Dead Certain by Mariah Stewart Page A

another martini. His third, by Mercer’s count. “Though Lehmann there stands to inherit financially. The house here in town as well as a summer place. The boat. And I understand that England carried a hefty life insurance policy.”
    “Clark doesn’t need the money. There’s a lot of money behind him.”
    “Where’d it come from, do you know?”
    “Lehmann’s Candy. He’s a grandson of the founder, owns a big chunk of stock. And he’s done well—very well—with his investments.” Evan drained his glass. “But I’m sure you’ll find that all out for yourself when you scrutinize his financials.”
    “You seem to know a lot about him,” Mercer noted.
    “Derek England and my sister were friends long before they were business partners. I knew him—and Clark Lehmann—pretty well.”
    “So I guess your sister knows Lehmann well, too. Would you say they’re pretty close, the two of them?”
    Evan stared at Mercer for a long time before he burst out laughing. “Right. Clark and Amanda conspired to kill Derek.” He shook his head and deposited his empty glass on a silver tray as a waiter passed by. “You will have no more contact with my sister unless she’s accompanied by her attorney, or by me.”
    Evan turned and walked away before he acted on his inclination to land a fist in the middle of Mercer’s face.
    “That went well,” the chief muttered to himself.
    He stepped back to the edge of the tent to watch the interaction of the crowd from the sidelines. It was a real mixed bag. Several same-sex couples gathered with Lehmann near the bar, while a group of older professional types stood off to one corner. The deceased’s fellow antiques dealers, he supposed, recognizing Marian O’Connor in their midst. His eyes settled on Amanda Crosby from across a space of thirty or so feet. As if she were aware of his gaze, her eyes met his briefly before turning back to her companion, an older man in a dark suit with a red carnation in his lapel.
    Mercer continued to study the faces of the mourners, returning to Amanda’s several times before he realized he’d unconsciously been seeking her out as she moved around, stopping to chat with a young woman here, a small quiet group there. Her face was softened with sorrow, her eyes red, the circles under them deeper, darker than they’d been all week. Guilt or grief? he wondered.
    At one point he’d caught the gaze of her brother again. Mercer had looked away abruptly, though he’d not totally understood why he’d felt compelled to do so. He’d be as protective of his own sister, wouldn’t he?
    Hard to tell, since they didn’t have much of a history together, he reminded himself. Evan Crosby might know his sister well enough to state with total conviction that she was not capable of murder, but could he, Mercer, make that same declaration? How well did he really know Greer, anyway?
    Not all that well, he sighed. They were trying to change that, but too many miles had separated them for too many years. They were still just getting to know each other, still learning to measure each other’s character. It was a hard admission for him to make, but if Greer Kennedy was a suspect in a murder, her own brother wouldn’t be able to swear that she was innocent.
    The Crosby siblings looked like they were close, the way they leaned toward each other to chat under the conversation level of the crowd. They even looked a bit alike, both dark-haired and green-eyed and a little edgy. The angles of the brother’s face were softened on the sister, her mouth fuller, her cheeks pinker.
    Evan’s eyes saw more, his expression had a harder edge, and his movements were sharper, as one might expect given his profession. Brother and sister seemed to share a wariness, though it was more pronounced in him than in her, another concession to the job. There was a gentleness in her that surfaced every time she took someone’s hands and offered a hug to a mourner who needed one. There was