deserted for years?” Alice asked.
Felicity bit her lower lip. “No idea.”
“I’ll ask Dad,” Alice said curtly, before taking out her phone. Happy Bays’s chief of police was sure to know the story about Hartford Manor.
Chapter 14
G rover stared down at the glass table where the proof of his wife’s unfaithfulness lay in all its starkness. The glossy pictures depicted Emilia in a state of undress and in provocative poses with a man who could easily be Grover’s son. The guy was buff and handsome and looked like a young stud in his prime. That was the risk when you married a woman half your age, Grover thought ruefully: she might go off and conduct affairs with men of her own age when she grew tired of you.
He sighed and shook his bulbous head, then raised a haggard face to his visitor. The detective who’d snapped the pictures looked like a rumpled bedspread, with his jowly face and worn-out overcoat, and was unruffled. He probably saw this stuff every day. His name was Gerry Finnegan, and he’d come highly recommended.
“How long—” Grover swallowed, then resumed speech. “How long has this been going on?”
“Well,” said the gruff detective, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his gray overcoat, “at least since college, and probably long before that.”
Grover hadn’t expected he could be surprised after watching his wife perform acrobatics with a stranger. “Before college? What do you mean?”
The PI shrugged. “As far as I can tell the guy was her high school sweetheart. Been an item since tenth grade or something.”
“Tenth grade?” Grover’s lower jaw dropped. He snatched up one of the pictures and studied it more closely. Then he saw it. This guy... was that guy. His wife’s lawyer. The one she called when she needed some legal advice.
“He’s her lawyer,” he said feebly.
Finnegan grinned. “Yeah, he’s upped his game from giving advice to delivering other services.” When he saw Grover’s dismay, he pulled his face into the requisite expression of commiseration. A good detective knows that he should never make fun of his client’s misfortune. At least not if he wants to get a retainer. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer, all right. Just made partner at Stephenson, Stephenson, Stephenson and Stephen & Son. His name is—”
“Hogston,” Grover said brokenly. “Romuald Hogston.” It was hard to forget a name like that. Especially since Emilia often referred to him as her best friend. She’d assured him that he was gay, though. Judging from these pictures he was anything but gay. “So this has been going on for years?”
“Years and years and…” He coughed when Grover gave him a level look.
Of course. His friends had all warned him against marrying Emilia. A classic gold digger, they’d called her, and now he had to admit they were right all along. He’d only started suspecting something a couple of weeks ago when he’d accidentally caught a message flashing on her phone. She’d left it in the bedroom when the phone had beeped. He’d been reluctant to check. Her phone was always beeping, but he just happened to see the display lighting up. Something about a meeting at the Ritz-Carlton. For some reason, it had drawn his attention, so he’d read it. Then had wondered why Emilia was meeting a friend at the Ritz when she could meet them at the condo.
He’d scrolled through her messages, and had found some more intimate ones that had aroused his suspicion. So he’d hired this rumpled detective on Chazz’s recommendation.
“I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, plunking down on a chair.
“Divorce her,” the guy said. “Hit her with this evidence and divorce her ass. She’ll never get alimony and then she and this dude can live happily ever after on his lawyer’s salary. Good luck with that.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” Then he realized he was discussing his private affairs with a detective, and gave the man a stern
Felicity bit her lower lip. “No idea.”
“I’ll ask Dad,” Alice said curtly, before taking out her phone. Happy Bays’s chief of police was sure to know the story about Hartford Manor.
Chapter 14
G rover stared down at the glass table where the proof of his wife’s unfaithfulness lay in all its starkness. The glossy pictures depicted Emilia in a state of undress and in provocative poses with a man who could easily be Grover’s son. The guy was buff and handsome and looked like a young stud in his prime. That was the risk when you married a woman half your age, Grover thought ruefully: she might go off and conduct affairs with men of her own age when she grew tired of you.
He sighed and shook his bulbous head, then raised a haggard face to his visitor. The detective who’d snapped the pictures looked like a rumpled bedspread, with his jowly face and worn-out overcoat, and was unruffled. He probably saw this stuff every day. His name was Gerry Finnegan, and he’d come highly recommended.
“How long—” Grover swallowed, then resumed speech. “How long has this been going on?”
“Well,” said the gruff detective, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his gray overcoat, “at least since college, and probably long before that.”
Grover hadn’t expected he could be surprised after watching his wife perform acrobatics with a stranger. “Before college? What do you mean?”
The PI shrugged. “As far as I can tell the guy was her high school sweetheart. Been an item since tenth grade or something.”
“Tenth grade?” Grover’s lower jaw dropped. He snatched up one of the pictures and studied it more closely. Then he saw it. This guy... was that guy. His wife’s lawyer. The one she called when she needed some legal advice.
“He’s her lawyer,” he said feebly.
Finnegan grinned. “Yeah, he’s upped his game from giving advice to delivering other services.” When he saw Grover’s dismay, he pulled his face into the requisite expression of commiseration. A good detective knows that he should never make fun of his client’s misfortune. At least not if he wants to get a retainer. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer, all right. Just made partner at Stephenson, Stephenson, Stephenson and Stephen & Son. His name is—”
“Hogston,” Grover said brokenly. “Romuald Hogston.” It was hard to forget a name like that. Especially since Emilia often referred to him as her best friend. She’d assured him that he was gay, though. Judging from these pictures he was anything but gay. “So this has been going on for years?”
“Years and years and…” He coughed when Grover gave him a level look.
Of course. His friends had all warned him against marrying Emilia. A classic gold digger, they’d called her, and now he had to admit they were right all along. He’d only started suspecting something a couple of weeks ago when he’d accidentally caught a message flashing on her phone. She’d left it in the bedroom when the phone had beeped. He’d been reluctant to check. Her phone was always beeping, but he just happened to see the display lighting up. Something about a meeting at the Ritz-Carlton. For some reason, it had drawn his attention, so he’d read it. Then had wondered why Emilia was meeting a friend at the Ritz when she could meet them at the condo.
He’d scrolled through her messages, and had found some more intimate ones that had aroused his suspicion. So he’d hired this rumpled detective on Chazz’s recommendation.
“I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, plunking down on a chair.
“Divorce her,” the guy said. “Hit her with this evidence and divorce her ass. She’ll never get alimony and then she and this dude can live happily ever after on his lawyer’s salary. Good luck with that.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” Then he realized he was discussing his private affairs with a detective, and gave the man a stern
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