"Smart aleck," I said, and went into the guestroom.
It wasn't a complete loss. I continued to be amazed at the number of small, portable valuables Mrs. Grover had appropriated while at Jake's. I did find an envelope containing two thousand dollars in cash, mostly in hundreds. Perhaps evidence of a blackmail scheme, although it must have been a penny-ante one if this was all she had collected. Still, perhaps she had been stopped before she'd hit her stride. Then again, perhaps she just didn't believe in traveler's checks. And I found nothing else of interest. No diary with a last entry announcing her intent to meet X on the bluff before dawn. No list of suspects' names with payoff amounts jotted beside them. No incriminating letters or photos. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Well, one thing out of the ordinary. I found the late Emma Wendell. What remained of her, anyway. I opened a rather nondescript box marked Emma, expecting to find another piece of silver or china bric-a-brac and found something greatly resembling Great-Aunt Sophy, only slightly less lumpy.
"Yuck!" I said, rather loudly. Michael was at my side in an instant.
"What is it?" he asked eagerly.
"The first Mrs. Wendell."
"I see," he said, showing no inclination to do so. "Is this significant?"
"Not that I know of." Although it began to give me ideas about why Dad had borrowed Great-Aunt Sophy.
"Let's leave her in peace, then. What else have you found?"
I showed him the cash, which he agreed was poor pickings for a blackmailer. He showed me his findings. Sales receipts, complete with the date and time, that tended to confirm Jake's alibi rather thoroughly. A bank book and other papers showing that Jake was in no danger of starving no matter how many valuable little knickknacks the late Jane Grover had purloined. An envelope marked Jane containing a key to a self-storage unit and a neatly itemized list of oriental rugs, antique furniture, and other objects that were certainly more than knickknacks. Another envelope marked Safety Deposit containing a key and an impressive itemized list of jewelry. I made a mental note to suggest that the sheriff see who inherited Mrs. Grover's estate. A framed certificate of appreciation on the occasion of Jake's retirement from Waltham Consultants, Inc., whatever that was. Neat stacks of promptly paid bills and perfectly balanced bank books.
"Commendably businesslike," Michael said.
"But not very illuminating," I said. I stood up and looked around. "Something's missing here."
"Like any sign that the man has a personality." Michael had wandered over to the shelves on either side of the fireplace. They were largely empty, except for a few pieces of bric-a-brac that were presumably either too large for Mrs. Grover to hide or too cheap for her to bother with. There were maybe two dozen books, all paperback copies of recent best-sellers.
"Doesn't he have any more books?" Michael asked.
"Good question."
We looked. Not in the guest room. Not in the bedroom, which looked more lived in than the rest of the house but still depressingly tidy. Not in the dining room or the upstairs bath or the kitchen. Not in the basement, where Spike lay in wait for us under the water heater, growling. Not in the attic.
"Depressing," I said. "Irrelevant, but depressing."
Just then we heard a car go by, and peering out, I saw it was Jake's.
"We'd better leave; Jake may drop Mother off and come back soon," I said.
We lured Spike out from under the furnace and left the way we came.
"That was a bust," Michael said. "Well, we do have corroboration for his alibi."
"I thought we had that already."
"The sheriff had it," I said. "Now that I've seen it myself, I believe it."
And, as I admitted to myself before falling asleep that night, I was more than a little hoping to find some evidence against Jake because deep down I just didn't like him. How much of that was justifiable and how much due to my resentment that he was taking Dad's place, I didn't know. But I had to admit, I'd found nothing against him, other than further confirmation that he was a bland, boring cipher.
I pondered the other, more viable suspects. I could certainly find the opportunity to sneak into Samantha's room ... Barry's van ... even Michael's mother's house, although if I were seriously considering him a suspect, I had already made a big mistake by letting him find out I was snooping. Two big mistakes if you counted letting him paw through Jake's things. It all seemed rather pointless.
"I give up," I told myself. "Let Dad do the detecting. I have three weddings to organize."
Monday, June 20
On Monday morning, I coerced Pam into waiting for the electrician while I traipsed down to Be-Stitched for some fittings--along--with Samantha and Mother and half a dozen hangers-on. I wondered for the umpteenth time if my presence was really necessary at every one of Samantha's fittings. Having to stand perfectly still while Mrs. Tranh and the ladies did things with pins and tape measures seemed to throw Samantha's brain even further into overdrive, and she used the energy to cross-examine me on my progress (or lack thereof).