The Last Sister (Columbia River)(67)

She knocked.

Her head started to throb, and she tightened the tie on her scrubs again to keep the baggy pants from falling to her feet. She was determined to see this through for Zander and the Fitches.

The door opened a few inches, stopped by a chain, and a bespectacled gaze peered out. “Emily!” He closed the door, unhooked the chain, and yanked it open. His grin faltered as he spotted Zander behind her.

“Hi, Simon,” Emily quickly said to pull his stare away from Zander. “I need your help with something. It just came up today, so I’m sorry I didn’t set up an appointment.” She schooled her features into a contrite look.

Simon was shorter than Emily—most people were shorter than Emily—and consistently wore slacks that bagged at his ankles. His striped button-down collared shirt had yellowed and grown thin, and several holes had been worn through the collar. His hair was nearly solid gray, the same as his beard, and both needed the attention of a barber.

She also felt he could use the help of an organized woman.

Dory wouldn’t be much help. Her great-aunt wasn’t one for detail . . . but maybe that would make her the perfect match for Simon.

Simon looked from her to Zander and back. “I’m always available for you, Emily.” He shot a look at Zander that emphasized the words weren’t for him.

“I appreciate it.” She put a hand on Zander’s arm. “This is Zander Wells. He’s with the FBI and is investigating the murders of Sean and Lindsay.”

Bushy brows narrowed as he scrutinized Zander. “You were at the meeting the other night,” he said.

“I was.”

Simon’s attention went back to Emily. “How is your aunt?” His gaze was full of hope.

She didn’t need to ask which one. “Very good, thank you. You should come over for dinner soon.”

His entire demeanor perked up. “Fabulous! I’ll take you up on that. Come in, come in.” He stepped back, waving them in. Emily silently exhaled; he’d accepted Zander’s presence.

The city had bought the tiny house several decades ago after the owner died, intending to fix it up and sell it at a profit. But the city budget had virtually no money for repairs, and no buyer was ever interested. For years the poorly planned purchase had caused local tongues to wag. The grandson of the woman who’d died had been on the city council and had convinced the council to buy her house. One day he abruptly stepped down from his position and moved to Florida.

The city never bought another piece of property.

Simon Rhoads had finally come along and offered to do some basic repairs if they’d let him store his historical records there. The council acquiesced, and eventually Simon’s treasure trove of history earned a tiny permanent spot in the city budget. Now he was available by appointment two days a week.

Emily knew those appointments were rarely filled.

The scuffed wood floor creaked as Emily and Zander entered. The home smelled of old, brittle paper and leather. An ancient damask couch, a battered coffee table, and a faded rug desperately in need of a good vacuuming filled the living room. Filing cabinets lined every wall of the attached dining room, with file boxes stacked three deep on top of each one.

Standing out in the shabby office was a beautiful, wide cabinet with a dozen shallow drawers. A controversy in the city council had played out in the local paper as the city considered purchasing the expensive cabinet. Her aunt Vina had firmly pointed out that Simon Rhoads did Bartonville a valuable service, never asked for anything, and needed a proper place to store his vintage maps.

Simon got his cabinet.

“You two sit on the sofa. I’m sorry it’s a bit lumpy, but you know I take what I can get and appreciate it all. Beggars can’t be choosers.” He scurried around the coffee table and sat in a wooden chair. “What can I help you with?” he asked Emily, eagerly leaning forward. Simon always exuded energy; all her aunts except Dory found it exhausting.

“I would like Agent Wells to explain it,” Emily said.

The historian blinked and nodded reluctantly, reining in his enthusiasm.

“Mr. Rhoads, did Sean Fitch have an appointment with you a week ago?”

Simon cocked his head, his gaze curious. “He did.”

“What was it for?”

“Well now.” The historian pinched his bottom lip and averted his focus to the coffee table. “I’d say that’s confidential between Sean and me.”

Zander started to reply, but Emily touched his thigh. “Sean was murdered, you know,” she said gently, willing Simon to look at her. “The FBI is tracing his last movements.”

The man jerked upright. “Do you think I killed him?” One knee started to rapidly bounce.

“Of course not,” Emily said.

She felt Zander stiffen at Simon’s outburst but stayed quiet.

“We’re hoping you can illuminate what he was doing in the days before he was killed.” Attempting to use gentle language, Emily felt as if she were balanced on a fence. The wrong words could make Simon lock down and refuse to help.

He scowled, thinking hard, and then took a deep breath. “Sean and I spoke on the phone several times over the last month or two. His appointment was the first time he’d come in, and it was a pleasure to speak with someone who has a deep knowledge of history. Most people are only interested in research for their family trees. Sean and I talked for three hours. Much longer than I had scheduled him for. He was a knowledgeable and intelligent man.”