“It was deliberately set. What we don’t know is who did it or why.” He turned his gaze to the woman. “Mrs. Wilson, do you have any idea who might be responsible for this?”
“Whoever killed him. They did this.”
He tried another tack. “Did your father have any enemies?”
“None that I know of. Everybody liked him.” She looked up at her husband. “Right, Sean?”
“Right,” her husband agreed, then looked at him. “Did you ever meet him, Detective?”
“I’m sorry to say I did not.”
“If you had, you’d understand. He was loved by everyone.”
“What about his house. Any idea why someone would want to torch it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could he have been involved in something illegal?”
The question elicited vehement denials from them both. Reed tried again. “The house’s contents, anything of great value? Perhaps the fire was used to cover up a burglary?”
The two looked at one another in question, then simultaneously replied in the negative.
“No art or jewelry? Rare coins or books?”
“My dad lived on his Social Security, Detective. To do that, he needed our help from time to time.”
“Help we were happy to offer,” her husband added. “He was always there for us, to help with the girls, whatever.”
“You believe strongly he was murdered, yet you say everyone liked him. Somebody torched his house, yet you can’t think of a reason why.”
“Maybe it was just some wacko,” she offered. “Some sick stranger. It happens, right?”
“It does, Mrs. Wilson, but frankly it’s rare. Murder is a crime most often committed by a friend, family member or an acquaintance.”
She started to cry again and pressed her face against her husband’s chest. He wrapped his arms protectively around her. “Tell us what to do, Detective Reed. Anything that might help.”
He wished he had something to offer them, something that would give them a sense of purpose. He had nothing. “If you think of anything later, even if it seems like nothing, call me.”
He said he would and Reed started off, then stopped and looked back. “Did your dad wear glasses. Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He was blind as a bat without them.”
____________________
Twenty minutes later, Reed approached the medical group’s receptionist. He provided his shield for her review. “Detective Reed, Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department. I need to have a word with Dr. Whitney.”
The woman studied the badge, then lifted her gaze to his. “He’s with a patient right now. Could I help you?”
“Afraid not. I’ll need to speak with him directly. When he’s finished, could you let him know I’m waiting?”
She said she would, and as often happened, he didn’t wait long. The badge served as an automatic bump to the front of the line. He received several unhappy glares as, moments later, the nurse called his name.
The doctor stood as Reed entered his office. “Dr. Whitney,” the physician said, extending his hand.
Reed took it. The other man had red hair, thinning at the temples. Even so, he didn’t look much older than thirty. “Detective Daniel Reed. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”
“I have a full book today, so if you don’t mind getting to it?”
“Of course. You had a patient named Max Cragan?”
“Still do, as far as I know.”
“He died Tuesday night. I’m investigating his death.”
The doctor blinked and cleared his throat. “I had no idea. How did he… I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Cragan? Professionally.”
He thought a moment. “I’d have to look that up to give you an exact date, but it wasn’t that long ago. Less than a month.”
“What was his condition?”
“I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m bound by patient privacy laws.”
“Let me ask you this instead. In your professional opinion, was Mr. Cragan strong enough to hang himself?
He looked startled. “He hung himself?”
“That surprises you.”
“Yes. He was a delightful man. Always positive, with a kind word for everyone.”
“And physically? Could he have set up a stepladder, climbed it, looped and fastened a rope over an exposed beam, then slipped the noose over his head and kicked the ladder away?”
The physician thought a moment, then slowly shook his head. “In my professional opinion, no. Can I say absolutely no or that it would’ve been impossible? No, I can’t.” He leaned toward Reed. “The truth is, every day I’m humbled and awed by the power of the human spirit over the limitations of the body. Everyday miracles, Detective.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Friday, March 12
10:30 A.M.
Three hours later Lyla Reed opened her front door and greeted Alex warmly. “You called on just the right day,” she said, grasping Alex’s hand. “The rest of the week I’ve had board meetings and luncheons. It’s endless, really.”
She led Alex inside the grand home. Today it smelled of flowers and lemon polish. “Thank you so much, Lyla,” Alex said. “I really appreciate you letting me do this.”
“I’m happy to, really. I told you how close your mother and I were.”
Alex opened her mouth to ask for assurances, then closed it fearing her desperation would show. That she would say something to raise the woman’s suspicions.
“Are you settling in?”
“Very nicely.”
“I heard about you finding poor Max. It must have been horrible.”
“It was. I’d gone to ask him about my mother’s ring. The one with the grapevines and snake.”
“I don’t recall her having a ring like that.”
“But you commented on it at the party.”
Lyla looked startled. “I did?”
“Yes. I’m certain you did.”
She frowned slightly. “You must be confused.”
“I must be,” Alex said. “Several people commented on it… I guess I just… I thought you…”
She let the thought trail off, feeling a little silly. But she was sure Lyla had been one of those who had noted the ring.
Lyla patted her arm. “No worries, dear. You know, I have one of Max’s designs. A brooch. He was so talented and our families were friends. Here we are.”
They entered the room. Lyla crossed to bookshelves on the right. She selected three leatherbound volumes from one of the shelves. “These are the Patsy years, as I call them. Some of the happiest times of our lives.”
She set them on a table in front of the velvet couch. “If you don’t need me-”
“I’m fine. Please, go. You have things to do.”
Lyla smiled and squeezed her hand. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”
“Wait.” Alex held on to her hand. “Lyla, you and my mother were such good friends. Did she ever mention my father?”
The woman’s gaze went soft with sympathy. “Never. I always wondered about him. I even hinted around the subject, but she simply wouldn’t go there.”
“Why?” Alex asked. “Why so secretive? If the relationship was in the past, what difference would it have made?”
“I decided he must have hurt her badly. She was happy and wanted to leave that time of her life far behind.”
But Alex had been the creation of that part of her life. Where did that leave her?
As if reading her thoughts, Lyla squeezed her hand again. “I’m sorry. She loved you very much, I promise you. We all saw how much.”
Alex sat and reached for the first volume: 1982. Working to keep her hopefulness in check, she opened it.
The photographs looked decidedly old-fashioned. The hair and clothes. The furnishings and events.
She flipped through. Interesting how, in the short time she’d been here, she had learned who all the players were. Reed and his older brother. Clark and Rachel. Max Cragan, she realized, recognizing him from the photograph that day at his house, in his hallway.