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Authors: Margaret Grace
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at the post office.
I tapped on my steering wheel. “It’s a very long story,” I said.
Henry brushed the sides of his head, nearly popping off his cap. “What else are these big ears good for?” He opened my car door and held out his hand.
A helping hand. Just what I needed. I turned off my ignition and stepped out of my car and into Henry’s kind offer.
With Beverly off-limits in a way, and no one else with whom I was eager to share information—“unpleasant rumors” was a more accurate term in my mind—about my husband, I was grateful to have Henry’s big ears and welcoming manner at my disposal. It was no trouble to dispatch the girls to Taylor’s bedroom where they would work on a dollhouse destined for a raffle at Taylor’s Lincoln Point elementary school. Taylor’s mother had taught her how to sew, and now Taylor was teaching Maddie a skill she’d shunned when I’d offered her the same lessons a year or so ago. There was no accounting for timing, or for the source of the suggestion. Their goal for the day was to make bedding, pillows, and rugs for every room that needed them.
Henry and I went out back to his workshop.
“You don’t mind if I work while you talk?” he asked me.
I sensed the question was rhetorical and that Henry was aware how I preferred it that way. I nodded, then sat on an old chair near his bench while he all but rocked back and forth running a plane over a long piece of wood. The motion itself was enough to relax me. Henry had a calmness about him that I knew I could trust, as surely as he trusted the plane to give him the smoothness he wanted.
“I’m not sure where to start,” I said.
“What did you used to tell your students?”
I smiled at the memory and the wisdom. “Once upon a time,” I began.
I laid the story out for Henry, shaping it in my mind at the same time. Oliver Halbert had been investigating many people in Lincoln Point who might be called white-collar criminals, including the developer, Patrick Lynch, and the former city inspector, Max Crowley. That fact, plus personal reasons, led Susan to believe her brother had not committed suicide but was murdered.
“So, Lynch and Crowley are the most high-profile suspects,” Henry said.
“I’m assuming they would be, if Oliver’s death is ruled a murder, but so far that’s not the case. The jury’s still out. Or, rather, the ME’s official ruling is still out, though it’s beyond me why anyone would believe a man would walk to a neighbor’s porch, arrange himself like a straw man, and shoot himself.”
“I see your point. Are there any other likely suspects?”
The question jolted me out of a mental box. I hadn’t had the time—nor, truthfully, the foresight—to think about other possible suspects. I tried now to expand my horizons.
“I suppose another possibility would be the family of the janitor who died in the fire at the Ferguson twins’ factory. It’s admittedly a stretch as far as motive.” What about the twins?
“Oliver’s body was found at their parents’ home, correct?”
“Correct. But Sam and Lillian are close to eighty years old, if not older. Not likely suspects,” I said.
Henry took a break from his planing (if that was a verb) and stood straight. He laughed. “Is there an age limit on suspects now? Let me know when I reach it, okay? I have some unsettled debts.”
I tried to conjure a picture of Henry swinging into any violent action that wasn’t meant to split wood or hammer a nail. None surfaced.
“I know you’re trying to cover all bases,” I said. “And you’re right. We should consider everyone who benefits from Oliver’s death.”
“Everyone we know of,” Henry said.
Henry’s simple, obvious comment brought me back to reality—there was no way a civilian could know the extent of the suspect pool in a murder case or for any other crime. The police alone had the resources to delve into a victim’s life and search far and wide for the
I tapped on my steering wheel. “It’s a very long story,” I said.
Henry brushed the sides of his head, nearly popping off his cap. “What else are these big ears good for?” He opened my car door and held out his hand.
A helping hand. Just what I needed. I turned off my ignition and stepped out of my car and into Henry’s kind offer.
With Beverly off-limits in a way, and no one else with whom I was eager to share information—“unpleasant rumors” was a more accurate term in my mind—about my husband, I was grateful to have Henry’s big ears and welcoming manner at my disposal. It was no trouble to dispatch the girls to Taylor’s bedroom where they would work on a dollhouse destined for a raffle at Taylor’s Lincoln Point elementary school. Taylor’s mother had taught her how to sew, and now Taylor was teaching Maddie a skill she’d shunned when I’d offered her the same lessons a year or so ago. There was no accounting for timing, or for the source of the suggestion. Their goal for the day was to make bedding, pillows, and rugs for every room that needed them.
Henry and I went out back to his workshop.
“You don’t mind if I work while you talk?” he asked me.
I sensed the question was rhetorical and that Henry was aware how I preferred it that way. I nodded, then sat on an old chair near his bench while he all but rocked back and forth running a plane over a long piece of wood. The motion itself was enough to relax me. Henry had a calmness about him that I knew I could trust, as surely as he trusted the plane to give him the smoothness he wanted.
“I’m not sure where to start,” I said.
“What did you used to tell your students?”
I smiled at the memory and the wisdom. “Once upon a time,” I began.
I laid the story out for Henry, shaping it in my mind at the same time. Oliver Halbert had been investigating many people in Lincoln Point who might be called white-collar criminals, including the developer, Patrick Lynch, and the former city inspector, Max Crowley. That fact, plus personal reasons, led Susan to believe her brother had not committed suicide but was murdered.
“So, Lynch and Crowley are the most high-profile suspects,” Henry said.
“I’m assuming they would be, if Oliver’s death is ruled a murder, but so far that’s not the case. The jury’s still out. Or, rather, the ME’s official ruling is still out, though it’s beyond me why anyone would believe a man would walk to a neighbor’s porch, arrange himself like a straw man, and shoot himself.”
“I see your point. Are there any other likely suspects?”
The question jolted me out of a mental box. I hadn’t had the time—nor, truthfully, the foresight—to think about other possible suspects. I tried now to expand my horizons.
“I suppose another possibility would be the family of the janitor who died in the fire at the Ferguson twins’ factory. It’s admittedly a stretch as far as motive.” What about the twins?
“Oliver’s body was found at their parents’ home, correct?”
“Correct. But Sam and Lillian are close to eighty years old, if not older. Not likely suspects,” I said.
Henry took a break from his planing (if that was a verb) and stood straight. He laughed. “Is there an age limit on suspects now? Let me know when I reach it, okay? I have some unsettled debts.”
I tried to conjure a picture of Henry swinging into any violent action that wasn’t meant to split wood or hammer a nail. None surfaced.
“I know you’re trying to cover all bases,” I said. “And you’re right. We should consider everyone who benefits from Oliver’s death.”
“Everyone we know of,” Henry said.
Henry’s simple, obvious comment brought me back to reality—there was no way a civilian could know the extent of the suspect pool in a murder case or for any other crime. The police alone had the resources to delve into a victim’s life and search far and wide for the
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