This time, Floyd Evers actually laughed. “Whoo,” he said. “You don’t know rich old men. Half my clients do nothing but. And the rich old women are worse.”
“They want to hang onto power, that’s the important thing,” Gregor said. “They always want to hang on to power. I’ve known men in my life who’ve given up smoking, who’ve given up heroin, who’ve given up sex. I’ve never known one who voluntarily gave up power.”
“He didn’t give up all the power,” Evers said. “He wasn’t that stupid. When Hannaford Financial went public, some shares were sold, some shares went to Robert, but the biggest block went into another of those living trusts. Hannaford didn’t get money from those. He got the voting rights.”
“And these voting rights also pass to Cordelia Day Hannaford until her death?” Gregor said.
“That they do,” Evers said.
Jackman had been pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, restless and upset. Now he stopped, leaned back, and began to look happier.
“That’s it, then,” he said. “We’ve got to check into Hannaford Financial. Obviously, nobody killed Robert Hannaford for his money. And it would explain Emma, too, that book. She probably knew something. No one got any money, except for Cordelia, and she wasn’t hauling furniture around this room in her condition. But if something’s wrong at Hannaford Financial—now that, that would provide us with a motive.”
“It would provide you with a great motive,” Evers said cheerfully. “They’re sending all those idiots to jail.”
Gregor wasn’t feeling so cheerful. He was thinking about a pair of silver candlesticks and about the dead-white face of an emaciated young man who was much too frightened for any explanation that made sense.
The more he thought about those things, the more incomprehensible they seemed to get.
3
Half an hour later—after Floyd Evers had gone up to Cordelia’s room and Anne Marie had gone over her story five times, by rote—the young patrolman who had met Gregor and Jackman on the stairs emerged from the second floor hall, triumphant. In his hands was a piece of blue notepaper, the kind supplied for every writing table in every bedroom of the house. It was crumpled and torn, but not illegible.
“Dear Bennis,” it said. “You’ll know what I mean when I say I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got to put a stop to this one way or the other. Now. Love, Emma.”
The original suicide note.
Found in the wastebasket in Bobby Hannaford’s room.
Along with four $100 bills.
Jackman stared at the money and said, “It wasn’t a hoax. There was a briefcase full of money.”
“We always knew there was one at Tibor’s,” Gregor pointed out. “Now we know there was one where Hannaford said it would be. In his study Christmas Eve night. Something tells me, if we look around now, all we’re going to find is the briefcase.”
“What?”
Gregor had been fingering the bills. He handed them to Jackman. “Find out if there’s a service dump here. Someplace they put trash from gardening and lawn work. Houses of this size usually have them, placed pretty far from the house itself. If there is something like that, our briefcase will be at the bottom of it.”
“But not our money.”
“Of course not,” Gregor said.
FOUR
1
BY THE TIME CORDELIA’S doctor arrived, the police were gone, Bobby and Chris had received the most brutal account possible of Emma’s death, and Anne Marie Hannaford was beginning to think she was having a nervous breakdown. She always did think so, in situations like this, when Mother had been very bad and then started to get better when she should have gotten worse. Anne Marie wanted to believe the world was an inevitable place. If she did certain things—kept Mother quiet, gave Mother all her medicines, transmitted an unwavering message of Disneyland hope—Mother would be well. If she did other things—got Mother excited, let Mother stay awake too long, admitted for one moment that there was anything wrong at Engine House—Mother would be sick. With Mother’s disease, things were not so simple. Cordelia had reacted the way Anne Marie expected her to at Daddy’s death. The shock had been profound, devastating. Anne Marie had thought it was all over. The woman was going to implode, collapse in on herself like a building with a ruined foundation. The death of Emma should have finished her off. Instead, she was getting better. Anne Marie had picked it up right away. This time, when she called the doctor, she was adamant. Yes, it was snowing, but the streets were passable and would be for hours yet. He could damn well get his ass up to Engine House.