Chapter 2 #3
“By morning, he was dead.”
The kitchen was quiet. The flowers Dash had brought sat in a vase on the counter, bright and oblivious, and the morning light had shifted to fall across Josephine’s hands where they gripped the portfolio like a lifeline.
Josephine opened the portfolio. “I’ve got everything in here.
Photographs of Henry’s study after they removed his body, files of correspondence with law enforcement and the medical board, a copy of the death certificate, copies of his Rolodex, and his will.
It’s all organized. All dated. And I’ve got boxes of his personal files and belongings in a storage locker. ”
Her voice didn’t waver.
“I’ve been told I’m grief stricken, paranoid, attention seeking, and delusional. I’ve been told that people who lose spouses sometimes can’t go on, and that I should focus on my own health at my age. I’ve been told to let it go.”
“But you didn’t,” I said.
“My only brother was murdered, Mrs. McCoy. He and Charlotte never had children. Our parents were already gone. There was no one left but me. Letting go was never an option.”
She pulled out a photograph, the edges soft with handling. A man in his mid-fifties with dark hair going gray at the temples, a tan, and a physique you get from actually being outside.
He stood on the front porch of a pale yellow house with green shutters that I recognized as the old doctor’s office on Broad Street, one hand raised against the sun, smiling at whoever was behind the camera like they’d said something funny. He had a good face. A kind face.
“This is Henry,” she said. “Three months before he died.”
Dash looked at me. I looked at him. There was a conversation in that glance that didn’t require words.
Two cases behind us. Two cold murders solved by an unlikely group of retirees and a tea shop owner who still couldn’t quite believe this was her life. And now a third was sitting at my kitchen table with a dead man’s photograph and a patience that could outlast stone.
“Josephine,” I said. “Would it be all right if I shared this with the Silver Sleuths?”
For the first time, her composure cracked. Not much, not dramatically. But her chin trembled for half a second before she pressed her lips together and nodded.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said.
After Josephine left, I stood at the stove and made eggs. The portfolio sat on the table where she’d left it, thick with evidence and grief and the unyielding conviction of a woman who had trusted her own instincts when the whole world told her she was wrong.
Dash leaned against the counter beside me, eating a biscuit while he waited for me to finish.
“What do you think?” I asked, sliding the eggs onto plates and adding a couple of strips of bacon to each.
We walked back over to the table and set our plates down, and then Dash went to get his coffee from the espresso machine while I replenished the teapot with hot water and more orange pekoe. We took our seats.
“I think Milton buried a lot of things during his tenure, and this might be one of them.” He brushed crumbs from his shirt. “Just based off the circumstances of him being left-handed I’d say it’s worth looking into.”
He reached past me for another biscuit, his arm brushing mine, and the contact sent a bloom of heat up my skin that had nothing to do with the oven. I let myself enjoy it without overthinking. I was getting better at that. Slowly.
“I want to take this case,” I said.
“I know.”
“Does that mean you’ll support it? Officially?”
He studied me for a moment, and I could see him weighing the badge against everything else. “I’ll pull what records exist. Knowing Milton, the file won’t be thick. But I don’t want you to get your hopes up. This very well could be a suicide.”
“I know,” I said. “But it’s worth finding out one way or the other. She deserves to have peace.”
He set down his coffee and reached for my hand, his fingers closing around mine with a steadiness that undid me every time.
“You’re something special, Mabel McCoy.”
“Oh, well,” I said, looking down at my teacup. “Thank you.”
“I’ll go ahead and leave for the station and see what I can find out for you,” he said. “Thank you for the breakfast. I’m glad you didn’t let me bring the coffee.”
“It was a matter of survival.”
He grinned and leaned forward to kiss my cheek. When he pulled back, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew exactly how much I’d wanted him to aim for my lips instead. Insufferable man.
He left, and it was just me and Chowder and the dirty dishes. He emerged from under the table and sat at my feet.
I reached down and scratched behind his ears. “What do you think? Ready to work another case?”
He sneezed, which I chose to interpret as enthusiasm.
I picked up Josephine’s portfolio and carried it to the dining room table, where the murder board from the Pickering case had been cleared, so it waited, blank and expectant, for whatever came next.
“All right, Dr. Wainwright,” I said to the photograph of the man smiling in the sun. “Let’s find out what happened to you.”