Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(51)

“Mr. Sparks does not speak with journalists without an appointment.”

Oh, come on. “I’m not a journalist.” I hate to do it, but there are times when my dark celebrity comes in handy. “My name is Gwen Proctor. I’m the ex-wife of Melvin Royal. Perhaps you can ask him if he’d like to see me?”

She blinks, blinks again, and without a change in expression, says, “Please wait a moment.” The door shuts again, but it is more of a gentle motion than a slam, and I do as instructed. After less than a minute, the door opens, but it’s not the housekeeper/dragon lady. It’s an older man with silver/gray hair, slightly darker on top than on the sides. He’s wearing a nicely pressed, blazingly white dress shirt, a paisley tie, and suit pants. He even has suspenders to match the tie. And all of it probably costs more than I’ve ever spent on my entire wardrobe.

He smiles and holds out his hand. “Ms. Proctor,” he says, and raises both eyebrows. “You do prefer Ms., am I correct? I confess, I’ve read up about your . . . ah, history. I never thought we’d meet face-to-face.”

I shake, and nod. “I’m here about Marlene and Vee Crockett.”

The smile vanishes, and it’s his turn to nod. “Yes, please come in. It will not be a long conversation, I’m afraid.”

The hallway smells of fresh lemon-scented polish, and the hardwood floor is spotless. There’s surprisingly colorful art on the walls, mostly of gardens, but I don’t get time to admire it as I follow Mr. Sparks down the hall and into a spacious office. This one has a gigantic red Persian rug covering most of the floor, gently holding a large antique desk and three matching leather-bound chairs. The room has a reassuring smell of furniture polish with a faint undertone of tobacco, and against my will, I breathe it in deeply. My mother used to use the same lemon-scented polish. My childhood memories are drenched in it, along with my father’s sweet pipe smoke.

Mr. Sparks congenially offers me one of the chairs and sits behind his desk. He rocks slightly for a moment before he says, “Where are my manners? Can I offer you coffee? Iced tea? I believe Mrs. Pall has made up a cream cake, if you’d like some.”

“Thank you, no, I’m fine.” I’m tempted by the cream cake.

“Very well. Please explain how you became involved in this matter, Ms. Proctor.”

Like any good lawyer, he’s asking me to verify what he already knows. “Her mother called me,” I say. “And I’m concerned about what’s happening here, because from what I got out of the phone call, Marlene didn’t seem frightened that her own daughter was going to kill her.”

“You were also an earwitness, so to speak, to what happened with Vera, isn’t that the case? Detective Fairweather told me he intended to take your statement.” His accent has its roots in the Wolfhunter drawl, but it’s a little less antique. He must have gone away to school and consciously struggled with it. Southern accents can be a real barrier in some places. I look around for the degree; almost every lawyer has it framed and on the wall. And there it is, off to the right of his desk, but there’s a glare on the glass from the window. I can’t tell what school he attended.

“Yes, and I gave a statement this morning,” I say. “I assume they’ll share it with you.”

“Always nice to know what to look for, in case someone overlooks it. And let me ask you a pointed question: Do you think the girl committed this awful crime?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “Detective Fairweather wouldn’t let me talk to her, which is too bad, because I felt like . . . like we had something of a rapport on the phone. At least, enough to get her through it alive.”

“You likely did save her life,” Sparks says. “Our local police are not exactly highly trained. She was lucky, especially since—”

“Since people already knew there was trouble between her and her mother?” I finish it for him, because it seems like he’s trying to imply without committing himself. “I know that.”

“Interesting,” Sparks says. He rolls his leather chair a little forward and folds his hands together.

I’m struck by his incredibly neat, precise desk. An in-box (or maybe an out-box) with just one folder in it. A miniature bronze of Lady Justice, complete with blindfold and scales. A small gavel with some kind of memorial plate. A desk set of penholder and leather desk protector, both looking impeccable. There’s only one pen in the container. I don’t know why, but that strikes me as eccentric, bordering on odd.

“So let’s back up. When Marlene Crockett called you, she seemed afraid of someone?”

“Yes. Or some situation. She wasn’t specific,” I say.

“Not even a guess?”

“Just that she seemed to be having a crisis and wouldn’t give me details unless I came up to talk in person.”

“Which you did not do.”

“No.”

He cocks his head slightly. “Why not?”

I think of a million defensive excuses, but I say, “Honestly? I didn’t want to put myself in the middle of something. After the business last year . . .”

“Yes, I can understand your wanting to stay out of the spotlight.” He doesn’t mention the disastrous Howie Hamlin TV appearance, though I’m sure he’s aware of it. “I assume you also considered that it might be a trap set to lure you to Wolfhunter . . . an out-of-the-way place where you might well be caught without support.”