Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(34)

A balding, stork-like man with long shoulders and long arms loomed over her. “That brief has to be filed this afternoon. Take it to a copy shop.”

I found George Kelly in a corner office with windows overlooking the end of a strip mall and a parking lot. Several folders were stacked on one side of a cherrywood desk. The office itself was nicely furnished with dark brown drapes at the windows. I admired framed photographs of desert scenes and a branding iron mounted on a slab of weathered wood on the wall opposite his desk. Two comfortable armchairs faced the desk. A well-worn cowboy hat rested atop a coat-tree. A suit jacket hung from one hook.

George was absorbed in skimming a document and making occasional notations on a legal pad. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. I hovered behind him, discovered the files all pertained to the estate of Wilbur Fitch. Very good.

In the hallway outside the law firm, I checked to be sure no one was near before I appeared. I was ready to open the door when the panel jerked inward and the secretary bolted out and collided with me. “Oh. Sorry, so sorry.” A folder dropped to the floor and sheets of paper slewed out. She gave a hunted look over her shoulder, then bent to scrabble the papers into a stack. I reached past her to close the door. I recognized that look for what it was, a defensive, don’t-shout-at-me, panicked stare of a person accustomed to abuse.

“Here, let me help.” In an instant, I had the numbered sheets back in order and held them out to her.

“I have to hurry. He gets mad if I make mistakes. It isn’t my fault the copier won’t collate.”

“I’m sure it’s not. I’ll walk along with you. I’m with the Adelaide police and I have a few questions.”

We were already downstairs at the main entrance. She opened the door. “I’ll be glad to help if I can.” Her reply was vague. “There’s a copy shop across the street.” She was focused on her task and the impatient lawyer.

I kept up with her as she darted across the intersection and wended past parked cars to the copy shop. I waited until the pages were slapping out of a copy machine, four copies collating neatly, and offered a soothing smile. “I know you are a great success at what you do and I’m sure you can help me. I’m Detective Sergeant G. Latham, Adelaide Police, and Mr. Kelly is assisting us with our investigation into the death of Mr. Wilbur Fitch.”

She scarcely glanced at my ID card. “Oh.” Her voice was a soft stricken coo. “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes were shiny. “He was the nicest man in the world. He heard about the time that awful dog got my cat and she was in surgery for hours and then intensive care and the vet bills were over a thousand dollars and I didn’t see any way in the world I could pay, and Mr. Fitch took care of the bill. Every Christmas I sent him a picture of Cleo, that’s my cat’s name, Cleopatra, she’s very elegant, and he always sent me a lovely gift card and said I should buy Cleopatra a pretty nightgown. It was our joke. I always used every bit of the gift card for her.” Her voice was earnest. “Her food and shots and things.”

Susan told me Wilbur Fitch was generous. There is a special place in Heaven for those who care for “the least of these.” I wasn’t privy to Wilbur’s arrival and welcome, but I knew the angels sang.

She was carefully lifting out the sheets in order. “If I can help you with Mr. Fitch, I will do everything I can. I know Mr. Kelly’s going to be really busy.”

“Mr. Kelly is taking care of the estate. I suppose that will require quite a bit of work.”

“Oh yes,” she breathed. A little frown tugged at her lips. “I heard Mr. Wallis—”

Wallis would be the tall stork-like man who very likely shouted at the secretary when he was irritated.

“—this morning after the police left. They came just before lunch and talked to Mr. Kelly because he was Mr. Fitch’s lawyer. They stayed about fifteen minutes. After they left, Mr. Wallis went to Mr. Kelly’s office. He left the door open so I heard them, and Mr. Wallis was, well, it isn’t nice to say, but he was super excited. Talk about a bonanza. What is the estate? Forty mil? Fifty? You can rack up a half million before that one’s through. Mr. Kelly told him that was no way to talk, that Mr. Fitch was not only a client but a friend and he for one wasn’t thinking about fees now. He said there was too much to do to help the son get everything in order, that the estate was very complicated. He’d be working nights and weekends for a long time. Mr. Wallis laughed and said, Ka-ching, ka-ching. I didn’t think that was very nice, and I’m glad Mr. Kelly doesn’t feel that way.’”

We were quite friendly as we walked back across the street, and she immediately punched her intercom after she settled at her desk. “Mr. Kelly, a police detective is here to see you.”

He came to his door and waved me inside. His height made the desk look small, and I definitely looked up at him. He exuded masculinity. There might be a suit jacket on the coat-tree, but he wore a western shirt and a black string tie. True to Susan’s description, his gaze was a little too familiar. I was willing to guess his wife divorced him because he was too interested in other women.

I was pleasant, matter-of-fact. “I’m following up on our inquiries this morning. Could you give me the particulars of Mr. Fitch’s estate?”

He was just this side of rude. “I listed the beneficiaries this morning.”