Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(36)
At the door, I looked back. “Information received indicates Wilbur Fitch intended to fire you as his lawyer. His death is rather opportune for you.” I gave him a steady look, closed the door quietly behind me, though not before I saw his face flatten a little in shock. He had been quite relaxed when I spoke of the profit motive for others. It wasn’t quite so pleasant when it became personal.
Chapter 8
I disappeared in the hallway outside the law offices and wished myself to the broad front steps of the Fitch home. The police cars and forensic van were gone. A single modest black sedan remained. The huge Mediterranean-style home looked dull in the late-afternoon gloom beneath heavy clouds.
I hovered in the great entry hall, looked through an archway into the majestic formal living room, where the occupants of the house waited to be interrogated by the police this morning. Straight ahead rose a sweeping double staircase to the second and third floors.
I wanted a better sense of the layout of the mansion. I stepped through the archway to my left into a long hallway and explored the rooms in turn, a magnificent library, a narrow office with files and a computer and printer, and, finally, near the end of the hall, the study where Wilbur met his death. The study had an empty feel to it. It had been restored to order, the floor scrubbed where blood had seeped, the painting again flush against the wall, covering the now closed safe, the door to the garden shut.
At the end of the hall, I looked toward a central back portion of the house with a view of the terrace. Here was the informal living and dining area, intended for family use, comfortable chairs and sofas, a game area, a small dining table, small in the sense it would seat eight instead of the twenty or so in the baronial dining hall. Stairs at either end led to the second floor.
In the west wing upstairs I found Wilbur’s suite. I admired the living area, noted an open book splayed pages down on a mahogany coffee table. I looked at the title: Hillbilly Elegy.
I heard familiar voices. I found Detectives Judy Weitz and Don Smith in a huge masculine bedroom that overlooked the terrace and lake. The view was chilling this late November afternoon, scudding clouds, the lake slate gray.
Don gave an impatient glance at his watch. “Okay, you wanted one more look at the rich guy’s bedroom. Now can we call it a day?”
Judy was pointing at the bed. “Kind of like a fancy hotel. The covers are turned back, a Godiva chocolate bar on the pillow. The drapes closed. Look at those curtains. I’ll bet they weigh a couple of hundred pounds. Somebody pulled those shut every night, pulled them open in the morning. They’re thick enough to make this place blacker than a pot of fresh asphalt when he turned off the lights. Can you imagine if somebody turned your covers back and brought you chocolates and closed the curtains every night?”
Don was amused. “You sound like a disapproving Puritan. Hey, I could live with it. Like Fitzgerald said, ‘They are different.’ He was talking about the very rich.”
Judy was precise. “Fitzgerald thought the rich believed they were better than everybody else. I don’t think that was true of Wilbur Fitch. Maybe because he made those millions all by himself. Anyway, being rich wasn’t lucky for him. That’s why he’s dead. But the real point is the drapes were closed. You can bet he didn’t do that. We can check and see.”
“So the drapes are closed.” Don sounded bored.
For an answer, she opened the door into the sitting area, pointed at the book on the coffee table. “The butler says Fitch often stayed up late, only needed four or five hours’ sleep a night. So he has the big party, everybody finally leaves. It’s probably a little past midnight and he’s relaxing, reading a book. What happens next? Here’s how I see it. He’s in his private place. This house has massive walls. He wouldn’t hear anything from downstairs. Look at the cushion on the sofa. Still kind of depressed. Fitch was seated, reading. He wasn’t looking outside and the drapes are drawn in here, too. Anyway, it’s absurd to think that someone burglarizing the study would turn on the lights to spill out into the garden. Why not throw in a brass band? So, why does Fitch go downstairs?”
Don shrugged. “Maybe he wanted a different book.”
She pointed at a bookcase that filled one wall.
“Okay, maybe he wanted a pastrami sandwich.”
“Maybe”—her voice was silky—“somebody knocked on his door. Then the door opens. Someone he knows—and trusts—pokes a head in, says, oh, there are a lot of different ways it could have happened, but I’m betting the visitor said something like, I walked out on the terrace tonight and sat down to make a call and left my phone on a table. I came back a few minutes ago to get it. I was walking down the sidewalk by the west wing and the door to the study was open. I knocked, but there was no answer. I thought this was odd so I stepped inside and turned on a light. There’s a painting that’s been pulled back against the wall. Maybe we should go down and you can check and make sure everything’s okay.”
Don folded his arms, looked combative. “Or Fitch decided he wanted another book, schlepped downstairs, saw a light beneath the study door, wondered what the hell, went in. The secretary’s back for her second go at it. She hears the knob turn, darts across the room, hides behind a sofa. He comes in, sees the open safe, charges toward it. She moves like a flash, and whack, he’s down and dead.”