“I heard the whole Daphne Raab story all over again.”
“Did you wear yourself out from rolling your eyes?”
“Absolutely.” She chuckled, then sighed. “Carmen also told me you think a disgruntled employee killed my dad.”
“It’s a possibility,” I said. “Or do you agree with Carmen that your dad was the best boss in the world and the reason he had so much turnover was because kids today don’t know what hard work means.”
She snorted. “Brad’s told me too many stories for me to believe in that fairy tale.”
“Okay, so that’s something to look into.” I paused. “What do you know about Rob Driskell? He’s a building inspector for the county.”
“Not much, other than my dad didn’t have a good word to say about him, which puts Driskell in the same category as ninety-nine point nine percent of the world’s population.”
“I met him yesterday,” I said, and told her about the conversation.
After a short silence, she asked, “You think Driskell killed my dad?”
I almost said what I’d been told so many times by Detective Inwood, that I was exploring all avenues of investigation, but I stopped myself in time. “It’s another possibility,” I said. “I asked Carmen about him, but we got sidetracked.”
“That happens a lot with Carmen,” Leese said in a matter-of-fact manner. “I’ll talk to Brad, ask if he knows anything.”
By now I’d walked up the short flight of stairs from the bedroom and was starting coffee preparations. “Speaking of Brad, the other day I asked him about disgruntled employees. He said he was probably the best candidate of all.”
“The fight,” Leese said, “and that’s a capital F. It was years ago, but people still talk about it.” She paused, then said, “Minnie, so many people talk about the Fight that the story has grown far bigger than what actually happened. I’m afraid the police are going to start thinking that Brad is a good suspect.”
I was afraid of the same thing. “Yesterday I ran across Daphne Raab and we talked about your dad a little. I’m sorry to say that she didn’t have much good to say about him.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Leese mused. “Still, from what little I know of her, I don’t see her as the murdering type. Not that I’d know what type that might be.”
In the last couple of years I’d had the misfortune to run across more than one killer. Was there a type among them? I’d never seen it, but I hadn’t been looking, either. Now that I was thinking about it, the only thing they seemed to have in common was murder.
“Let me know what Brad has to say,” I said, pouring water into the coffeemaker. “Other than your stepmother issues, how are things going? Did you meet with that new client?”
“Bob Blake,” Leese said. “We’ve had phone conversations, but we haven’t scheduled a meeting. I think he has health issues—one time we talked I kept hearing hospital noises in the background. Anyway, he said he’d call this week to set up something. It sounded like Saturdays will work best for him.”
I watched the caffeinated liquid dripping down. “Great. How about your other clients?”
“Things will work out,” she said. “Isn’t that what you always say?”
It was mostly my aunt Frances, and I would have given her the attribution if Leese’s voice hadn’t sounded so tight. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she said a little grimly.
“Here’s an idea.” I got a mug out of the cabinet. “How about a presentation about elder law at the library?”
“Are . . . you sure?” Leese asked.
“Sure I’m sure.” The more I thought about the idea, the more I liked it. “We could do a series of service-type talks for senior citizens, starting with you. No one’s doing anything similar in the whole county, as far as I know.”
Ideas were spinning around in my head. I’d get someone to talk about finances. Someone else to talk about health care. Maybe lots of someones to talk about different aspects of health care. I’d have to get Jennifer’s permission, of course, but why would she object?
“Minnie, you . . . you . . .” Leese’s voice caught. “You’re the best.”
“Can I pass that on to my new boss?” I asked, laughing. “Because I’m not sure she knows.”
After making tentative plans, I hung up and looked at Eddie, who was sitting next to his mostly full bowl of food and staring at me with fierce concentration.
“She’s worried about her law practice,” I said. “She’s not going to come out and say so, but she’s worried. We have to figure out who killed her father and we have to do it fast.”
“Mrr.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Not that I had any idea what he was saying, but it was always easier to agree with him than to start arguing. Then, as I poured my first coffee of the day, I got the nagging feeling that I was missing something about Dale’s murder, that I wasn’t anywhere close to figuring out who killed him, and that I was going to fail completely to help my friend.
“Mrr!” Eddie said.
“Absolutely,” I told my cat. I opened the cupboard door and shook a couple of cat treats onto the floor. “All yours.”
Eddie gave the treats a harsh glare, gave me a harsh glare, and stalked off.
“Love you, too,” I called after him.
“Mrr.”
I shook my head. Some days there was no understanding cats.
Three hours later, Otto Bingham opened his front door. “Frances is in the kitchen,” he said, ushering me inside. “She sent me out here with orders that we leave her alone to cook for the next fifteen minutes.”
I grinned as we sat on upholstered chairs in what Otto called the front room and I called a parlor. It was a small and elegant space occupied by a few chairs, a bookshelf, a few original paintings, and a fireplace. If this couldn’t be called a parlor, I didn’t know what could be.
After offering coffee from a side table, which I gratefully accepted since the Bingham coffee was outstanding, Otto poured and asked, “So what is the inestimable Eddie doing today?”
I reached down to scratch the chin of his small gray kitty. She and Eddie had met once and it hadn’t turned out well. “Mr. Ed has become one with his slothfulness.”
“It’s good to recognize your strengths,” Otto said, nodding.
Smiling, I said, “If sloth was a marketable cat skill, neither one of us would have to work again a day in our lives.”
The small gray kitty, who up until that point had been lovingly accepting my scratches, had suddenly had enough. “Moww,” she said loudly, and stalked off.
“What was that about?” I asked.
Otto smiled. “Isn’t it obvious? You were doing it wrong. Yes, you may disagree, since you’d been scratching her the same way for the last few minutes, but what she wanted was something different starting six seconds ago. You did not respond appropriately, so she was compelled to voice her objections.”
“My aunt,” I said, “is marrying a man who understands cats. Does she know how lucky she is?”
He smiled. “I’m the lucky one. Surely you know that.”
The lucky part was that they’d found each other. Though it had taken a little Minnie intervention to get the then-shy Otto to approach my aunt, things had turned out well for both parties.
“Speaking of strengths,” I said. “How do you feel about giving a senior citizen–oriented talk at the library?”
His eyebrows rose. “About anything in particular, or would I get to ramble for an hour on whatever topic I choose?”
I laughed. “I’m sure you could give an interesting talk on the history of the phone book, but I was thinking about putting together a lecture series aimed at seniors. I thought you could give them tips on managing their finances.” Though Otto’s career as an accountant had been spent in the downstate corporate world, he’d also done pro bono work at his church and area high schools.