C.J. Carmichael - Same Place, Same Time

Right. The answer was a little too pat. Morgan briefly wondered exactly what family problems she was attempting to smooth over before he went on to his next question. “He’s coming home?”

“Tonight.” Her face brightened at the thought. “He may withdraw from his courses so he can help me sort out the estate.”

Adores her son. “Perhaps you could ask him to contact me when he gets in.”

A frown creased Nan’s forehead. “Is that necessary?”

“Routine questioning. Nothing to worry about.” They’d already confirmed that Jason Walker had been in class at the approximate time of his father’s death. And Kingston was several hours by car from Toronto.

Likewise, Nan Walker had an alibi. She’d been at work in the hardware store on Queen Street all day, except for a half-hour lunch break. As the motel was a good twenty minutes from the store, it seemed unlikely that Nan could have done her husband in rather than order a tuna on whole wheat as she’d claimed to do. Further solidifying her alibi was that the clerk from the diner remembered preparing the sandwich—apparently, requesting mustard on tuna was a little unusual.

“How’s the business doing?” Morgan continued in a conversational tone. Their investigation had already turned up tax returns for the past four years that showed a very healthy profit in each year. But he wanted to hear what Nan had to say on the topic.

“Fine. Excellent, as a matter of fact.”

“I understand you do the accounting?”

Her expression brightened. “Yes. All five stores. The accounting is centralized at our main store on Queen Street.”

Proud of her work. “Was there anything unusual about your husband’s behavior recently? Any changes in his habits, new people that he was seeing?”

Nan colored at his words. “If you’re referring to the fact that they found him in a motel room, the answer is that I have no idea what he was doing there. I suppose you think he was having an affair or something.”

“Is that what you think, Mrs. Walker?”

Nan’s gaze dropped from his. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’ve sometimes suspected him of being unfaithful over the years, but we’d just started marriage counseling. I guess I hoped he was sincere when he told me he was willing to work on some of our problems.”

Lying about husband’s affair.

Nan looked back at him, her expression earnest now. “It’s been difficult with Jason away from home. Our counselor says it’s not uncommon for couples to go through a period of adjustment after their children are gone. To be honest, it was me that found it particularly hard. When Jason was at home his friends were always over, involved in one activity or another. And I volunteered at his school and drove for all his hockey games.”

Morgan nodded sympathetically. “So when Jason left, life seemed pretty empty?”

“Oh, I still had my work. But evenings could be lonely. Jerry never felt like doing much when he got home—he was happy to sit around watching television. Quite honestly, I have a hard time imagining him having the energy to have an affair.” The underlying bitterness of her last comment had obviously been unplanned. Her mouth tightened the second the words left her lips and her eyes became fixed on a point somewhere to the left of Morgan’s head.

“Do you know the contents of your husband’s will?”

“Yes.” Her gray eyes flashed at him, objecting silently to the question, but she answered. “I get the house, both cars and retirement fund. The business will go to Jason, of course.”

“Entirely to Jason?” Morgan feigned surprise.

Nan lifted her chin. “Of course. He’s our son.”

Morgan shrugged. The value of Nan’s inheritance was not insubstantial, but it paled in comparison with the worth of the business. “Sure. But your husband could have left you with a life bequest, with the shares to revert to Jason on your death. I mean, in a divorce, you would have been entitled to half of his assets. It just seems odd, that’s all…” Morgan’s voice tapered off, and he pretended to look uncomfortable, all the while watching Nan’s face closely for any signs of resentment. He saw none.

“Our retirement fund is not insubstantial. I’ll be well provided for. And of course I draw my own salary out of the business. And I’ll receive a pension when I retire.”

“Of course,” Morgan was silent for a moment, as if thinking something over. “But what will your son do with the business? You said earlier he wasn’t interested in working there.”

“Perhaps he’ll change his mind. Or he could always hire someone to run it for him,” Nan pointed out reasonably.

“You perhaps?”

“Me? Good heavens, no. Lorne Thackray would be the most likely choice, I’d say.”

Lorne Thackray. Morgan wrote the name down on his pad and circled it twice. “Does he work there?”

“He’s the manager at the Queen Street location. Jerry was talking about increasing Lorne’s responsibilities by adding another store. I imagine he could handle all five if he had to.”

Nan was sitting straighter in her chair now, and her voice was firmer. Morgan found the changes very interesting, but he sensed this was not the time to dig deeper. “That’s all for now, Mrs. Walker. If you think of anything that might help us out, please give us a call.”

Once the initial shock wore off, people’s memories tended to loosen up. Knowing this, Morgan tried not to feel discouraged by the lack of information Nan had provided.

In a homicide of this type, the spouse was an obvious suspect. The marriage had been in trouble and Morgan was almost certain Nan had known her husband was having an affair. And while Nan certainly seemed anxious and distraught, Morgan had a feeling it was more because of his questions than the loss of her husband.

On Nan’s side, of course, was her alibi. And the fact that she didn’t exactly come away with a fortune in the will certainly stood in her favor. On the other hand, alibis could be discredited, and money wasn’t the only motive for murder.

Morgan shook his head, momentarily clearing his mind of the conflicting facts and motives. If he went on gut feel, he’d have to say he didn’t think she’d done it. And why?

Maybe it all boiled down to this: he didn’t think Nan Walker had the balls to cold-bloodedly plan and carry out the murder of her own husband.

IT WAS NOON. Trista sat and stared at her hands, folded motionless on the top of her desk. Usually she worked through lunch, eating a sandwich as she read files, or making notes on her morning appointments. Today, however, she wasn’t hungry. And her thoughts were uncharacteristically scattered.

Maybe the problem was lack of sleep. But whenever she tried to close her eyes to catch a quick nap, she saw Morgan’s face—the way it was now, not the way she remembered it from before—and she was stricken with guilt.

She’d ruined his life. She still felt that way, despite the months of therapy she’d undergone in an attempt to make peace with her past. He was angry and bitter, and worst of all, she couldn’t blame him, nor could she criticize him for not having moved on with his life. How could he, when she hadn’t either? Weak and foolish she might be, but she wasn’t about to add hypocritical to the list.

How had he survived these past few years? Same as her, she suspected—by throwing himself into his work. At least now he would have Jerry Walker’s case to keep him busy. He wouldn’t be in her position, sitting in an empty room with nothing but her own thoughts to drive her crazy. His job demanded action. Gathering evidence, interviewing suspects—he wouldn’t have time to sit and stew.