Promise Not To Tell(17)
He stood in the center of Troy’s living room and played the narrow beam of his flashlight across the space. It was decorated in various warm shades that made him think of honey and whiskey. Not surprisingly, there were some artworks scattered around the room. The ray of light danced on a glass bowl that glowed with brilliant blues and yellows. A couple of abstract paintings done in rich jewel tones framed the sofa.
He wasn’t here for the art.
He walked across sleek wood floors, avoiding the area rugs so as not to leave an impression from his shoes, and started down a hallway. He was searching for a room that looked like it served as a home office. A businesswoman like Virginia Troy was bound to have one.
He found a bedroom that had been converted into a library. There was a couch that was probably a pullout bed. He was amused to see a lot of actual books on the shelves. Really, who read books these days when the online universe offered an endless array of entertainment?
Sure enough, there was a desk in the corner. A cobalt-blue glass paperweight secured a small stack of invoices, business correspondence and gallery catalogs.
He wasn’t here for the routine paperwork, either.
He opened the first drawer and started looking for the key to the past.
Back at the start it had all seemed so easy, so straightforward – right up until the moment that Hannah Brewster had jumped off the cliff.
Brewster had been his best bet, but with her out of the picture, he had been forced to find a new angle. He could hardly believe his good fortune when he discovered that a gallery owner named Virginia Troy had been Brewster’s only real link to the outside world.
He had known immediately that the name Troy could not be a coincidence. When he learned that Virginia was Kimberly Troy’s daughter, he’d been almost giddy with excitement.
He had immediately started looking into Virginia Troy’s world. He’d told himself he could not afford to rush the process, but he had experienced a jolt of panic when he discovered that she had contacted Anson Salinas within a week of Brewster’s death. There was only one explanation that made sense – Troy had stumbled onto something that made her realize there was a lot of money stashed away. She was looking for the key. Obviously she didn’t know that she possessed it or she would have already unlocked the missing fortune.
The desk did not yield any useful information.
He abandoned the search a short time later and let himself out into the hall. When he went past one neighbor’s apartment, he heard a muffled footstep on the other side of the door. He pulled the cap lower over his eyes. Ignoring the elevator, he went quickly toward the stairs.
Once inside the garage, he let himself out through the service door that opened onto the alley. His car was waiting a couple of blocks away on a side street.
He got behind the wheel and eased slowly away from the curb. There was one other place he needed to search before he gave up. It would probably be a waste of time but he had to be thorough. There was too much at stake. Brewster’s death had been an unforeseen disaster. Now he could almost hear a clock ticking. He had to get out in front of the situation.
The next step was to get inside the Troy Gallery. He had cruised slowly past the entrance earlier and seen a middle-aged woman working behind the counter – Troy’s assistant, no doubt. He would have to wait until later that night.
Brewster’s last words rang in his head. “You were a fool to come back. The key belongs to the children. Did you really think that they would forget what you did to their families? You’re a dead man. You just don’t know it yet.”
Crazy bitch.
CHAPTER 8
“Yes, there were some guests staying here the night Hannah died,” Rose Gilbert said. “Not many. Third floor is still closed for renovations. But I had a pair of honeymooners who never left their room except at mealtime and a retired couple who were into birding. Why do you ask?”
Cabot let Virginia answer the question.
“Cabot is a private investigator,” Virginia said. “I’ve asked him to look into Hannah’s death.”
Rose grunted. “Had a feeling you weren’t satisfied with what those off-island cops told you.”
“I just want a more thorough investigation,” Virginia said.
Rose nodded somberly. “I understand. It was a shock, that’s for sure.”
Rose was a chunky, solidly built woman in her early sixties who had an aging biker babe vibe, complete with a booze-and-cigarettes voice. Her gray hair was cut short and spiky. She wore denim pants and a faded denim shirt accented with a rugged leather vest. Her belt was studded with a lot of metal hardware that matched the metal studs in her ears.
Cabot figured the big four-by-four parked behind the Lost Island B and B belonged to her. Virginia’s sleek little compact was the only other vehicle. He and Virginia were the sole guests that night.
They had eaten dinner at a small café in town – a thick vegetarian stew and rustic, whole-grain bread. He’d ordered a beer. He was not surprised when Virginia had ordered a glass of wine. It went with the sophisticated gallery owner persona.
When they returned to the B and B, Rose invited them to join her in the vintage parlor for a glass of whiskey. She had apologized for the limited selection. “No point stocking the bar, not at this time of year. Not enough guests. I only drink whiskey, so that’s all I can offer.”
The parlor was decorated with an astonishing array of needlework. There were several large, elaborately embroidered scenes hanging on the walls. He was no expert but the quilt on the back of the sofa looked handmade. So did the area rugs. Crocheted doilies covered almost every surface. Rose Gilbert did not look like the arts-and-crafts type. He figured the needlework had probably been left by the former owner of the B and B, Abigail Watkins.