“For the first two years he kept asking me where you were,” Mr. Ross said. “That man was just eaten with remorse. There was never proof that he ever lifted a hand against your mother. Except that one slap he owned up to. It was her word against his.”
“And she was just a war bride, with no family.”
He bowed his head. “I did what I could.”
“What about me?” I asked. “Didn’t my grandparents ever try to see me?”
“Oh yes. After young George passed away, they tried to persuade your mother to let them adopt you, send you to a good school, give you your proper place in life. They even suggested you both come to live with them. They offered to give your mother rooms in the carriage house. Your mother would have nothing to do with them.”
“Good for her. How dare they treat her like a servant.“
Mr. Ross shrugged. “They were old-fashioned folk. Doesn’t matter now.”
“What about this will?” Gianelli interrupted. “You want to get around to it, please?”
“Well, George couldn’t stand the thought of Maisie getting her hands on the property. He knew he wouldn’t survive another heart attack and the girl was only ten years old. So he left it to Beatrice. He asked her to give it to Rosalie when her mother died.”
“But she didn’t,” I exclaimed. “I never heard from her until last week.”
“Thing is,” said Mr. Ross, “Beatrice loved that cottage. She couldn’t bear to give it up. Legally it was hers to do with what she wanted. She knew you’d never made any effort to contact the family…”
“My mother always told me that my father was an orphan,” I protested.
“Beatrice needed an excuse for hanging on. She kept saying the time wasn’t right to tell you. But last summer she was too frail to go up to the lake. She wanted to make amends. I told her it was about time.”
“I didn’t expect anything like this,” I said. “I just wanted to meet her to find out about my father’s family.”
“So you didn’t know you were an heir,” Gianelli said. He had been taking notes in a small leather book. He turned to the lawyer. “Who else benefits?”
“Really, officer,” Markham interrupted. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss motive, is it? You don’t even know for sure that her death wasn’t accidental. An old lady like that, steep stairs — aren’t you assuming a crime that doesn’t exist?”
“Did you know about the property?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Markham protested. “I’ve been administering the estate for my uncle. With his advice. That’s all.”
“What’s the land worth?” Wilson asked.
“A lot of money. One hundred acres of prime cottage country with one thousand feet of pristine shoreline.” Markham’s voice was wistful. “Developers have been after it for years.”
“You know the conditions,” Mr. Ross said. He turned to me, “Your grandfather had a special request for Beatrice to pass on to you. If you don’t want to keep it, the property is to go to the province for a bird sanctuary. He didn’t want to see the land divided up.”
“It’s not written in the will itself,” Markham objected. “It’s just a letter of intent. Ms. Cairns can do what she wants once she has the deed.”
“Not everyone is mercenary,” the old man’s voice dripped acid.
Markham flushed.
“This is all very interesting,” Gianelli said. “But you haven’t answered my question: who else stands to gain?”
“If the old lady was murdered,” Markham said, ”she’s got a pretty good motive.”
“That’s enough, Roger.” The old man struggled to his feet. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”
“And the cottage?” Wilson asked.
“It’s yours, my dear,” Ross took my hand and bowed slightly. “I will make arrangements for the papers to be sent to you. May you long enjoy it.”
“Just a minute,” Gianelli said. “We have an investigation going on here.”
Ross was already at the door. He turned and frowned at the two policemen. “Waste of time, I said. She was old, she fell. It’s simple.”
“A neighbour said the upstairs was blocked off,” Gianelli objected. “She had no reason to go up there.”
“Maybe she was looking for something to show Mrs. Cairns. A keepsake from her brother, perhaps. Who’s to know? Old folk do strange things at times.” He chuckled. “Even me. Let the dead rest. There’s no good in stirring up old bones. The only secret in this house was the ownership of a parcel of land in the wilds. And the only ones who knew the true story of that were Beatrice and I. Mrs. Cairns is innocent. It’s sad, though, my dear, that you never did meet your aunt. A real lady, she was. A real lady.” He pushed aside the curtain and went out.
“He may say so, but it’s not the last you’ll be hearing from the firm,” Markham said. “There are a few questions yet to be answered.” He followed his uncle.
“Well,” Wilson stood up and brushed off his pants. Cat hair fell in a fine shower to the rug. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Shouldn’t you have made them answer your questions?” I asked Gianelli. “Found out who else does benefit? Who else had opportunity? How could you just let them go like that?”
“You read a lot of detective stories?”
I blushed. “My thesis is on women detective novelists.”
“It would be.” Gianelli winked at his partner. “It’s one of the interrogation techniques we’ve perfected. We let everyone else do the talking, and see what comes out. If all the suspects keep blabbing, someone’s going to confess.”
“Easy business, this is,” Wilson yawned. “No glamour. Just sit around listening to a lot of hot air and take notes. Make connections. Regular Nero Wolfes, we are.”
“Yeah,” Gianelli said. He stretched. “Time enough to get down to a real investigation after we hear from the coroner.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be dreaming up work,” Wilson complained. “Always wanting to turn a simple accident into a major murder case. It looks pretty straightforward to me, and I’ve been to a lot more murder scenes than you have.”
“She’s one of the names on my list…” Gianelli began. His glance slid toward me and he stopped.
“What list?” I prompted.
He shook his head. “A case I’m working on. Not murder.”
“A cop I know at home always claims coincidence and accident when he means murder.”
“What cop is that?”
“His name’s Constable Finlay.”
“He’s a friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.” I shrugged. “I’ve met him a few times. It’s a small town.”
Wilson sighed dramatically. “I’m starving, and we still haven’t made it to lunch. This seems to me pretty cut-and-dried. Let’s get going, okay? We’re neither of us Kojak. Even if one of us is a little thin on top.”
“Give me a break,” Gianelli snorted, but couldn’t help smoothing one hand over the strands of hair combed across his scalp. “Good day, ma’am,” he nodded to me. He cocked his finger at Wilson. “You, I’ll