Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(32)

Juliet’s lovely face was open and cheerful and quite disarming. I wondered if I was being played by an imaginative and clever killer. In any event, I now could be sure that everyone at the luncheon was well equipped to place the ransom call. Including Juliet.

I looked at her pleasantly. “I understand you and Mr. Fitch had travel plans.”

A slight flush stained her cheeks, and her dark brows drew down in a frown. “He was taking me to Dallas to go shopping. He said it was a bonus for making his library a fun place. I can’t believe how Minerva Lloyd acted. Everyone knows they’ve been having an affair for years, but she’s certainly not a very nice person. She told Wilbur I was a little gold digger just because he gave me a fancy necklace for my birthday. Well, it was his idea. He asked me what I liked and I told him I just loved pretty emeralds and I had no idea he would go right out and buy me this gorgeous necklace.”

I maintained a pleasant expression, but I saw a gleam of satisfaction in those dark chocolate eyes, whether at the acquisition of a fine necklace or the pleasure of denigrating Minerva. “Perhaps Mr. Fitch was interested in you as a companion.”

She tossed her head, such an exquisitely feminine—and revealing—gesture. “That’s what she was afraid of. He told me he’d settled her down, made it clear he’d take me to Dallas if he wanted to.” A sigh. “He was fun. I hate it that someone hurt him.” And perhaps hated it more that a wealthy man was no longer eager to please her with baubles far beyond what she could ever afford. I had a sudden hunch. Susan mentioned her bequest and how that added to the police conclusion that she murdered Wilbur for money. Obviously Wilbur had told Susan about her inclusion in his will. Did he tell other beneficiaries? That seemed in character. Wilbur Fitch was outspoken, impulsive, fast-moving. He’d only known Juliet for a short while, but obviously she attracted him.

“I know you appreciate the bequest to you in his will.”

Her glance at me was quick, revealing. There was knowledge in her eyes, calculation, decision. She clapped her hands together. “A bequest? Oh, how wonderful. I didn’t know.”

Of course she did.

? ? ?

Yellow curtains added a cheerful accent to the pale gray walls in Minerva’s shop. The lighting was bright enough to enhance the texture and color of the clothing, muted enough to create an atmosphere of relaxation. Several pieces of a sectional sofa upholstered in yellow and gray offered islands of comfort near tall mirrors angled for privacy. No customers were present. I paused to admire a pencil skirt in a rich faille fabric and varying shades of blue in a dramatic floral print. Very nice.

I found Minerva in her office at a small French provincial desk. She was on the phone. Her tone was imperious. “. . . no excuse. If the shipment isn’t here by ten a.m. tomorrow the order is canceled.” She didn’t wait for an answer, hung up. She was classically beautiful, waves of golden hair, violet eyes, patrician features. With no one present (so far as she knew), her quite lovely face held more than a trace of petulance. She was impeccably attired in a pink Shetland wool blazer with gold buttons over a matching pink turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and rose pebbled leather flats.

She replaced the phone in the receiver, a faux antique gold-plated phone. The expression of irritation faded. She slumped a little in the chair, and suddenly her face was vulnerable, her eyes held pain and sadness.

I returned to the front of the shop, stepped behind a mannequin. In an instant I was there. I took a moment in front of a mirror to smooth my hair and straighten the hang of my cardigan. I moved to the front door, opened and closed it. A muted bell sang.

Minerva stepped out from the back corridor with the automatic smile and careful scrutiny of a shopkeeper alone in her business. There was an imperceptible brightening and relaxation. The good quality of my sweater and slacks had been duly noted. And I was a distraction from the emotion she’d felt sitting alone at her desk with only her thoughts—and memories—for company.

I moved confidently forward, my hand out with an oblong leather case open to display an ID. “Detective Sergeant G. Latham, Adelaide Police Department. If you can spare a few minutes, ma’am, I’m here about the investigation into the murder of Mr. Wilbur Fitch.”

“Wilbur.” She took a breath and for an instant her lovely face looked older, bereft. “It’s terrible. Unbelievable.” Her voice was low and soft. “His stepson called me this morning.”

I gestured toward a sofa. “If we might sit down, ma’am.”

She sat across from me, laced her fingers around one knee as she leaned forward, her gaze demanding. “Harry said the police took his secretary in for questioning.”

I shook my head in a chiding manner. “There are always misunderstandings in every investigation. The police requested the assistance of the secretary and she was glad to be helpful. Now the investigation is expanding. We understand you and Mr. Fitch were very close.”

“He was my good friend.” Her husky voice was forlorn. “My best friend.”

“Perhaps more than friends?”

“We were friends.” She spoke with finality.

“There’s information that you and he quarreled recently.”

She sat immobile, expressionless. “We were on very good terms. In fact, last night I served as his hostess at the anniversary party for the company.”