“Right.”
Grace picked up her pen and began making notes. “As for who committed the murders, we can discount two people right off the bat.”
“Who?”
“First, the pissed-off drug dealer. If Hugh and Helene were using drugs, it would’ve come out in the autopsy report. Ben’s source at the DA didn’t mention drugs, did he?”
“No,” I said, chagrined. Why didn’t I think of that?
“And second, like I said, I don’t believe Stokes came up with this plan to frame you. He spends half his life bowling. He’s kind of a lug.”
“You’re kind of a snob. Just because Stokes is obsessed with bowling doesn’t make him stupid. That’s classist. He’s playing dumb. He’s plenty smart. And diabolical. Helene would have certainly told him I’d been married to Hugh, but he acted like he didn’t know. Like I was the creep at the crime scene . . .”
Grace narrowed her eyes. “Maybe. And maybe Kelly killed them. What if she knew about the affair, and she’s pretending she just found out? Maybe she Googled Helene and read about your history. She realized you’d be the perfect suspect.” She gasped. “Oh shit. She’s in my house with Mac right now.”
“No. No. No. Forget it. It’s not Kelly.” I was disappointed that Grace wasn’t buying the Stokes theory. “She might’ve whipped them with her ponytail, but shoot them? And why would she kill Hugh? Her grudge was against Helene.”
Grace pondered this for a moment and relaxed. “Good point. And she really is a sweet person.”
“It’s Stokes,” I insisted. “Stokes hated both of them.”
“Could be . . .” She started doodling. “But what if . . .” She appeared to be sketching a pair of crossed eyes.
“But what if what?” I asked impatiently.
“What if Hugh was messing around again? He might have slept with some nutjob. A pathologically jealous type. ‘Bang bang’ Hugh and Helene. ‘Slash slash’ the painting.” She scribbled out the eyes. “Then again, maybe it is Stokes.”
I began massaging my temples, overwhelmed by the possibilities.
Grace continued. “Isn’t it odd that Helene was attracted to Stokes? He’s so not her type—a bowler from Catskill?”
“There you go again. Classist.”
“But Stokes doesn’t have all those millions, like Hugh.”
Grace doodled a dollar sign. I glanced at it. Looked away and looked back again. My brain started pinging and flashing like a pinball machine. How could I—how could both of us have missed this? I popped out of my chair and tapped the pad repeatedly as I tried to harness my racing thoughts. Grace looked alarmed.
“What?”
“Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein,” I said.
Grace dropped the pen and we both chanted it together: “Follow the money.”
My words tumbled out. “Callie is the money. She’ll be Hugh’s heir. His paintings are worth even more now that he’s dead. A fortune, in fact. Fifteen million? More? She’s just a child. Someone has to take charge of her, become her legal guardian.”
“You’re right,” Grace agreed.
“That person will have a lot of influence over what happens to her millions during the next few years. And what she does with her money when she’s grown. Want to bet it’s going to be Uncle Tobias and his wife, Ruth, who petition the court to be Callie’s guardians?”
Grace cupped her chin, thinking it over. “I didn’t know Tobias was into material things.”
“Remember I told you he started that religious foundation? He hit Hugh up for large donations a couple of times, invited us down to fund-raisers in Virginia that we never went to. Hugh thought the foundation promoted ‘Christian fascism’ and never gave him a cent.” I sat down again and circled the dollar sign with Grace’s pen. “What if Tobias did it for the money?” I pointed to Grace’s MacBook. “Can I use this?”
“Please.”
“Did you know Tobias was in New York for a ‘Save the Family’ conference on the weekend of the murders?” I asked, logging on to my e-mail.
“Now, that is a suspicious coincidence,” Grace said.
“He also knew that Callie was staying with Helene’s sister and wouldn’t be at home. He told Wolf Blitzer. He was alone and within striking distance of Hugh and Helene. There was no one to keep track of him. He could have rented a car, driven out to Pequod from the city late that night and shot them before driving back to his hotel in the city. No one would have any idea he’d left. And Tobias would know how to set the scene to make it look like I’d done it.”
“The police must suspect him. They must be looking into it.”
“I think the police are too busy with me.”
Grace peered over my shoulder as I reopened Tobias’s e-mail.
“He invited you to the funeral?”
“It would be the Christian thing to do, no? He’s reinforcing his saintly image.”
Grace paused for a moment, then narrowed her eyes. “Tell him I’m grieving and want to come with you,” she said.
From the Pequod Courier
Obituaries, cont’d from page 11
Nora Glasser, on staff at the Courier, was Hugh Walker’s first wife and introduced the artist to this area. Both of the deceased moved to Pequod Point earlier this year. Hugh Walker’s brother, Tobias Walker of Lynchburg, VA, survives him. Helene Walker’s mother, Dinah Westing, and her sister, Margaret Westing, survive her. The Walkers’ daughter, Callie, survives both of them.
Chapter Sixteen
I was on a mission. I left WPQD for Reynolds Discount Electronics in Massamat. It was time to shop for a disposable phone, or “burner,” in crime-show lingo. I intended to call rental car agencies and try to find out whether Tobias booked a car last Saturday night. If he had, there would be mileage records. With any luck, if the rental car hadn’t been cleaned thoroughly, the police might still find traces of Pequod Point’s soil on the floor mats or tires. Or carpet fibers on the upholstery. Or even blood. Buying a cheap laptop would also be a good idea for checking e-mails and finishing “Canines for Heroes.” I’m no shirker. Despite everything that was going on, I’d fulfill my work obligations.
I thought of work, and a flicker of doubt returned about Ben. Had I done the right thing in pushing him away? In not giving him the opportunity to respond to my situation? I had to shake off this relentless self-questioning and refocus on the plan.