part eight: the theory

(This story started here.)

 
We took our time over breakfast, but then Sharon realized that people were still waiting for tables and insisted we get moving.

Outside, though, we had to figure out where we were moving to.

“Should we go back?” I asked. “To the house?”

She shrugged.

I didn’t know what to do or say next. As I thought about it, I realized that I’d never really lost anybody. A grandmother who I hadn’t known very well, a pet cat — that was about it. What qualified me to comfort anybody who had just lost two people so important to her?

Sharon took my hand, but then she stopped and frowned. “Oh,” she said. “Ron just asked Will about the funeral — about when it’s going to be.” She turned to look at me, still frowning. “Funeral. Do we have to do that?”

I shrugged. “If there’s going to be one, you’ll probably have to set it up. You — we — I’ll help, if I can.”

She nodded, somewhat distracted, and then she turned to me with a look of horror. “And the will… what happens–“

“It won’t be like that,” I said quickly.

It didn’t take mind reading abilities to know that she was thinking about a movie we’d seen together, a comedy mystery with a will-reading scene which had been full of yelling and violence.

“That was a movie,” I explained. “Real will readings aren’t like that.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Well, I’m pretty sure they’re not.”

She squeezed my hand. She may have been unworldly, however you want to take that word, but she was not even a little bit gullible.

“What about his family?” she asked. “What if they want to…” Her shoulders sagged. “They don’t know. How are they going to find out?”

“Someone will have to call them. Did Mr. Bostwick have an address book or something?”

She nodded slowly. “I think he did. And they sent him cards and letters sometimes, so we’ll be able to get their addresses.” She sighed. “I’m really tired.”

“Did you sleep, last night…”

She knew what I was asking. “No, not after Craig died. I just lay there…”

Her voice trailed off, and I thought I’d asked the wrong question and triggered some sort of relapse, but she said, “We should go home. Will says that Miss Sleet wants to talk to us.”

This was good — because it may have meant that the crime was solved, and because it saved me from making some stupid comment about how she should have awakened me while she lay awake and motionless for several hours after her brother’s murder.

 
We sat in the living room. The blood was still on the rug, but the furniture had been straightened up, and the bodies were gone.

Miss Sleet stood facing us. Sharon, Will, and I sat on the sofa together. There was no sign of Marshall or Ron, or anybody else.

“I have a theory,” the detective said, “but so far no evidence. And I have a question. Sharon, do you know of a key to the locked door on the second floor? Will said that he was not aware of one, and we didn’t find one during the search.”

Sharon shook her head. “Mr. Bostwick never liked to talk about that room, so we never asked about it.”

Miss Sleet smiled briefly. “As Will said. In exactly the same words, of course. May we break down the door?”

“No.”
“This house is ours now.”
“And we don’t want it damaged.”
“Surely you can–“
“–solve this another way.”

The detective nodded. “Of course. I know some rather disreputable people, a couple of whom can open any lock ever made.”

She hadn’t reacted to the way Will and Sharon had quickly completed each other’s thoughts, so I guessed she’d heard them do it before. It was the first time for me, and I found it impressive and a little unsettling. I’d soon get used to it, though.

The detective nodded. “Would it be convenient if I returned either this evening or tomorrow morning? I’m not sure how long it will take to make the arrangements.”

“Of course,”
“Miss Sleet.”
“But you said you had a theory.”
“May we know what it is?”

I had the idea that her usual response would have been to say no, but instead she looked thoughtful and said, “With the understanding that it will go no further?”

They nodded, and I said, “Definitely not.”

She gestured around the room. “The indications so far are that the tableau Michael found this morning was staged, and not very convincingly. Someone wanted us to think that Craig and Mr. Bostwick struggled, with knives, and both of them perished.

“It was well known that Mr. Bostwick was not on good terms with his children, but there’s no indication of enmity to the level of patricide. If he’d had an estate worth a substantial amount, that would have been significant, of course. You are his heirs, but if one of you murdered him the estate might well revert to his relatives.”

She shrugged. “A plausible scenario, if there were an estate worth mentioning, but every indication is that there isn’t.”

“I don’t believe…”
“He knew how much we–“
“–all wanted to go to college.”
“He wouldn’t have held back money–“
“–if he’d had it.”

“I would like to think you’re right, and even if he did, somehow concealing the money from you, you who lived with him for years, how did anybody else find out about it?” She shrugged again, with a rueful smile. “I am hoping, definitely romantically and probably futilely, that once we get that mysterious room open, everything will become clear.” A smile played around her mouth, and it looked like she’d thought of a joke but realized it would not be appropriate under the circumstances.

Then, frowning slightly, she pulled her glasses down her nose and looked at us over them. “If I may say so,” she said,. “Sharon and Will, you look really tired. Why don’t you lie down and rest for a while? Ron said she’ll be back later to cook dinner for you. Maybe you’d like to rest until then.”

I glanced at both of them and it did look as if everything had suddenly caught up with them, but Sharon shook her head. “We have to call Mr. Bostwick’s family,” she said wearily. “They need to know that he’s dead. It’s our responsibility.”

“I’ll call them,” I said. “You should get some rest.”

She looked at me for a moment, then she leaned over and hugged me. Will squeezed my shoulder and they left the room.

Miss Sleet was using her cane to get to her feet. “Do you know if Mr. Bostwick had an address book?” I asked, having just realized that my big gesture didn’t count for much if I didn’t have a phone number to call.

“Top left-hand drawer of the desk in his bedroom, under an expired bank book and on top of three letters from family members.”

I had risen to my feet when she’d stood, but I sat down again as she left. I had committed myself to making the phone call, but I was in no hurry. U-town had no phones, so I’d have to go to the city to make the call.

Then, sitting there, looking around the scene of the crime, I suddenly realized something. I had more than one call to make.

 
More to come…

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