work today, and nobody’s seen her. Maybe she and that scumbag Boz Sheppard killed her sister and took off. Nobody’s seen him, either.”
“Why would they do such a thing?”
“Money. I hear Hayley had a big life-insurance policy.”
“Oh, yeah? How much?”
“Not sure, but they say Amy was the beneficiary.”
“Who says this?”
“Well, everybody.” She swung out her arm to include the whole store, maybe the whole town.
Small-town gossip. One misleading remark, and everybody thinks it’s gospel.
Still, I asked, “D’you know what company insured her?”
“There’s only one broker in town—Bud Smith. He represents a lot of companies.”
“But Hayley had been gone a long time; she must’ve taken out the policy somewhere else.”
“She’s been back long enough. Was staying with Boz Sheppard out in that trailer where she was killed. Didn’t show her face in town much, though.”
“Why not?”
The clerk shrugged. “Ashamed because she ran off and came back with nothing to show for it? Didn’t want to run into her mother? I mean, who
does
want to run into Miri? You should ask Bud Smith.”
Bud Smith was in his mid-forties and losing his blond hair; a short military-style cut couldn’t disguise it. He was lean and wiry, dressed in a loud plaid polyester jacket that was decades out of date and a shirt and tie of the same era. Obviously a fan of vintage clothing. He was on the phone when I entered his office in a lakeside strip mall, but greeted me with a smile and waved me toward a chair.
The smile faded as he said into the phone, “No, stay there. Stay right there. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
For a moment after he hung up he stared down at the desk. Then he looked at me and said, “What can I do for you?”
When I said I was helping the Perez family deal with the details of Hayley’s death, his face grew even more somber: he reminded me of an eccentrically attired funeral director.
“Such a tragedy,” he said, “such a waste.” His sorrowful expression looked genuine.
“We understand Hayley had taken out a life-insurance policy with you. And that the beneficiary was her younger sister, Amy.”
“Uh, yes, she did.” He began fiddling with a stack of papers on his desk, tapping them into a neat pile. “Are you putting in a claim? If so, Amy should be the one—”
“Amy’s out of town and we haven’t been able to reach her. Basically, all we want to know is if the policy exists and what its terms are.”
“Hayley should have had the policy in her possession. She picked it up”—he flipped backward through his desk calendar—“on September twenty-sixth.”
So she’d been in town for quite a while. Why, as the clerk at the Food Mart had said, hadn’t she “shown her face”?
I said, “Perhaps she put it in a safe place. The trailer where she was staying wasn’t very secure.”
“Apparently not, since she was murdered there.” Smith hesitated, running his hand over his clean-shaven chin. “I’m not sure I should be discussing the policy with you. Are you a relative?”
“A good friend. Ramon Perez is manager at my husband’s and my ranch.”
“Oh, you’re Hy Ripinsky’s new wife. I heard he got married again. Forgive me. I’ll be glad to tell you anything you need to know.”
I love to ask questions in small towns where I’m an insider. Hate it when I’m an outsider and they raise the bar against me.
Bud Smith went to a file cabinet and came back to his desk with a slim manila folder. “She came in on September seventh. Said her mother was unreliable—which is true—and that her other siblings, except for Amy, were either dead or in prison. She wanted to provide for Amy should something happen to her. We agreed on a fifty-thousand-dollar whole-life policy, which would accumulate a cash value that could be withdrawn at any time if Hayley, as owner of the policy, needed money.”
“Why fifty thousand?”
“The premiums were affordable, and
“Why would they do such a thing?”
“Money. I hear Hayley had a big life-insurance policy.”
“Oh, yeah? How much?”
“Not sure, but they say Amy was the beneficiary.”
“Who says this?”
“Well, everybody.” She swung out her arm to include the whole store, maybe the whole town.
Small-town gossip. One misleading remark, and everybody thinks it’s gospel.
Still, I asked, “D’you know what company insured her?”
“There’s only one broker in town—Bud Smith. He represents a lot of companies.”
“But Hayley had been gone a long time; she must’ve taken out the policy somewhere else.”
“She’s been back long enough. Was staying with Boz Sheppard out in that trailer where she was killed. Didn’t show her face in town much, though.”
“Why not?”
The clerk shrugged. “Ashamed because she ran off and came back with nothing to show for it? Didn’t want to run into her mother? I mean, who
does
want to run into Miri? You should ask Bud Smith.”
Bud Smith was in his mid-forties and losing his blond hair; a short military-style cut couldn’t disguise it. He was lean and wiry, dressed in a loud plaid polyester jacket that was decades out of date and a shirt and tie of the same era. Obviously a fan of vintage clothing. He was on the phone when I entered his office in a lakeside strip mall, but greeted me with a smile and waved me toward a chair.
The smile faded as he said into the phone, “No, stay there. Stay right there. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
For a moment after he hung up he stared down at the desk. Then he looked at me and said, “What can I do for you?”
When I said I was helping the Perez family deal with the details of Hayley’s death, his face grew even more somber: he reminded me of an eccentrically attired funeral director.
“Such a tragedy,” he said, “such a waste.” His sorrowful expression looked genuine.
“We understand Hayley had taken out a life-insurance policy with you. And that the beneficiary was her younger sister, Amy.”
“Uh, yes, she did.” He began fiddling with a stack of papers on his desk, tapping them into a neat pile. “Are you putting in a claim? If so, Amy should be the one—”
“Amy’s out of town and we haven’t been able to reach her. Basically, all we want to know is if the policy exists and what its terms are.”
“Hayley should have had the policy in her possession. She picked it up”—he flipped backward through his desk calendar—“on September twenty-sixth.”
So she’d been in town for quite a while. Why, as the clerk at the Food Mart had said, hadn’t she “shown her face”?
I said, “Perhaps she put it in a safe place. The trailer where she was staying wasn’t very secure.”
“Apparently not, since she was murdered there.” Smith hesitated, running his hand over his clean-shaven chin. “I’m not sure I should be discussing the policy with you. Are you a relative?”
“A good friend. Ramon Perez is manager at my husband’s and my ranch.”
“Oh, you’re Hy Ripinsky’s new wife. I heard he got married again. Forgive me. I’ll be glad to tell you anything you need to know.”
I love to ask questions in small towns where I’m an insider. Hate it when I’m an outsider and they raise the bar against me.
Bud Smith went to a file cabinet and came back to his desk with a slim manila folder. “She came in on September seventh. Said her mother was unreliable—which is true—and that her other siblings, except for Amy, were either dead or in prison. She wanted to provide for Amy should something happen to her. We agreed on a fifty-thousand-dollar whole-life policy, which would accumulate a cash value that could be withdrawn at any time if Hayley, as owner of the policy, needed money.”
“Why fifty thousand?”
“The premiums were affordable, and
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