“If it’s your birthday,” I said, “you might have to wait for your present.”
“Very funny. It’s Sunday, babe. And unless I’m much mistaken, you’re still in Whitethorn House, snug as a bug in a rug. Which means we’ve won our first battle: you made it through the week without getting caught. Congratulations, Detective. You’re in.”
“I guess I am,” I said. I had stopped counting the days, somewhere along the way. I decided this was a good sign.
“So,” Frank said. I could hear him arranging himself more comfortably, turning down the outraged talk-radio caller in the background: he was at home, wherever home was since Olivia had kicked him out. “Let’s have a summary of Week One.”
I pulled myself up onto a wall and took a second to get my head clear before I answered. Under all the easy messing around, Frank is pure business: he wants reports like any other boss, and he likes them clear, thorough and succinct.
“Week One,” I said. “I’ve inserted myself into Alexandra Madison’s home and her place of study, apparently with success: no one’s shown any sign of suspicion. I’ve searched as much of Whitethorn House as is feasible, but I haven’t found anything to point us in a specific direction.” This was basically true; the diary presumably pointed somewhere, but so far I had no idea where. “I’ve made myself available as much as possible-to known associates, by attempting to be alone on regular occasions during the day and evening, and to unknown ones by ensuring that I’m visible on these walks. I haven’t been approached by anyone who wasn’t already on our radar, but at this stage that doesn’t rule out an unknown assailant; he could be biding his time. I’ve been approached at various times by all the housemates and a number of students and professors, but all of them seemed concerned primarily with how I was feeling, that kind of thing-Brenda Grealey was a little more interested in the details than you’d expect, but I think that’s just ghoulishness. None of the reactions to Lexie’s stabbing or to her return have raised any red flags. The housemates appear to have concealed the full extent of their distress from the investigating officers, but coming from them, I don’t consider that suspicious behavior. They’re very reserved with outsiders.”
“You’re telling me,” Frank said. “What’s your gut say?”
I shifted, trying to find a bit of wall where nothing stuck into my arse. This was a little more complicated than it should have been, since I wasn’t about to tell him, or Sam, about the diary or about my feeling that I was being followed. “I think there’s something we’re missing,” I said, in the end. “Something important. Maybe your mystery guy, maybe a motive, maybe… I don’t know. I just get this very strong sense that there’s something here that hasn’t surfaced yet. I keep feeling like I’m about to put my finger on it, but…”
“Something to do with the housemates? College? The baby? The May-Ruth thing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I honestly don’t know.”
Sofa springs creaking as Frank reached for something-a drink; I heard him swallow. “I can tell you this much: it’s not the great-uncle. You were way off base there. He died of cirrhosis; spent thirty or forty years locked up in that house drinking, then six months in a hospice dying. None of the five of them visited him. As a matter of fact, he and Daniel hadn’t seen each other since Daniel was a kid, as far as I can find out.”
I had seldom been so glad to be wrong, but this left me with that same grabbing-at-mirages feeling I’d had all week. “Why’d he leave Daniel the place, then?”
“Not many options. That family dies young; the only two living relatives were Daniel and his cousin, Edward Hanrahan, old Simon’s daughter’s kid. Eddie’s a good little yuppie, works for an estate agent. Apparently Simon figured Danny Boy was the lesser of two evils. Maybe he liked academic types better than yuppies, or maybe he wanted the house to stay with the family name.”
Good for Simon. “That must’ve got up Eddie’s nose.”
“Oh, yeah. He wasn’t any closer to Granddad than Daniel was, but he tried to fight the will, claimed the drink had sent Simon off his trolley. That’s why probate took so long. It was a stupid thing to do, but then, our Eddie’s not the brightest pixie in the forest. Simon’s doctor confirmed that he was an alcoholic and a horrible old man, but sane as you or me, and that was the end of that. Nothing dodgy there.”
I slumped down on the wall. I shouldn’t have been frustrated, I had never actually thought that the gang had slipped nightshade into Uncle Simon’s denture adhesive; but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something crucial going on around Whitethorn House, something I should be able to put my finger on. “Yeah, well,” I said. “It was just a thought. Sorry for wasting your time.”
