Chapter 25 #2
“I do,” Jules said. “Helen would obviously know that the new un-Dead-Milt wasn’t the Milt who’d employed her for decades.
She would know that he was some stranger that Harper and Clayton Spencer—and whoever their accomplices were—dug out of some old folks home and stashed in that hospital bed in the library in order to keep control of Devonshire’s twenty million dollar fortune. ”
Sam laughed. “That’s... bat-shit crazy.”
But Robin was fully on board as he consulted the info Jules had added to Sam’s timeline.
“But oops, Dead-Milt’s first not-dead stand-in has health issues of his own, and he up and dies just a few months into the charade.
Oh, I’m loving this. So now Cathy, hired to replace Helen, gets fired, because now Harper and gang are gonna bring in a new Not-Dead-Milt, and if Cathy gets a look at him, now she’ll go That’s not Mr. D.
So Cathy’s out and they hire Paula and this works for about a year until that Not-Dead-Milt, what is it that she said? Gets the flu?”
Jules nodded.
“But by this time, Harper has his routine down. Paula’s out, Rene’s in—”
“Except Rene is Rene,” Jules said. “She completely screws things up for Harper by actually witnessing her fake Mr. Devonshire’s death and calling 9-1-1 instead of Clayton Spencer. At which point the jig is up.”
Sam laughed. “A) this is fucked up, and B) the fact that you came up with this is... I don’t know whether to be worried or proud.”
Now, in the morning light that streamed in through the kitchen’s slider, Sam sat at the counter, digging into his second bowl of Cocoa Puffs. “Still all feels pretty batshit crazy to me,” he pointed out. “We gonna do any digging in the garden today?”
Jules was sipping his coffee, but now he shook his head. “Not yet. As soon as we do, it’ll tip Harper off. I think we just keep an eye on it for now—make sure no one else starts gardening.” He used one hand to air-quote the word.
Robin was making toast, spread with that sunflower seed butter that he loved, and he offered a slice to Jules.
“Thanks.” Jules smiled at him. It was always good to not have coffee on an empty stomach. He turned back to Sam. “I want to reach out to Harper again—I really want to talk to Clayton Spencer.”
“Maybe he’s in the garden, too,” Sam suggested.
“He does seem to be missing,” Jules agreed.
“My guess is he’s hiding,” Robin offered and yeah, that was probably the most likely answer.
“I was thinking about the whole relaxed security setup at the estate,” Sam said.
“If you’re right about all this, it kinda makes sense.
There was no real fear that Wig-Milt was any kind of physical threat.
The problem was if he somehow got onto the property and into the house and said, Hey, that guy in that bed is not my father. ”
Jules nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking that, too. But I was also thinking... Remember checking the desk drawers in the library? For Devonshire’s address book and calendar?”
“I do,” Sam said, and then laughed. “Well, now. Looks like we can do a DNA test after all.”
Robin looked from Sam to Jules over the top of his mug of coffee. “What was in the desk drawer?”
“Hairbrush,” Sam said as Jules said, “Electric razor.”
“Toothbrush,” Sam added as Jules said, “All of the above.”
“Ah, of course,” Robin said. “Personal care products.”
“A DNA treasure trove,” Jules said.
Robin nodded. “Better go get ’em before they disappear, too.”
Good point. Jules looked at Sam. “Shall we...?”
“And then what?” Sam asked as he took his empty cereal bowl to the sink and rinsed it out.
It was a good question. Jules’s bat-shit-crazy theory may have explained Ernest Harper’s odd behavior, but it brought them no closer to finding Emily Johnson.
In fact, it probably had nothing to do with her at all.
Except for the very real possibility that her new ownership of Devonshire Place could very well uncover the lawyer’s bat-shit-crazy crimes.
Assuming it was Harper who was bat-shit crazy, and not Jules.
“We find a DNA testing lab and then knock on more doors while we wait for the results.”
“Oh frabjous day. Callooh, callay,” Sam deadpanned.
Jules couldn’t help but laugh at his Jabberwocky reference. “I used to love that poem.”
“I figured as much.” Sam headed out of the kitchen, no doubt to hit the downstairs powder room before he left the house.
“It occurred to me,” Robin said to Jules, “that the new experience that Dead Milt mentioned in his note to Emily was, well... What if she knocked on his door and was like, Hello, you’re my father.
I’ve been leaning towards that, rather than she was some kind of lover or common law wife.
Because having a kid show up, out of the blue—that’s gotta be at least relatively unique.
Only Dead Milt’s an asshole, right? We pretty much know that, so he was probably all in her face about it, like, You’re just here to get money from me, and she probably got insulted and told him where to stick his money and his freaking work of art of an estate.
Except he does a paternity test and It’s a girl!
And now, for the first time, he’s got a choice when it comes to having a biological heir, and between the unknown daughter and the miscreant son, he picks Emily and changes his will. ”
“Hello, you’re my father probably does rank up there in new experiences for most people,” Jules agreed, kissing his husband goodbye. “You’re getting a ride to the studio, right?”
“I am.” Robin smiled into Jules’s eyes, pulling him in closer for a longer, more lingering kiss.
But then Sam rattled his way down the stairs—he’d gone up to get his jacket, which was insane considering the day’s heat.
“Wig-Milt said he’d call this morning, but he hasn’t,” he said.
“When do I cut the bullshit and call him on his other phone number—the one we have for him under his Mick O’Rourke name? ”
“Not yet,” Jules said.
“You really think Wig-Milt’s somehow involved with whatever this is Harper’s got going on?” Robin asked, looking from Jules to Sam and back again.
“No,” Jules said as Sam said, “Hell, yeah.”
“See,” Robin said, “this is what makes you such a good team.”