Ill Will by J.M. Redmann

friend of mine described situations like this by saying, “There is not enough vodka or aspirin in the world.” I could feel the headache starting.
    “You got an extra chair?” Mr. Williams asked.
    I pointed to a folding chair in the corner. He had made himself at home, he could continue by finding his own chair.
    The blond dude stuck out his hand. “I’m Fletcher McConkle.”
    I dutifully shook his hand. He was older than he first looked, harsh lines around his eyes and his skin a leathery tan.
    “And you are?” I asked the woman.
    She glanced up, but looked at me only briefly. It was hard to read the expression in her eyes, timidity or annoyance—or some combination of the two.
    “I’m Mrs. McConkle. Mrs. Donna McConkle,” she said. Her voice was high and soft with almost a lisp to it. She was younger than she had first looked, her conservative clothes aging her. I guessed a fifteen- to twenty-year age gap between the two of them.
    “And you know who I am,” Mr. Charles Williams added.
    “Yes, I do,” I said with no smile. To hurry this along, I asked, “Tell me why you might need the services of a private investigator.”
    It was Fletcher, of course, who answered. “My aunt is being swindled. I need to put a stop to it.”
    “Criminal acts are a matter for the police,” I said. “If someone is taking advantage of her, you should report it to them.”
    “It’s more complicated than that,” he said.
    Which usually meant that it wasn’t complicated at all, just massively unpleasant. I supplied the expected prompt. “Complicated how?”
    “My aunt is elderly, suffers from a variety of ills, and is always looking for something that will fix those ills. Sometimes she doesn’t choose wisely. A young dude used his wiles to gain her confidence and sell her so-called natural remedies for which she is paying several hundred dollars a week.”
    “Perhaps you should call elderly services,” I suggested. Fletcher spoke in an affected way, as if it made him smarter and more refined. In his Hawaiian shirt.
    “Do you not want this case?” he asked. “This is the second time you’ve suggested I go elsewhere.”
    “I recognize what I can and can’t do. If I feel there is a more appropriate place that can offer greater help, it’s only ethical I provide that referral,” I said calmly. However, maybe Fletcher had married Mrs. Fletch because she was an heiress and he had money to burn. I didn’t want to close out my options either. I’d be ethical and polite.
    My answer seemed to satisfy him. “My aunt has all her faculties intact, and, alas, can decide for herself what she wants to do with her money.”
    “If she’s spending money she doesn’t have on things she doesn’t need, then that might be an argument to intervene. Bad decisions about finances can be an early sign of dementia,” I said.
    “She has the money,” Fletcher said. “If he sticks with only swindling her out of a few hundred a week, then she’ll be okay unless she lives to well over a hundred. My concern is it could escalate as he gains her confidence, and it’s not right she’s being taken advantage of even if she can afford it.”
    “Not to mention you being her only living relative,” Mr. Williams chimed in.
    Now his unease made sense. He might well have been worried about his aunt, but my read was that the real concern was his possible inheritance.
    I pretended to ignore Mr. Williams’s very pertinent comment. “What do you think a private investigator could do to help you?”
    “Expose this charlatan. Get the evidence he’s knowingly pushing useless pills and potions. Give me enough proof I can show her he’s not some nice boy who’s genuinely concerned about old ladies, but a con man. I need to know who this man is, who he works for, and most important, get proof he’s selling worthless nostrums.”
    “There are no guarantees,” I said. Remembering my conversation with Cordelia, I told him, “For many of these