from doing anything of the sort.”
“What do you mean, you’re prohibited? You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”
Every once in a while I meet someone who seems to feel compelled to inform me that I am a lawyer. Generally speaking, I don’t like these people. Implicit in the pronouncement is the arrogant assumption that I’m not acting like one.
“Mr. Collier,” I tell him, “if the police question you about this matter, you should tell them nothing but the truth.”
“The truth.” He half laughs, staring at me, as if he’s waiting for my real answer.
I nod. “No need to volunteer anything,” I tell him. “Just answer the questions asked. But don’t try to hide information either.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Yes, it is. Get cute with them and you’ll be the target of the next investigation.”
He laughs again, a full one this time, and heads back toward the kitchen. Apparently I’m dismissed.
“Mr. Collier,” I say as he approaches the doors, “I was wondering…”
He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, as if whatever portion of his day he’d allotted for his discussion with me has been used up. After a moment, he turns to face me, his impatience plain.
I walk closer to him, so I can look him in the eyes when he answers. “I was wondering if you might know anything about the Rawlingses’ marriage.”
“Their marriage?”
“Yes. I’m curious as to whether they were having problems of any kind, what the prospects might have been for their future.”
He plants both hands on his hips, forcing his suit coat open in the process. My eyes rest on a shiny revolver in a shoulder holster at his rib cage.
His gaze follows mine for a moment, and then he looks back up at me, smiling. “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s legit. I’m licensed.”
I consider telling him I’m not as worried as he might assume—I’m packing my own Lady Smith, after all—but decide against it. “I was asking about the Rawlingses’ marriage,” I remind him.
His return gaze is steady. “Herb and Louisa Rawlings were extremely happy together. They had no problems.”
I nod, but say nothing.
Now it’s his turn to take a step closer. He seems to want to look me in the eyes too. “Their future,” he says, “was secure.”
C HAPTER 9
It’s after five by the time we wrap up. The Kydd has reassembled Louisa’s file, adding the copious notes he took this afternoon to the paltry pages I scratched out yesterday. He amassed a small mountain of legal-size sheets today, writing almost nonstop since we got started, and I’m pretty sure I know why. He’s besotted with our damsel in distress. Note-taking kept him from drooling. At least most of the time.
I rest on the edge of a kitchen stool and face Louisa, who’s leaning against the stove, arms folded, watching the Kydd position her file in the belly of his briefcase. “About Steven Collier,” I begin.
Her gaze shifts to me and she tilts her auburn head to one side. “What about him?”
“Did he handle Herb’s money too? Or just yours?”
She laughs. “Only Herb handled Herb’s money, darlin’. No one else put a hand in that cookie jar.”
I look around the kitchen for a moment, and then into the sunroom, where late-afternoon light reflects off the waves outside and casts intricate designs on the far wall. Of course Herb Rawlings managed his own assets. He must’ve been damned good at it.
“Herb and Steven talked about money all the time,” Louisa continues. “They never tired of it—stocks, bonds, tax shelters, you name it. They were always bandying moneymaking strategies about. Investing was a competitive sport for them. They kept tabs on Wall Street the way other men follow football.”
“Did Steven have access to Herb’s financial affairs? Copies of documents, for instance?”
Louisa pauses for a moment, considering. “Some,” she says. “Herb gave Steven copies of whatever documents he
“What do you mean, you’re prohibited? You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”
Every once in a while I meet someone who seems to feel compelled to inform me that I am a lawyer. Generally speaking, I don’t like these people. Implicit in the pronouncement is the arrogant assumption that I’m not acting like one.
“Mr. Collier,” I tell him, “if the police question you about this matter, you should tell them nothing but the truth.”
“The truth.” He half laughs, staring at me, as if he’s waiting for my real answer.
I nod. “No need to volunteer anything,” I tell him. “Just answer the questions asked. But don’t try to hide information either.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Yes, it is. Get cute with them and you’ll be the target of the next investigation.”
He laughs again, a full one this time, and heads back toward the kitchen. Apparently I’m dismissed.
“Mr. Collier,” I say as he approaches the doors, “I was wondering…”
He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, as if whatever portion of his day he’d allotted for his discussion with me has been used up. After a moment, he turns to face me, his impatience plain.
I walk closer to him, so I can look him in the eyes when he answers. “I was wondering if you might know anything about the Rawlingses’ marriage.”
“Their marriage?”
“Yes. I’m curious as to whether they were having problems of any kind, what the prospects might have been for their future.”
He plants both hands on his hips, forcing his suit coat open in the process. My eyes rest on a shiny revolver in a shoulder holster at his rib cage.
His gaze follows mine for a moment, and then he looks back up at me, smiling. “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s legit. I’m licensed.”
I consider telling him I’m not as worried as he might assume—I’m packing my own Lady Smith, after all—but decide against it. “I was asking about the Rawlingses’ marriage,” I remind him.
His return gaze is steady. “Herb and Louisa Rawlings were extremely happy together. They had no problems.”
I nod, but say nothing.
Now it’s his turn to take a step closer. He seems to want to look me in the eyes too. “Their future,” he says, “was secure.”
C HAPTER 9
It’s after five by the time we wrap up. The Kydd has reassembled Louisa’s file, adding the copious notes he took this afternoon to the paltry pages I scratched out yesterday. He amassed a small mountain of legal-size sheets today, writing almost nonstop since we got started, and I’m pretty sure I know why. He’s besotted with our damsel in distress. Note-taking kept him from drooling. At least most of the time.
I rest on the edge of a kitchen stool and face Louisa, who’s leaning against the stove, arms folded, watching the Kydd position her file in the belly of his briefcase. “About Steven Collier,” I begin.
Her gaze shifts to me and she tilts her auburn head to one side. “What about him?”
“Did he handle Herb’s money too? Or just yours?”
She laughs. “Only Herb handled Herb’s money, darlin’. No one else put a hand in that cookie jar.”
I look around the kitchen for a moment, and then into the sunroom, where late-afternoon light reflects off the waves outside and casts intricate designs on the far wall. Of course Herb Rawlings managed his own assets. He must’ve been damned good at it.
“Herb and Steven talked about money all the time,” Louisa continues. “They never tired of it—stocks, bonds, tax shelters, you name it. They were always bandying moneymaking strategies about. Investing was a competitive sport for them. They kept tabs on Wall Street the way other men follow football.”
“Did Steven have access to Herb’s financial affairs? Copies of documents, for instance?”
Louisa pauses for a moment, considering. “Some,” she says. “Herb gave Steven copies of whatever documents he
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