Killing Cassidy (10 page)

She rose, a wintry smile on her face. “It is the nature of bankers and lawyers to wish to preserve money, Mrs. Martin. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm really very busy.”

She walked briskly out the door, leaving me staring after her, my mind working furiously.

She'd reverted to my surname. And why hadn't she answered my question?

A
NYTHING
?” Alan was lounging in the easy chair, his feet propped on another chair, when I came back to the hotel room. He tossed his book toward the bed; it slid off and landed upside down on the floor.

“I'm not sure. That is one very closemouthed lady.” I reached down to retrieve the book, a thick, oversize paperback with a plain brown back cover. “What's this? It looks dull.” I handed it back to him

“Not what one might call action-packed, but it has its points.” He showed me the front.

“
Wills and Probate: The Basics of Settling an Estate
,” I read. “Good grief, Alan, are you a mind reader?”

“It was a fairly simple deduction, said Sherlock Holmes, tucking his violin under his chin and playing a few melancholy notes.” Alan bowed his imaginary fiddle. “A man has died. You have gone to visit his solicitor. Ergo, you are interested in his estate. I thought I'd while away the time by consulting the law myself, so I searched in the bookshop next door and found this. It's written for the layman, so it's almost comprehensible. I was reasonably certain you wouldn't extract much information from Ms. Carmichael.”

“You're right about that. She did, grudgingly, confirm what I'd already guessed, that Kevin really didn't have much money left.”

“I'm curious about your working hypothesis. I'm certain you have one.”

“Well—it did enter my head that, if his great-niece was in serious need of money, she might have decided to speed Uncle Kevin on his way before he could give every cent of it to other people. That's assuming she was his principal heir. I'd hoped Carmichael the Clam might give me a few hints, but nothing doing.”

“Hmm. I'm not sure we have a credible motive there, Dorothy. If the woman needed money, could she not simply have asked the professor for it? He was spreading it about by the pailful, apparently.”

“
If
she was on good terms with him. He never talked about her, remember. Maybe there was some sort of family feud.”

“In that case, would he have been likely to leave his money to her?”

“Oh. I hadn't thought of that. It's so frustrating not to
know
.”

“Ah, that is precisely where my research will be of help. This book has a section that summarizes estate law for each of your fifty states. I looked up Indiana, and it appears quite likely that the professor's—sorry, Kevin's—estate will have been opened by now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's the first step in probate. The details are somewhat technical, but the relevant point for our purposes is that the will is deposited with the court.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that it will be available for perusal upon application to the clerk of the court. Apparently for a small fee it can be copied.”

His bland smile reminded me more than ever of Alistair Cooke.

“For heaven's sake, why didn't you say so to begin with? What are we waiting for?”

We did, of course, have to wait. First we had to get to the courthouse. Not that there was any difficulty about that, but it required a bit of a walk. There was no point in trying to drive; I knew parking would be impossible. Hillsburg, the county seat, has a gigantic neo-Baroque courthouse sitting in a lovely green square, smack in the middle of town. All four streets approaching the square have to detour around it, an arrangement that stalls traffic, makes parking scarce, and creates near-gridlock on the days of home football games. The setup, in short, is absolutely typical of small-town midwestern courthouse squares.

I've always loved the magnificent ugliness of the old red sandstone building, its towers and abutments and niches and wings, but it's not what you would call a convenient sort of building. Once inside, one discovers that the floor plan is as labyrinthine as one would expect. Alan was fascinated with the place and insisted on peeking into the courtrooms and studying the statuary. It was half an hour before we found the office of the clerk of the circuit court in an obscure corner of the basement, and then she was, a sign on the locked door informed us, out to lunch. So we found ourselves a sandwich at a coffee shop and then wandered around the square to kill the rest of the time.

“That's the monument to the Civil War dead, Alan. And this fancy bronze one commemorates our soldiers lost in the two world wars. Far too many of them, both times.”

Alan studied the plaques for a long time, and when he turned back to me, his face was very sober. “One forgets, Dorothy. I wasn't around for the first war, of course, and I was only a boy in the forties. I knew there were Americans about, but I didn't quite take it in. … It was a great sacrifice for them to make, for a country and a people very far away from their homes.”

“They were wars worth fighting, Alan. We weren't fighting for England, not really. We were fighting for a principle.”

“Dangerous things, principles.” He said it very seriously.

“Indeed. Lord Peter Wimsey once said much the same thing. ‘The first thing a principle does is kill somebody' was more or less the way he put it.”

The sun was warm, the trees in the square brilliantly beautiful. We found a bench and sat in thoughtful silence until it was time to go back inside the courthouse.

The clerk was back at work, and the minute I saw her, I recognized her.

“Good gracious, it's Becky Deming! Child, you haven't changed at all!”

“Mrs. Martin, of all people! Gosh, it's good to see you. I didn't know you were back in town. Have you moved back home?” She glanced at Alan.

“No, just visiting. Becky, this is my husband, Alan Nesbitt. Alan, this was one of my favorite students, though I tried not to let her know it. Becky Deming.”

“It's Stevens now, Mrs. Martin. Do you remember Dick? He was a couple of classes ahead of me—”

“I certainly do! The bane of my existence that year. That boy could think up more mischief than any other six kids in that class. Has he straightened out?”

“Not much. He sometimes acts more like our boys' brother than their father.” We both laughed. Becky's whole being radiated contentment. Dick had fulfilled his promise, then. He'd been not only the most active boy in his class but also the brightest, destined, I felt, for great things once he grew up a little. Here, at last, was someone who actually made me feel at home.

“So what brings you down here to the catacombs?”

“Pure curiosity, I have to admit. I was left a small bequest by dear old Dr. Cassidy—”

Becky's face clouded. “He was the nicest old man, wasn't he? I was really sorry when he died. Well, everybody was, I guess. He was the official Hillsburg character.”

“A truly remarkable man. And I heard some rumors about how he left his money, and … well, it's none of my business, I know, but—”

“You want to see the will. Sure, no problem. If you want to have a seat, I'll find it for you. You want a copy?”

I started to say no, but Alan pressed my hand. “That would be very kind of you. We do have to be somewhere else shortly, and it would be convenient to take it with us.”

Becky disappeared, and I raised my eyebrows at Alan. “In case it turns out we want to study it more carefully,” he murmured, close to my ear. “It might raise suspicions if we glanced at it and
then
decided there was something that required further attention.”

I shook my head. “Alan, every now and then I'm forced to admit there are good reasons why you rose to such exalted heights in your profession.”

Becky exhibited no suspicion whatever about our motives. She came back in a few minutes with a photocopy of the will, accepted our dollar and a quarter copying fee, and waved good-bye. I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel and read Kevin's last wishes.

Five minutes after we sat down with it, I looked up at Alan, disappointment written all over my face.

“And another beautiful theory goes down in flames. Not a single bequest to anybody at all except me.”

“And unless we suspect the entire biology department at Randolph University of conspiracy to murder, the residuary legatee is a washout, as well.”

I sighed and flexed my aching shoulders. Our lack of progress was getting to me. “Are we just plain wrong, Alan? Was Kevin imagining things? Had he actually gotten senile while nobody was looking?”

“There was that accident on his steps, remember.”

“It could have been just an accident.”

“Yes.”

“We forgot to ask Jerry about any others.”

“Jerry, as an experience, is enough to make one forget everything except self-preservation. However, we hadn't that excuse with Mrs. Schneider.”

“No. We got sidetracked, somehow. Anyway, Mrs. Schneider might not know. She isn't near enough to see his house, and I didn't get the idea she called on him very often. We could try Doc Foley.”

“Wouldn't he have said, when his wife brought up the sprained ankle?”

“Maybe not. Doctors don't talk about their patients. But if we ask directly, I'll bet he'll tell us anything he knows.”

So we got our car and set out for Dr. Foley's office, but it was a day for frustrations. The good doctor was at the hospital with a complicated obstetric case, and his secretary, new since my time, had no idea when he might be back. “Triplets,” she said brightly. “I've rescheduled all his appointments. If it's urgent, you could see Dr. Boland. His office is just around the corner, and I don't think he's booked up this afternoon.”

Dr. Boland was not booked up. His office was empty when we walked in, and his secretary looked up with the air of a salesclerk about to pounce on a new customer.

I introduced the two of us. “We're not patients, but we'd like to talk to Dr. Boland, if he has a minute. I was a good friend of Kevin Cassidy's.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Just the last few days of Kevin's life. It's hard when someone you love dies, and you're far away and can't get there in time.” I tried to make it sound as though we would have come rushing across the Atlantic if we'd only known.

“Oh,” she said again, sounding doubtful. I could see why. “Well, I suppose—”

“Amy, could you get me Mrs. Cooper's file?”

“Oh, Doctor, these people want to talk to you about Mr. Cassidy. They say they're friends of his.” Her voice sounded so dubious I thought I'd better get my two cents' worth in.

“I've been a patient of Dr. Foley's for years,” I said with my highest-wattage smile. “He tells me you attended Kevin in his last illness. He speaks very highly of you, by the way.” I've always felt that a little insincerity in a good cause doesn't really count as a lie.

“Yes, well, come in.” His tone was grudging, but he opened the outer office door and let us in.

Doc Foley had described him as a young man. Young is a relative term. This man was in his mid-forties at the most generous estimate. He was tall and thin, with drooping shoulders and sparse pepper-and-salt hair.

“I don't know what I can tell you,” he said when we were seated in his cheerless office. “He was ninety-six years old. He got pneumonia, and we couldn't cure him. It's hardly an uncommon story.” His manner was stiff and wary.

“I'm sure you did the best you could,” I said gently.

“Are you?” He fixed me with a gimlet gaze. “Or did you come here to try to ferret out what I did wrong? How I could let such a wonderful man die? How I could let a simple case of pneumonia get out of hand? Et cetera, et cetera.”

His hands worked restlessly.

“Good Lord, I even made a house call! How many doctors do you know who do that nowadays?”

“Yes, I'd heard that, and I wondered about it.”

“He was a very old man, and he called Doc's office saying he wasn't feeling so good. But Doc was away, and Cassidy didn't have a way in to town. My practice wasn't exactly booming, so I thought I might as well run out.

“I tried to talk him into coming to the hospital right then! His chest was bad, really bad. But he said he just wanted some drugs, hated hospitals. It was another two days before he showed up in the emergency room.

“Do you know what rumors can do to a medical practice? Especially in a small town? I've had one cancellation after another since that damn case. Nobody comes right out and says anything, of course. No, they just suddenly have reasons why they have to break their appointments, and they don't schedule another one. Or they just don't show up, don't even bother to call. So if you're trying to dig up some dirt, let me just tell you that nobody could have cured that man. He'd let it go for too long before he came in, and I don't care if he was a combination of the pope and Mother Teresa, there was nothing anybody could have done!”

He was shouting by the time he finished. I was too surprised to reply, and Alan wisely let the silence stretch itself for a moment before opening his mouth.

“Actually,” he said, “we're not particularly interested in his death—or not the manner of it, at any rate. We had heard that he had some accidents in the last few months of his life, and simply wondered if any of them could have contributed to the pneumonia.”

The restless hands slowed, stopped. Dr. Boland moistened his lips. “Sorry. I—sorry. Stupid of me.”

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

“Accidents?” Alan prompted.

The doctor pulled himself together. “There was nothing in his record. I remember that for certain, because when Doc Foley got back to town, he mentioned something that made me go back and check.”