“No. They came over all contrite and ever so sorry about what happened. What the other woman had forced her to do—the poor innocent thing. They each informed me that Jim was about to come back to her, and they’re both devastated about his death. Can’t say I saw a lot of devastation in their manner. They asked me if I knew when the will would be read, before they remembered to ask about the release of the body.”

  “Greed has a way of focusing the mind.”

  “That it does.”

  Mattie trotted happily between us, only occasionally catching a whiff of something in a trash bin that required investigating.

  “They were both released a short while ago and ordered to stay away from each other and from Vicky’s place. Hopefully they’ll abide by that. I can see you’re dying to ask, so I’ll put you out of your misery. I’d previously checked on their alibis, and both are shaky for the time of Cole’s death. Trish tried to tell me she left Florida as soon as she got word, but it was easy enough to get her to admit she was already in New York State. On her way, according to her, to the joyous reunion with Cole. She spent the night he died at a motel near Syracuse. The motel confirms she checked in, but no one can precisely account for her whereabouts at any time. Easy enough drive from there to Rudolph and back.

  “Jim lived in Syracuse. That she had to stay in a motel means the marital home is not hers any longer,” I said.

  “Precisely. They are divorced. Trish says the divorce was amicable. The home was his originally, and as they didn’t have any children, she didn’t ask for financial support. She used her own money to move to Florida. I haven’t yet seen their divorce records or final agreement, but you can be sure I’m trying to get my hands on them.”

  “She knew Jim was visiting Rudolph. Did he tell her that?”

  “She says he did. They were going to attempt to reconcile, so they kept in touch. Again, I can’t be sure. As for Louise, she was at a party in Syracuse, where she lives.”

  I interrupted, “Did she get her pants fixed?”

  The edges of Diane Simmonds’s mouth turned up. “One of the uniforms gave her his jacket for the walk to the station, and then a civilian clerk found a baggy old sweater in the back of a closet. The moths seem to have been at it, but it was enough to provide Louise with some degree of modesty.”

  “Her alibi? How strong is it?”

  “Not exactly iron clad. A big house party, countless people coming and going all night. She was there, but so far, no one can say when she arrived or when she left. One woman remembers her weeping that her boyfriend had dumped her before she got much out of him. The Syracuse police asked the witness what she thought that meant, and she said Louise was expecting a payout. Jim Cole was an old guy—her words—and not exactly George Clooney. Again her words.”

  “Any other suspects?” I asked.

  She threw up her hands. “The list is beyond exhaustive. I’ve got officers all over this part of the state looking into Cole’s history, and I can barely keep up with the reports flooding in. He seemed to relish making enemies. He tried to sue a woman in her nineties for blocking the sidewalk outside her residence with her walker, causing him to trip. That one came to nothing, I was pleased to hear. We’re trying to match the most likely candidates with opportunity. Meaning people who were in Rudolph or unaccounted for that night. My own officers have canvassed Lakeside Drive extensively, asking if anyone or anything seemed out of place, but we’re having no luck. It’s a quiet neighborhood of big yards, most of them heavily treed. Near the public path running along the lake. The incident didn’t happen all that late, and it was a pleasant night in early spring. People were out walking dogs or taking a lakeside stroll.”

  “So you’re getting nowhere.”

  She turned and looked at me. I gulped, wishing I could swallow the words. “I said, it was proving complicated. That’s all. They’ll have tripped up somewhere, and when I find that, then I’ll have them.”

  “Mark?”

  “Speaking of getting nowhere, we’re almost at the end of the alley. Let’s turn around.”

  Mattie was sniffing at a rock. Usually I have to call and beg and plead and tug on the leash to get him to leave something interesting. Simmonds clicked her tongue and said, “Come Matterhorn,” and he bounced cheerfully after us. It really was unsettling.

  “I understand your concern for your friend, Merry,” she said. “Mark Grosse is by no means in the clear. But—“

  “I—”

  “Hear me out. It was night. Jim Cole was on Mark Grosse’s fully fenced and gated property, uninvited. Mark had reason to believe the man had been attempting to frighten or even harm himself and his fiancée. If Mark had fought with Jim, he would have solid grounds to claim self-defense. That he did not do so makes me, personally, believe he was not responsible.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “My personal opinion will carry little weight in a court of law. Evidence is what matters.”

  I dared to ask a question that had been on my mind. “What about the murder weapon? Did you find it?” I knew from Vicky what it likely was, but I was hoping Simmonds would provide me with additional information.

  “We did. A rock. A common or garden rock, one like many on that unmaintained property. Meaning no special skill or equipment was needed to commit the murder.”

  As long as she was chatting so comfortably, I tried another question. “What did the autopsy reveal?”

  “The results are of course confidential, Merry, but it will come out in court. If it comes to that, and I’m confident it will. Jim Cole was sixty years old and considerably overweight. He drank heavily and smoked equally heavily. He was in very poor health, and according to an aside from the pathologist, he likely wasn’t long for this world. But none of that contributed to his death. He was struck on the back of the head by a heavy, solid object, almost certainly the rock found nearby, and died instantly.”

  “Might he have tripped, fallen, and hit his head?”

  “No. The rock was not found under or near him, but a good ten feet away. It didn’t get there by itself, and it’s too heavy to be carried by an animal. Not that sufficient time has passed for that to be a possibility. Someone threw it.”

  She suppressed a sigh. Detective Simmonds might have said she was confident of an arrest. Her demeanor suggested she wasn’t so sure. “Jim Cole’s enemies list goes back years. Makes me wonder sometimes why I even bother.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I tried to work on my accounts for a while after my walk with Diane Simmonds, but I couldn’t concentrate on the rows and columns of numbers and eventually I gave up.

  The detective had been surprisingly forthright about the difficulties she was facing in this case. If all the might of the police couldn’t come up with a more-than-possible suspect, what luck would I have?

  My thoughts meandered down another path. Maybe it wasn’t revenge on Jim himself the killer had been after, but possession of Cole House. Did this person believe Jim had been in the way of their getting it?

  Ethel Cole, wife of Charles and mother of Emmeline, was originally from Muddle Harbor. Did one of Ethel’s relatives want to claim Cole House following Emmeline’s death? It seemed a heck of a stretch, even to me. Ethel and Charles died a long time ago.

  Jim Cole’s father, Robert, had been Charles’s brother. As far as I knew, Jim had no immediate living Muddle Harbor relatives, but family relationships could twist and turn all over themselves. Case in point: Trish Dawson, the second (now ex-) wife of Jim, was herself from Muddle Harbor.

  Dusk was falling as Mattie and I walked home after work. I tried to sort out those relationships in my head. It was all a jumble; I needed to write it down if I was to understand it. Vicky had once tried to explain to me how she was related to Ryan, who sometimes made her morning deliveries. After describing one branch of her family in which two brothers had married two sisters, and another where a third wife had been a second cousin of the first wife, she threw in some first cousins twice removed, leaving me thoroughly confused.

  I could try to draw a Cole family tree. Or I could, once again, go to the source of all gossip: Mrs. D’Angelo.

  In that I was to be severely disappointed. I found her tidying the tulip bed, and I’d barely said, “Hello,” before I was dragged onto the front porch for iced tea and cookies. After pumping me for everything I knew about yesterday’s “shocking incident at the hospital luncheon,” she told me everything she knew about the “riot” at the bakery earlier today. Apparently unaware I’d been there, Mrs. D’Angelo told me it was a couple of “mob dolls” from New York City. I nodded politely and accepted another cookie.

  Finally, Mrs. D’Angelo paused for breath, and I slipped my question in. “Now that Vicky and Mark are living in Cole House, I’m interested in its history. Ethel, Charles’s wife, was from Muddle Harbor, wasn’t she?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Are any members of Ethel’s family still living there?”

  A veil descended over Mrs. D’Angelo’s face. Empty eyes stared at me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes. I’m perfectly fine. I’m sorry about the cookies. Donalda called me with an update about the Smith situation, and I momentarily forgot about the cookies and left them in the oven for too long.” I had no idea who Donalda was or what the “Smith situation” might be, but at the moment I wasn’t particularly interested. The cookies were baked perfectly. Good enough that Vicky could put them on her menu. Which reminded me about the rather odd Brittany and what appeared to be her intention to write a cookbook based on the food served at someone else’s place.

  Back to why I’d come. “Esther Cole,” I asked. “What was her maiden name?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” I almost said, How can you not know?

  “People from Muddle Harbor are not like us, Merry. They’re distant. Unfriendly. Hostile to strangers. Close-mouthed about their own.”

  “Oh. I get it.” And I did. Mrs. D’Angelo, who I believed could be an informant for the FBI if she were willing to stick to the truth, had no contacts in that town.

  Judging by the look on her face as she apologized once again for the cookies and poured me more tea, even though my glass was three-quarters full, she considered that to be a personal failure. And so she covered it up with an unfortunate us-versus-them attitude, which wasn’t all that unusual between residents of the two towns.

  “Back to Rudolph, then,” I said. “Did you find out anything about the whereabouts of any descendants of Henry Cole’s two daughters?

  Her face brightened. We were once again on comfortable ground. “The Cole family, as you know, Merry, was very prominent around these parts at one time. The richest family in the entire area for many years, and one of the largest employers. Henry had three children by his first wife: Charles and two sisters. And then one son, Robert, father of Jim, by his second wife. Now, we’re clearly talking a long time ago. More than a hundred years have passed since those children were children. It took some digging”—she beamed proudly at me—“but I managed to find out what you wanted to know. Both girls were educated privately. Meaning at home, as sometimes still happened at the turn of the last century. The eldest married a man from Rochester, and she moved with him to that city, where they appeared not to have distinguished themselves in any way. They had no children, and both of them died at a respectable age. The second girl became a nun.”

  “A nun?”

  “A Catholic nun—to the dismay of her proper Presbyterian parents, I believe. She lived in a convent in Kansas until her death at the age of ninety-five.”

  “There are convents in Kansas?”

  “There were when she lived there. I don’t know about now.”

  * * *

  I called Vicky as soon as I got in. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need to make a trip to Muddle Harbor.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying that either. What brought this on?”

  “There are Muddle Harbor threads running through this whole thing. Marjorie told us Trish Dawson, ex-wife of Jim Cole, was from there. As was Ethel Cole.”

  “Who’s Ethel Cole?”

  “Charles’s wife.”

  “Which brings us to the question of who Charles is.”

  “Charles’s father, Henry, built Cole house, and Charles inherited it. Charles and Ethel were the parents of Emmeline. You remember who Emmeline was, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, that name I know. Okay. We know Jim Cole wanted to overturn Emmeline’s will and inherit her estate, which consists mostly of the house. My house. You’re wondering if other relatives might be hiding in the woodwork and considering doing the same now that he, as the closest potential heir, is conveniently out of the picture.”

  “I am. Most specifically Trish herself. If Trish turns out to be not only Jim’s ex-wife but also a distant relative of Emmeline, she might think she has a case for the inheritance.”

  “Except she hasn’t made a claim. No one has. My dad’s the lawyer for Emmeline’s estate, remember? He’s keeping us up to date on that, and no one other than Jim has come forward. According to Emmeline’s will, the house was to be sold on her death, which it was. The proceeds from the sale of the house have been transferred to Emmeline’s estate. From there it will be distributed to the charities she designated.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re not biding their time, gathering the evidence.”

  “Seems a stretch, Merry. No one can take the house from us, no matter what they say.”

  “The money from the sale of the house and whatever else Emmeline’s estate consisted of is another matter. Apparently Charles left money in trust for the maintenance of the house. Do you know what’s going to happen to that?”

  “According to Dad, that’s rather nebulous. The fate of the trust, in the event that the last of his descendants died and the house passed out of the family, was never mentioned in Charles’s will. I suspect he believed the Coles would always be a prominent and fruitful family.”

  “Did you hear from Simmonds again, about the fight at the bakery?”

  “Candy came in for my original statement, and Diane dropped in after with some questions. She didn’t tell me anything in return except that Trish and Louise screamed insults at each other as they were being led away to separate interview rooms. Both of them said Jim Cole was the love of their life.” She chuckled. “They seem not to have heard the news.”

  “What news might that be?”

  “Jim Cole, rather than being as wealthy as everyone believed, was barely able to afford a ham sandwich at my place.”

  “What?”

  “Yup. Dad was checking into Jim Cole’s situation even before he died. Jim inherited a pack of money on his father’s death and proceeded to make a lot of seriously bad investments. He tried to recoup some of his losses by, of all things, gambling. Which worked out about as well as you’d expect. He went to law school when he was young and his parents were still alive, but he never practiced or had much of a job of any sort. He squandered what little he had left after the bad investments—what he should have been holding onto for his old age—in his frivolous lawsuits. The guy was broke and soon to be completely underwater. The last couple of years, he’s been caught in a juggling act, pretending to be well-off while he borrowed from one account to pay another, and trying to keep the circle going. That never ends well.”

  “Does the true state of affairs matter? If he was pretending to have money, it could still be a reason for someone to bump him off. Someone who didn’t know they were going to end up with nothing.”

  “Right, and that brings us to Kevin Farrar. What do you have to report?”

  “Report?”

  “Yes, report. You were going to check into him. We decided it’s possible Kevin accused Mark so publicly as a way of distracting attention from himself. A poor attempt, as he put himself directly under our microscope, but that’s his problem. What did you find out?”

  I winced. Mattie lifted his head from the rug and gave me a disappointed look. “Sorry. Alan and I went out for dinner last night, and with all that’s been going on, I guess I forgot.”

  “Concentrate, Merry. Concentrate. Okay. You do that tonight, and tomorrow we’ll hit Muddle Harbor for what passes for breakfast. I feel my arteries clogging as we speak.”

  “Why would they clog? You never eat anything there.”

  “In sympathy with your arteries. I’ll pick you up at the usual time. Seven o’clock.”

  “Okay. Before you go, are you sending out invitations? I haven’t gotten anything yet.”

  “Invitations to what?”

  “To your wedding. Details of when and at what church and what time’s dinner.”

  Vicky sucked in a breath. “Oh, that.”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot! You forgot your own wedding! It’s next week!”

  “I’ve had things on my mind.”

  “As I believe someone just said, concentrate, Vicky, concentrate.”

  “I’d better call my mom. She’s probably wondering why I haven’t confirmed a date to get her dress yet.”

  “Never before, in the entire history of the world, has a bride forgotten her own wedding,” I said to Mattie after I hung up.

  * * *

  I settled myself at the kitchen table and opened my laptop. I didn’t need to be some sort of tech guru or hacker to find out what I needed to know about Crypto-Masters, Kevin Farrar’s business. The information was readily available on the company’s website. The premise of the company was that investors would pay a substantial fee to join, and they would then be able to use the software provided to trade cryptocurrencies between accounts, getting a higher rate of return with every transaction. Kevin might not have been a blood relative of Jim, but it seemed as though he had just about as much business sense.

  Meaning none.

  The front page of the website was nicely done and very slick, which must have cost a bundle, and the photographs were top-notch, also costing a bundle. The description of the company’s goals was full of words like innovative and creative. Potential clients were described as daring and unafraid. I doubted Cindy had looked past the company image if she was hoping she’d soon be able to quit her own job to start a family.