One Fool At Least (The Madeline Mann Mysteries) Read online

  “So Finn got money, too, when she died?”

  Jack riffled through the papers. “He got thirty-five percent of a five hundred thousand dollar policy.”

  “Wow. That’s, like—“

  Jack laughed at my poor math skills. “It’s 175,000. Before taxes. Still, it could be money worth killing for. And unlike Slider, Finn didn’t have to wait for his.”

  “But Slider’s going to be even richer,” I said. “And Ardmore said this was only the start of Finn’s wealth.”

  We thought about this for a moment. Ardmore, Finn and Slider. All of them were heirs, in one way or another. “Who would benefit from killing all three?” I asked.

  Jack nodded. “I think we would need to know the contents of Finn Flanagan’s will. How could we determine that?”

  I shook my head. I had no idea. “Ardmore said Slider is in it. If Slider died, his dad would get the money, unless he made a will stipulating otherwise.”

  “And I assume the same is true of Ardmore and his parents,” Jack said, frowning at the papers. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “This doesn’t say Sarah Sloane. It says Sarah Wilde.” Jack held up the signature on the adoption documents.

  “So Sarah and Damien were married! I wonder why Ardmore didn’t mention that.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  He and I exchanged a glance. His eyebrows lifted and a slow smile appeared on his lips. I reached out to touch his growing chin stubble, which was almost a beard in just two days. “Hairy beast,” I said.

  “The better to scratch you with, my dear.”

  I leaned over to kiss him. He tasted like wine. “This isn’t just about Damian Wilde anymore. You’re starting to like this mystery stuff.”

  “I’d like doing anything with you,” he said.

  * *

  We put all of Slider’s things back into his safe deposit box, then left the bank and crossed the street to the office of David Kirk, Accountant. Slider had asked him, he’d told us, to handle his money when it began to roll in. Slider thought perhaps we might learn more about anyone’s motive to kill Finn, or him, Slider, if we talked to people who knew his situation. Of course this was a delicate situation, since to the town Slider was still officially missing, he was a runaway, and this was really none of our business except for the fact that Slider had made it so.

  “Mr. Kirk?” asked Jack, as a young, dark haired man stood up behind a cluttered desk.

  “Yes?” Kirk asked, smiling at us.

  I crutched over and introduced Jack and me. “Oh, and are you related to Pat Shea?” Kirk asked.

  Jack agreed that we were; Kirk brightened even more. “I do Pat’s taxes! He’s a great guy. It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to Grand Blue.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sitting in one of the seats that faced his desk. “We’re also friends of Slider Cardini. We were wondering if you could tell us anything about Slider’s money affairs.”

  Kirk’s smile disappeared. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t. That would be privileged information.”

  “What I mean is, I understand Slider planned to hire you to sort through some of his financial options.”

  Kirk looked uncomfortable. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but I can’t confirm or deny that. I’m not sure why you thought—” His faced was clean-shaven and young looking, and handsome in a tired sort of way.

  “Why—Molly Shea told us. She and Slider are very close, and she’s very worried about him.”

  “As are we all,” Kirk said, nodding. He was poking at a perpetual motion machine on his desk, the kind with the little silver balls that clack into one another and keep each other swaying back and forth. We both watched them swing for a while—click, clack, click. I glanced at the rest of the things on his desk—papers of all sorts, for one thing. I would have thought an accountant would be a bit more organized; or perhaps there was a certain organization in the seemingly haphazard piles. There was a little blue jar with the words “Retirement Account” painted on it in whimsical fashion. A happy little fisherman reclined over the words, enjoying his cartoon retirement.

  I looked back at Kirk when he said, “Well, since Molly told you, it’s true, Slider did ask me to help with his accounts. He was going to be turning eighteen soon, and he wanted to discuss some options. He felt that I would be a more appropriate choice than—” He stopped and looked distressed that he had revealed even this much.

  “Yes,” I said. “A better choice than his father, right?”

  “And we know he was about to receive a very generous amount of money,” Jack said. “What we’d like to know, if you’re able to tell us, is if Slider made a will leaving the money to any particular beneficiary.”

  Kirk frowned. “I absolutely cannot comment on that.”

  “Well, just hypothetically then,” I said. “If I had inherited something in someone’s will, and then I died, who would my inheritance go to?” I asked.

  Kirk looked nervous, as though we were trapping him into an admission. “I suppose it would go to next of kin,” he said. “Unless you had stipulated that it go to someone else.”

  “So what if it turned out I had other family—someone unexpected?” I asked.

  Kirk started scribbling on his blotter with a black pen. “You mean, like a long lost uncle or something? It would still go to your immediate kin. Your husband here. Unless the relative was in the immediate family.”

  Jack and I exchanged another look. Kirk smiled, wanting to get it. “Has there been any news? Of Slider?” he asked.

  “Nothing that we know of,” Jack said smoothly. “We’re just trying to track him down by sort of following his last movements. I assume he met with you fairly recently?

  Kirk hesitated, then nodded, flipping an appointment calendar backward with his pen. “I suppose I can tell you that. Yes. Here we go. We met in April. I was surprised to hear that he was missing. He always struck me as a sort of solid kid, very reliable. I told the police the same thing.”

  “So, if Slider doesn’t come back, what becomes of his money?” I asked.

  “Gosh, I’m not sure,” Kirk said. Of course he did, but it obviously fell into the category of things he didn’t feel he could reveal.

  “And did Slider discuss with you what he might like to do with his money?” I asked.

  “I can tell you in general that when I speak with a client at a first meeting, I discuss some of their hopes and dreams with them, then give them advice about safe investments and prudent spending.”

  “Like your retirement account?” I joked.

  Kirk looked at me for a moment, almost scowling, until he saw that I was pointing to the little blue jar. “Oh, right,” he said, smiling. He was handsome when he smiled.

  “What were some of Slider’s hopes and dreams?” Jack asked.

  Kirk shook his head. “I don’t think I can share that.”

  We looked at him for a moment, and he added, “Sorry.” Then he sighed. “If all of your investigating leads you to Slider, I hope you’ll let us all know. We’ve been mighty worried about him here in town.”

  He stood to shake our hands, and I noticed that some of the ink from his pen had gotten onto his white shirt.

  “We’ll do that,” Jack said.

  Before we reached the door, he ran up to us with a business card, a bland black-on-white thing. “Do call me, will you? If you hear from Slider?” Kirk’s face looked earnest as a child’s, and I felt obligated to pat his shoulder.

  “We will,” Jack said, and I’m sure he felt the same twinge of guilt that I did; still, Slider was going to come forward very soon, and that would have to suffice for Kirk and everyone else.

  Back in the car, I told Jack what Ardmore had said about Libby—the fact that he’d seen her at Finn’s place, late at night, on the night Finn died. Jack’s mouth tightened into a line. “Do you know, I’ve known Libby since she was seventeen years old? She and Pat met in math class when they were juniors. She used to come over for dinner. I was
in grade school at the time, and I was sort of in love with her myself.”

  I nodded. Jack didn’t want to confront Libby, whom he loved. “I can talk to her, Jack. You don’t have to be a part of this.”

  “Maybe that would be best,” he said, reaching across to squeeze my hand. We drove toward our temporary home, thinking our separate thoughts. The Cat’s Teeth were bright and sharply outlined against the blue sky. I looked at them with something between wonder and fear. Anything that permanent had strength; the frailty of human beings was becoming ever more apparent.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I had never really looked closely at Libby; not, at least, the way I did now, watching her cut up vegetables for dinner. She was tall and slim, and the figure visible beneath her T-shirt and blue jeans suggested that her high school physique wasn’t entirely a thing of the past. The chocolate-colored hair that curled behind her ears held no trace of gray; then again, Libby was only in her late thirties. Her wide brown eyes were partially hidden by a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. She looked like the stereotype of the pretty librarian.

  “How are things going?” Libby asked me, sending me a concerned glance as she peeled a carrot.

  “Oh, fine. I mean, you don’t have to worry. Jack is taking good care of me. You all are.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell you, Madeline, with everyone around, but I feel just terrible about what happened. And I know Slider and Molly do, too. Slider could have no way of knowing—”

  “I absolutely understand,” I told Libby, touching her shoulder. “The responsibility lies with the person who gave the order, and Jack and I are pretty sure we know who that is.”

  Libby scratched her nose with the back of her hand and shot me a curious look. “Damian Wilde? You think he did it?”

  I nodded. “But listen, Libby, it gets a lot more complicated. I think Wilde was worried about his son. And his son is worried about him, but I doubt either of them can explain why Ardmore was shot today. So now they’re starting to re-think things, and Ardmore is going over the night of the murder in his mind.”

  “Really?” she asked idly, chopping the carrot into slices.

  “He remembers you being there, in Finn’s bar, all alone and apparently waiting.”

  I didn’t want to hedge any more; I really wanted to know Libby’s answer.

  She stopped cutting and looked at me. She pushed her glasses up on her nose with the dull end of the knife and went for a surprised look. It didn’t work. That’s when I knew Ardmore had told the truth.

  “He said that? I go to the bar sometimes with Pat, but there’s no reason that I would—”

  “Libby, you might have important information. Information the police could use. They haven’t questioned you, have they?”

  She shook her head, staring at the cutting board. “God,” she said.

  “Libby, you can tell me. What was it all about? I know you must have some reason to have met with Finn, and—”

  “I’m not saying I met with him.”

  “I think your face is saying it for you,” I suggested.

  She lifted her head suddenly and her eyes were full of tears. “Some things need to stay secret,” she said softly.

  Stunned, I took a step back. I didn’t want to believe what she seemed to be telling me. “Libby—”

  “Maddy, I can’t talk about this with you. I know you want to help, but it’s my own business why I met with Finn Flanagan, and I—”

  “Libby.” We both turned to see Pat and Jack in the doorway. I didn’t know how much of our conversation they’d overheard, but I saw that Pat looked pale and dumbfounded. “Libby, you told me you didn’t meet with Finn. You said you were out at Janey’s house; you said she needed to talk.”

  I glanced at Jack. I certainly hadn’t meant to open this can of worms.

  Libby was looking at her husband, her eyes a study of misery, obviously torn between talking and escaping. “It’s Pandora’s box,” Libby said, bright tears on her lashes. “I can’t believe this is happening to me. To my family,” she cried, and ran out of the room.

  Jack put a hand on Pat’s shoulder. Pat shrugged him off and walked to the counter, where I stood, and glared at the carrot slices on the cutting board. His eyes were wretched in a way far different from yesterday, when he’d been worried about me. Now it was his wife, his own beloved wife, and the fear of infidelity was written on his face. “She told me when he opened the bar in town, she said ‘That Finn Flanagan is a handsome man.’ ”

  He smiled weakly, then said, “Fuck this,” and stalked out of the room. I heard him running up the stairs after his wife. A door slammed, and the house was silent.

  Before I could speak to Jack, Molly and Mike entered, closely followed by Slider. They’d been playing on the computer in Pat’s den. Molly pushed Mike’s chair. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Has something else happened?”

  Jack looked at me. It wasn’t our place to bring it up, and yet these three had an emotional investment in the two people upstairs.

  “It’s just something your parents need to talk out,” Jack said.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding, about Finn. Your mom saw him on the night he died. Your dad thought she didn’t,” I offered, trying to make it sound like a simple oversight.

  Molly shook her head. “Why would Mom—” she stopped. “No, I don’t believe it.”

  I remembered what she had told me about how Pat and Libby had almost divorced. How vulnerable she’d looked, and then how satisfied when she told me her Mom and Dad had worked things out. Or had they? I wondered.

  Mike spoke now. “You shouldn’t believe it, Moll. What a dumb thing to think. Mom loves dad like crazy. Remember on his birthday when she ordered him that special clock all the way from Germany, because he’d liked it at that one bed and breakfast? And Dad said he loved it, and then we got sent to the movies?” Mike grinned, half embarrassed, half proud of his parents’ devotion.

  I nodded. Mike was right. The vibe wasn’t right here; something was missing, something was off. I said, “I agree with you. Listen, what were you three going to do today? I think you should do it, and let this blow over.”

  “Not much,” Molly said. “We can’t go anywhere where Slider could be seen. He’s going to Finn’s apartment tonight, though.”

  “That’s too dangerous!” Jack told him sharply. “Let one of us go.”

  Slider shrugged. “No one’s living in the apartment right now. It’s half cleaned out, but some of his stuff is still there. I’ve looked through all the boxes they packed, and I haven’t found the diary. Maybe it’s a wild goose chase, but I wanted to look some more. There are still places I haven’t searched. I never stayed long, you know, and I only got there two or three times.”

  “Jack and I can go. It’s too dangerous for you, Slider. And I’m starting to think that it’s more dangerous than we originally thought.”

  Molly looked shocked. “What do you mean, Aunt Maddy?”

  Jack was looking worriedly toward the stairs. Right now he was more fearful about the death of a marriage than he was about Slider’s potential enemies. “Just that Slider has some money coming. From more than one source. It’s motive,” I said.

  Mike seemed to understand the situation best. “I think you’d better hang here, Slider,” he said. “It beats camping out, right? And Mom was making chicken pot pie, but now—”

  “Guys, do you know the recipe?” I asked. “Maybe you could finish it while your mom and dad talk.”

  Molly nodded, glad to have something to do, and went to the vegetables Libby had stacked neatly by the board, tossing them into a pan. Mike went to work on cutting the meat and Slider on setting the table. It was sweet, watching the three of them working together, especially because they did it almost in silence, and yet they all seemed to know their roles.

  Jack beckoned to me, and I crutched after him onto the porch, where the sun was just starting to dip behind the mountains. The air was pleas
antly cool, and the swing looked inviting. Jack sat on it and held it still so that I could do so, too. He swung us gently back and forth.

  “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” I said apologetically. “I just wanted to find out—”

  “I know,” he said, looking at the view.

  “Do you really think that Libby—”

  “No,” he said.

  “Neither do I,” I agreed. “The vibe I’ve gotten from them ever since our wedding was one of a solid couple.”

  “But something’s wrong. Maybe we’re wrong, Madeline, maybe I don’t know Libby as well as I think I do. God, I hope that’s not the case.”

  We swung for a while, saying nothing. I realized that I needed another pain pill, but I didn’t want to disturb Jack. I ran a hand through his hair, then rested it on his shoulder, and he brought up a hand and put it over mine. “It would kill me,” he said, “if I thought you had cheated on me. Especially if we had children, if we had seventeen years of marriage—”

  “It will be okay,” I said.

  * * *

  It was almost an hour before they came down again, but they did so hand in hand. Jack and I were in the living room, trying to read. Molly and the boys had gone in the back yard to pick some flowers for the table as a surprise for their mom.

  Libby had obviously been crying, but she looked calmer. Pat had his color back, and his expression was almost… smug. A laugh bubbled up inside me, and I fought to suppress it. They’d been having sex; I could see it in their faces, their demeanor, their renewed closeness. I looked sideways at Jack. He seemed to be figuring it out, too.

  “Everything… okay?” he asked.

  Libby smiled at us. “It will be,” she said. “Pat has made me see that.”