Last Tuesday, just days before his death, Robin had responded in a different way to Garrett’s teasing.
“I’ll introduce you to her soon,” he’d promised. “I believe you’ll like her.” The use of the feminine pronoun had confirmed Garrett’s hunch. But he’d envisioned someone, well, someone older, more mature, a dignified, pleasant matron. Not the very young woman with the cover girl measurements and flawless complexion who looked young enough to be his daughter. Or even more likely, his granddaughter. True, Robin had been good-looking and modestly wealthy, in great physical shape for his age, or so everyone had thought. And it also was true that any number of lonely widows had let him know his attentions would be welcome. But it was a little too much to believe that a fresh-faced girl in her twenties would find him irresistibly attractive.
Unless she had her eye on Robin’s fortune. That was a far more likely scenario. Robin’s assets might have been modest in comparison to the huge financial coffers he, Garrett, had amassed, but Robin was definitely a wealthier man than most. It was more than possible that a young woman would look at that money and consider a few years with an older man worth the price.
He supposed he should be glad Robin hadn’t married her. After Garrett’s mother, Barbara, his second wife, passed away two years ago, Robin had said he would never marry again. But still…a man in his early seventies might have physical needs to fulfill. Considering he hoped to reach that age someday, he surely hoped so.
He stirred and stood, straightening his shoulders and a deep shudder of revulsion worked through him. Don’t go there. He’d have to talk to Miss Ana Birch again, despite the deep disgust he felt at the mere thought of Robin with that nubile seductress. The lawyer who served as Robin’s executor had been very clear in his instructions. There would be no discussion of the terms of Robin’s will unless Miss Birch and Garrett both were present.
When he returned to the house he’d shared with his stepfather, he went straight to his study and reached for the telephone. “Miss Birch, this is Garrett Holden, Robin’s stepson,” he said when she answered the phone. “You are required to attend the reading of the will—”
“No.” Her voice was final. “You can have anything he left me. Send whatever you need me to sign and I’ll do it.”
And before he could even begin another sentence, she hung up. She was giving up an inheritance?
He stared at the phone he still held, torn between wishing that he wouldn’t have to see her again and annoyance at her attitude. He didn’t get it. Impatiently he punched the redial button. When she said, “Hello?” he said, “You don’t understand. You have to be there.”
“I do not.” She sounded belligerent now. “Please don’t call again.” And to his utter astonishment, she hung up on him a second time.
Once he’d gotten past the shock, he thoughtfully replaced the handset in its cradle. Fine. He’d go and see her again. He’d figured her out now. She must want money, and she was being coy and devious in an effort to disguise her greediness. Despite her protestations, he suspected that she already knew the provisions of the will, at least as they concerned her. Which meant she knew more than he did. He’d just have to promise her more than whatever sum Robin had already promised her and she’d get more agreeable.
He rested his elbows on his desk and speared his hands through his dark hair, massaging his scalp. He’d had a nagging headache for the past few days and it didn’t seem to be getting any better. It was probably all the stress.
Once the will was settled and he didn’t have so many urgent things to attend to, he promised himself a week at the cottage in Maine. The small cabin that looked out over Snowflake Lake in southern Maine had been a special place for Robin and his stepson. Garrett knew he’d built it about a quarter-century ago. He’d long suspected it had been Robin’s only indulgence, the single respite he had allowed himself from the burden his first marriage had become as his wife’s mental illness had progressed until she’d finally passed away.
Garrett’s own mother had had little interest in spending her vacations in a rustic cottage where the principal entertainment consisted of fishing and watching the sunsets. She’d always refused to come to Maine. So the cabin had become a place where Garrett and Robin went at least once a year for what Robin laughingly had called, “Boys’ Week.” They swam in the frigid lake, fished and canoed around its perimeter looking for wildlife, settled on the deck with drinks and plenty of insect repellent each evening, and gone for the occasional jaunt to the surrounding tourist locations.
Yes, a week at the cottage was just what he needed. It would be difficult without Robin, but in some ways, he felt he’d be closer to his stepfather than he was here in Baltimore where they’d spent the bulk of their lives together.
He drove back into the city in early evening, thanking the long hours of daylight that kept him from making the journey in the dark. This time when he knocked, the inner door opened almost immediately.
“Miss Birch,” he said before she could speak, infusing his tone with more warmth than he felt, “I apologize for the insensitive way I broke the news of Robin’s passing. It’s been a difficult time. May I come in and talk to you for a few moments?”
She hesitated. He couldn’t see her clearly through the screen, but she’d obviously changed clothes. Now she wore a sleeveless denim jumper with a short-sleeved top beneath. Her hair was still pulled up, but now it was in a tidier, thick ponytail that bounced behind her head. To his great relief, she pushed open the door. Wordlessly she turned and retreated into the house, leaving him to catch the door and follow her.
The room he entered was a living room, furnished with comfortably overstuffed furniture in a faded flower pattern, threadbare but clean. The small space somehow managed to look uncluttered and on the one sizable wall there was an unusual collection of hats. Old hats. Elegant, vintage hats.
She shut the door behind him and he heard the hum of an air-conditioner cooling the small half-house.
He raised one eyebrow and turned to her, forcing himself to ignore the leap of his pulse at the porcelain beauty of her features. Indicating the headgear displayed on the wall, he said, “You like hats, I take it?”
She nodded. “I went through a stage where I collected them. Those were a few of my favorites that I decided to keep when I sold the rest.” She waved a hand toward the sofa. “Please, have a seat. May I get you a drink?”
If this were any other occasion, he’d have been amused by her scrupulous manners. He shook his head. “No, thank you.” He took a seat on the far end of the couch, expecting her to join him, but she went across the room and sat in a rocking chair.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said, though it grated that he had to be so civil. “Have you given any more thought to what I said about listening to the reading of the will?”
“I don’t care about the will,” she said tonelessly. “But I’d like to know where he’s buried so I can visit the—the grave.”
Right. And he was a little green man. “I care about the will,” he said, watching her closely, “since it involves me, too.”
“You can have everything.” Her accent was even more obvious as she clipped off the syllables, and she met his eyes without even a hint of guile. She was good; he’d have to give her that. “I’ll sign anything you wish.”
“Believe me, I’d like nothing better,” he told her curtly, abandoning his attempts to mollify her. What an act. “Unfortunately it’s not that simple. We both have to be present for the reading of the will.”
“Why?” she demanded.
He opened his mouth to answer her, but a hissing sound and a movement from his peripheral vision distracted him. Glancing over, he caught sight of a striped blur streaking up the stairs. “What’s that?” he said, startled, though he was pretty sure the animal had been a cat.
“It’s