She mimed talking into her phone. “‘Hello, may I speak with Jeffrey Volani?’ I ask. An old man’s voice answers, ‘I’m sorry. Jeffrey is out of town.’ Bingo. Out of town in Pequod, maybe? ‘Oh. Then may I speak with Diane?’ But there’s this really loong silence from the old man.
“‘Who is this, please?’ he finally asks, but his voice sounds all funny. Something tells me not to say I’m a reporter. ‘It’s Lizzie Latham. From their old neighborhood in Pequod.’ Not a total lie, right? He chokes up. Turns out the old man is Jeffrey’s father, and he tells me that on Labor Day weekend, Diane Volani killed herself.”
“Whoa.” I let out a long breath.
“Volani’s dad was eager to talk to someone who knew them when. It felt kind of icky to mislead him, but check this out: he told me that he moved in with his son because he’s ‘very worried about his mental condition. The toll this has taken.’”
“I see where you’re going with this.” I stood and began to pace. “If Volani Jr. already blamed Hugh and Helene for his wife’s depression, he’s got motive. And if he’d been brooding for months, he could have snapped when she killed herself. He could have completely cracked . . .” At last, a viable suspect. Someone enraged at both Hugh and Helene. Someone unhinged. I stopped pacing. “Great job, Lizzie.”
She glowed. “Yeah? It means a lot that you think so.”
Sometimes, under all Lizzie’s competitiveness, I forgot that she wanted my approval.
“I called upstairs to see if Gubbins could add anything, but he’d left for lunch,” she said, getting up. “Listen, I need to go back to the office. I’ll take the information to the police after I talk to Gubbins. If this Volani guy turns out to be the killer, I’ll be ready to run with the story before anyone else.”
“I don’t understand. What does Gubbins have to do with it?”
“He handled the Pequod Point purchase for the Walkers.”
The chances of finding Gubbins lunching at Eden’s were good. And if I guessed wrong, I’d try the pizza place on Bridge Street or pop over to his office and wait for him there. No media vans were visible on Pequod Avenue, so I was fairly confident the press wouldn’t accost me. I parked and strode into the coffee shop, impatient to confront my lawyer. How could he withhold such an important piece of information? How could I trust him?
Gubbins sat in the last green-leather booth at the back of the room, wearing his shiny brown suit, eating a piece of pie. He didn’t notice me come in. His attention was split between the pie and the TV on the wall. FOX News was reporting on another round of deadly flooding in Haiti. I paused for a second and took in the heartrending images of homeless, grief-stricken survivors covered in mud, of inconsolable children crying for missing parents. That put things in perspective. I said a silent prayer for them and continued across the red linoleum floor, plunking down across from Gubbins, giving him a start. I kept my voice low.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were Hugh and Helene’s lawyer?”
Gubbins pushed away his slice of key lime pie and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“It wasn’t relevant.”
“Of course it was relevant. And what about legal? Or ethical?”
“I did not solicit you, Ms. Glasser. Ben Wickstein solicited me on your behalf.”
“I know, but—”
“I was the Walkers’ attorney for a single real estate transaction. They’re dead now. As such, they’re no longer my clients. But since they once were, confidentiality seemed appropriate.”
“Okay, but—”
“I really do take offense at your implication.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If you prefer not to accept my representation, that’s fine.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“So, for the record, you still wish to be my client?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“And you agree to listen to my advice?”
I nodded. At that moment, I could imagine Gubbins in a courtroom pretty easily.
“I saw that you spoke to the press,” he said, gesturing at the TV screen. “I hope you’ve gotten that out of your system. It’s dangerous territory. I’m not sure you’ve created the desired effect.”
I bit my lip. “You mean I made it worse.”
“Indeed.”
“But I felt I had to say something. I’m nervous about the way people are viewing me in all this.”
“Once again, I advise you against it. The media is tricky. It’s easy to give the wrong impression.”
He’d been right about that. What was the matter with me? If I was going to trust anyone, it should be him. I had to bring him up to speed on Volani. As he signaled for his check, I bent my head toward him and whispered, “You knew the previous owner of Pequod Point, right? The man who tried to buy his house back? Jeffrey Volani?”
“I’ve spoken with him, yes.”
“The police need to focus on Volani.”
Gubbins gave me a questioning look.
“He was angry with Hugh and Helene. He blamed them for his wife becoming depressed because she couldn’t have her house back. Well, the wife committed suicide a couple of months ago. It destroyed him. And I learned he wasn’t in Miami the night of the murders. He was ‘out of town.’ He could’ve come here to take his revenge . . . maybe.”
Even as I proposed Volani as the killer, I had reservations. The scenario suddenly seemed too far-fetched. Why would Volani slash the painting? Pose the two in bed? If he were trying to frame me, he’d need to have known my history with Hugh and Helene, and that I lived in Pequod. It was doubtful he even knew I existed. Or had he done research on Hugh and discovered our connection? Or had I just latched on to Volani because I was desperate to find a suspect? My mind was on fire with arguments and counterarguments.
Gubbins sighed. “Who told you all that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, it’s impossible. He couldn’t have killed them.”
“Why not?”
“Because he faxed me last night from Dubai. He’s developing a hotel there. He saw the news about the murders and wanted to know if I had the name of Hugh Walker’s estate attorney, so he could try to buy Pequod Point again. True, Mr. Volani is obsessed with that house, but he was in Dubai on Saturday night. He can’t be in two places at once.”
I slumped down in the booth, deflated. An older waitress delivered the check and began to clear the table. Gubbins took out his wallet, removed a hundred-dollar bill and set it down to pay.
“Thanks, dear,” he said. “I hope it’s not too much trouble to break that hundred. I don’t have anything smaller.”
“No problem, Mr. G.”
As she reached for the money, she caught sight of my face and did a double take. She deliberately avoided my eyes and slipped away to bring Gubbins his change.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“What?”
I groaned. “The way she looked at me. I did make it worse. It’s like everything is conspiring to make me look guilty. Even my own efforts.”
“Try to keep calm, Ms. Glasser.”
“But I’m worried. Do you know the way Hugh and Helene were murdered? Do you understand what’s happening here?”
“I do.” Gubbins nodded, his expression grave. “The killer set the scene to frame you.”
I leaned back and felt some of my tension drain. Gubbins believed what Ben believed.