Paul Robertson: The Heir

But there was anger beyond that, and it was pointed at that governor, and I did not feel like giving in to his attack. Maybe I was still planning to get rid of Melvin’s money, but at the moment I started having other plans.

“What should we do?” I asked.

Fred was grim, but he’d calmed down. “For the moment, wait. He is just setting out a negotiating position. Next, he’ll let us know what he wants.”

“This doesn’t look like negotiations.”

“Oh, it is. That’s all it is. This is how the world operates, Jason.”

“But Bright, or Grainger, or whoever this is, could get anyone they want convicted. Would they do that?”

“If the stakes are high enough.” And Fred smiled. Maybe he liked high stakes. “Eric. Angela. Katie. And, of course, especially you.”

I don’t like high stakes, and I was using a lot of energy keeping my lid on. “You’re the last person who saw him alive, Fred.”

Traffic was thin, and twenty minutes was just enough time to be home by eight. I thought for a moment about indulging my fury, but there were too many other things to think through.

Had he really been murdered? Sure. Why not? It was way more likely than an accident. So who did it?

Maybe somebody he’d crushed, or was currently crushing, or about to crush. I had a better idea after the last few days of all the crushees, but that was for the police. There were other names rattling about.

Brake tampering meant someone who worked on cars. Benefiting from his death meant someone who needed money. Two plus two equals…

I got out my cell phone and dialed.

“Pamela, I have another job for you.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Get a credit report on Eric. He has no idea how much he’s been spending for the last few years, and I’d like to make sure he’s not in too much trouble on his credit cards.”

“I’ll e-mail it to you tonight.”

“Thank you.”

Or maybe Fred had been thinking I would be easier to control than Melvin had been. Maybe he and Clinton Grainger got together for lunch every week and commiserated about puppets who didn’t do as they were told.

Or was Angela the kitten really a tiger? Who knew what went on in that relationship.

This was not going to be pretty. I’d already convicted three people who I should have been trusting.

Katie was a lot better off with Melvin dead than with him alive. I missed my exit over that one.

But neither Katie nor Eric knew the will had been changed.

Maybe it was the governor going for a double dip, getting rid of Melvin with the option of pinning it on the old man’s heir. That was better, if not very real.

What else? The most obvious motive of all. He died the night he changed his will. Were the brakes meant to fail on the way to Fred’s house? If it had been two hours earlier, Bishop Kern would have been pope.

“Katie.”

“Where are you, Jason?”

“I’m on the way. Is Nathan there?”

“I think he’s just pulling up.”

“I’ll be about ten minutes.”

Money gave lots of people a reason to kill Melvin. Now the money was mine. What am I doing here? Why am I here? Is this what money and power are all about? I was actually just sitting at the curb down the block, but I needed a little more time. Nathan Kern might know about why Melvin changed the will. I’d cool off and give Katie time to soften him up.

Katie had been shopping.

The table was set with elegant heirloom china and silver and crystal that had been in the family for generations-just not our family; I’d never seen the stuff before. Rosita was setting out a floral centerpiece, and she had a new uniform on, very professional, with her head held high.

I found the merchants’ darling in the parlor entertaining our guest. She had spent on herself no less than on anything else, but still exquisitely. The dress was dark green, the scarf was the life work of a thousand silkworms educated in every nuance of impressionism, and the emerald pin holding it on her shoulder made an even greater impression. She hadn’t taken risks with her hair, which was still long and loose, as I liked it.

That’s why I’d given her the check, to celebrate. She hadn’t spent it all in one place, but she might well have spent it all.

Nathan was her equal in conspicuous taste. Medium gray Italian suit, with the diamond cuff links option, silk handkerchief the same vibrant yellow as his tie, distinguished graying hair, and what he could teach that detective about mustaches would fill a book.

And I? I could hold my own with these perfect people. No doubt. I hoped the last two hours didn’t show in my striking features or jaunty demeanor, and the suit that draped my muscular frame cost at least as much as Nathan’s. I promised myself a nice, refreshing temper tantrum sometime very soon, and smiled.

No more Mr. Kern. I was the man now. “Nathan, thank you for coming.”

“It’s so good to see you again, Jason,” said Suspect Number One, and I shook his hand.

“It seems like forever since last Wednesday,” I said.

“Yes, I understand you’ve had a busy few days.” The pleasantries persisted for a few moments, and then Katie ushered us into the dining room.

Through the excellent meal we let him talk. He knew how to both speak and listen, but we encouraged him to speak, and he was very interesting. Tomorrow he would leave for a week in some African basket case to review the water and education and health projects that the foundation had funded. I pictured him wafting through villages of grass huts. Would he wear his gray suit? Brown might work better. Or he might try to fit in with the locals with khakis and a pith helmet.

In front of us was enough silverware for a Third World village to eat with proper manners for a week. Perhaps we should use plastic once a month to show solidarity with the Third World. I would discuss that with Katie.

Then the conversation turned to the more local projects the foundation funded. The African stuff was new; these were what the foundation had originally been created for. There were After-School Programs and Reading Programs and Food Pantries and Free Clinics, to the point that there were real advantages to being disadvantaged. Grants to be programmed, programs to be granted; projects to be funded, funds to be projected; boards to meet… I was getting bored.

My imagination wandered in other directions. Nathan vs. Felicity, super-heavyweight board meeting smackdown. Felicity might have the Vegas odds, but the smart money would be on Nathan.

Then we returned to the parlor, and Nathan asked permission and lit one of his little cigarettes, and we bandied over our brandy. The foundation was more than a word to me now, which was the official purpose of the evening. I did appreciate it. There was no question about continuing its funding. I had even gained some respect for its director.

And I was done with that conversation. Now it was time for the real business. Katie had left us and I made my move.

“Nathan, it’s very interesting to learn more about the foundation. Tell me about how Melvin was involved. Was he active in it? Did he make decisions?”

He smiled sadly. “He attended board meetings. He suggested board members. He suggested quite a few things, but he never demanded them. And he could have. He had the right to remove any member he wished. That was how the foundation was set up.”

The parlor was our nicest room, where Katie had smeared the largest slice of the decorating budget. It’s hard, sometimes, to find a comfortable chair that’s also expensive. “Did he have any differences with the board?”

“Oh, a few, but none major. Obviously, the membership was made of individuals he respected and who had a similar vision for the foundation. He had a hands-off attitude.”