was a man?” Eileen asked.
“And why do we have to keep rehashing this?” Barbara asked.