“Thank you.”
“I believe the total assets are close to three million dollars.”
“Three…” Her tongue stumbled to a halt.
“Million.” Mr. Sanderson nodded briskly. “If you think any assets have been overlooked once you see the list, please let me know immediately.”
“Uh, no, that is, I’m sure…” She ran out of words, realizing she wasn’t sure of anything. She hadn’t expected to profit from her father’s death.
“And Mr. Donovan, Walter consigned the entire contents of his house to you.”
Jess shot a startled glance at the man next to her, who did not look surprised in the least.
Mr. Sanderson went on without looking up. “Two things are excepted from that bequest. One is a collection of children’s books displayed on the fireplace mantle, and the other is a glass-enclosed bookshelf in the study containing replicas of ancient Egyptian artifacts and copies of two books authored by Walter on his research in Egypt. Both go to Miss Maulier.”
The lawyer finally looked up with a satisfied smiled. “That’s it. Any questions?”
Jess didn’t know where to start. She’d just fallen heir to more money than she’d ever expected to have, and yet all her father’s personal items, from valuable Persian rugs to the precious framed paintings done by her mother years ago, had been given to some stranger. An intimidating, dark stranger who nodded once as if satisfied that he’d gotten exactly what he expected.
It stung, a final parting insult she hadn’t expected. She’d wanted those paintings. She’d also wanted the memories that went with them of a time when she and her parents had been a close-knit, happy family. Now they belonged to Tyler Donovan…whoever the hell he was.
The man in question turned his enigmatic, closed expression on her. “I’d like to go through the house as soon as possible. When can I come over?”
Never hovered on her lips, but she bit it back. She probably couldn’t deny him access, but she didn’t have to make it easy for him to cart off the only good mementos she had from a torn-apart childhood. “Later,” she said stiffly. “I have a funeral to get through first.” She stood, telling Mr. Sanderson, “Thank you, I’ll get in touch with your secretary before I return to Houston.”
She had her hand on the doorknob within two seconds, but Donovan sprang to his feet and grabbed the edge of the door before she could push it far enough to squeeze through. “I really need to go through the contents of that house, Jessie,” he said.
“My name is Jess,” she muttered, unnerved by the affectionate nickname coming from his lips. Touching him was even more disturbing. The cool leather of his sleeve brushed her arm, and his warm breath tickled her neck in a way that was pleasant enough to be disconcerting. “You’ll have to do it later,” she told him, adding a glare meant to enforce her decision. It had no effect, but he didn’t stop her when she pushed against his weight and shoved through the doorway, relieved to be free. She didn’t bother to give him her phone number, certain he would find a way to get it. He looked resourceful.
…
Donovan walked briskly down the deserted hallway of the Bass County morgue, boots clicking dully on the linoleum, leather chaps and jacket creaking like an old saddle. Rainwater dripped off the helmet dangling from his hand, leaving a trail of drops behind him. He was cold and wet, but considering it was November in northern Michigan, he was just relieved the precipitation wasn’t snow.
He would have preferred to have his car, but the message about Wally had caught him off guard in the middle of moving the bike to his sister’s house for the winter. Continuing north was faster than turning back to his apartment in Chicago to get his car. But he’d still been too late. There was nothing to do but follow Wally’s puzzling final instructions to contact Jessie.
But first he needed to confirm his suspicions.
At the end of the hallway a door opened and light spilled out around the stout form of a man in a police uniform. He jerked his chin in Donovan’s direction. “You Tyler Donovan?”
“Yeah. Sheriff Mosely?” At the older man’s nod, Donovan offered a firm handshake as he reached the door, then followed Mosely inside.
“Tom Rasmussen,” Mosely said, introducing the man who rose from his desk. “County coroner.”
“Thanks for staying late,” Donovan said, shaking hands again.
“Not my idea,” the coroner grunted. “Parker here said you had information about the victim’s cause of death,” he said, nodding at Sheriff Mosely. “I can’t imagine it would change my conclusion, but I have to listen anyway.”