Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin (16 page)

I gave him a dark look that went entirely unnoticed.

“Will and Rob turned five a couple of weeks ago,” I went on. “How old is Chloe?”

“She’s five.” Joanna turned knowing eyes on me, as though she understood quite clearly why I was hammering away at the subject of family life. Then she added, very softly, “Chloe was born six months before my husband died.”

“Oh,” I said, and my assumptions did an abrupt about-face. Joanna Quinn wasn’t a wandering wife. She was a widow, and a not very merry one, to judge by her drab attire. “I’m so sorry.”

“So was I,” said Joanna. “It was a bolt from the blue—a road accident. Jeremy left for work one morning and never came home.” She folded her hands on the table. “I’m not telling you my story to win your sympathy, but to help you understand how much I owe Miss Beacham. When Jeremy died, I found myself suddenly alone, with a child to support. I’d trained as a legal secretary before my marriage, but my skills were rusty, and even if they hadn’t been, most firms wouldn’t consider hiring a young widow with an infant at home. I was reaching the end of my rope when I walked into the offices of Pratchett and Moss. Elizabeth, God bless her, hired me.”

Joanna lapsed into silence while the waiter placed bread plates, a basket of crusty bread, and a bowl of butter on the table. When he’d gone, Gabriel spoke up.

“You said that Miss Beacham hired you,” he observed. “Weren’t Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Moss involved in the decision?”

“Elizabeth ruled the firm, not the partners,” Joanna explained. “She’d come to them with years of experience and they respected her judgment, but there was more to it than that. I don’t know if you realize it, but Elizabeth was a very wealthy woman.”

“I suspected as much,” I said. “One look at her flat was enough to—” I broke off as Joanna fixed me with an astonished stare.

“Have you been inside Elizabeth’s flat?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Haven’t you?”

“Never,” she replied. “Elizabeth was very good to me—generosity itself—but she never invited me into her home. What’s it like?”

“It’s gorgeous,” I said. “Filled with fine antiques. I still don’t understand how she was able to afford so many lovely things. How does a legal secretary become a wealthy woman?”

“I wish I knew,” said Joanna, with a wry smile. “I adore antiques, but I can’t afford them. Of course, Elizabeth never married, so she was always in control of her finances. And she had no children, which is, you must admit, a great savings.”

“Kids aren’t cheap,” I agreed.

“But in the end, I suppose the best answer is that she was clever with money,” said Joanna. “She knew when and where to invest, and she reaped the rewards. It gave her a great deal of power at the firm. If Mr. Moss wanted to keep her as a client, he had to allow her to run the office as she saw fit—an unusual arrangement, to put it mildly, but one that certainly benefited me.”

“How?” Gabriel asked.

“Elizabeth hired me when no one else would,” said Joanna. “But she did more than that. She helped me to find day care for Chloe, and she understood that there would be days when I simply couldn’t come to work—grief overwhelms one at the oddest moments. As a result, I worked ten times harder for her than I would have for anyone else, and my absences gradually dwindled to nothing.” Joanna took up a slice of bread and tore it in two. “I suppose you could say that she was employing a form of enlightened self-interest. By helping me to recover from my husband’s death and feel secure about my daughter, Elizabeth created for herself the most loyal, hardworking assistant imaginable. By the time the intensive training started, I was ready and eager to come early, stay late, and take on as much responsibility as she cared to give me.”

“When did the intensive training start?” I asked.

“A year ago.” Joanna’s voice softened and she lowered her eyes. “I didn’t know it then, but she was preparing me to take her place. She’d received her final diagnosis. She knew that she’d be dead before the year was out.”

“Her
final
diagnosis?” said Gabriel.

Joanna raised her eyes and said levelly, “Elizabeth’s cancer had been discovered in London. That’s where she received her initial diagnosis, and that’s why she came to Oxford. She knew that the treatments would extend her life, but that the cancer would kill her in the end. She wanted to spend what time she had left near her brother.”

“Kenneth?”
Gabriel and I cried.

Joanna recoiled as Gabriel and I shot simultaneous, venomous glances at the waiter, who’d arrived to ask cheerfully if anyone wanted wine.

“No,”
we barked, and the poor man backed away, apologizing profusely.

“There’s no need to shout,” said Joanna, looking perturbed. She didn’t seem to understand why we’d reacted so strongly to her mention of Miss Beacham’s brother.

“Did Gabriel tell you why we wanted to speak with you?” I asked.

“He told me that you were trying to help Elizabeth,” said Joanna. “That’s all he needed to say.”

“You have to know a little more than that,” I said, and proceeded to explain yet again the curious sequence of events that had sent me chasing after the elusive Kenneth. I was almost through when the lasagna arrived, delivered quickly by a subdued and anxious waiter.

“You have everything you need?” he asked Joanna, presumably because she hadn’t bitten his head off for asking an innocent question.

“Yes, thank you,” Joanna said graciously. “I’ll signal you when we’re done.”

“Very good, madam,” he said with a hasty bow, and scurried away.

I brought the saga forward, through Blinker’s revelations to Woolery’s Café, and finished with, “That’s why Gabriel and I got a tad overexcited when you mentioned Kenneth.”

Gabriel nodded. “You’re the only person we’ve interviewed all day who’s been aware of Kenneth’s existence.”

“If you tell us that you actually
knew
him,” I chimed in, “I may faint.”

“Er . . .” Joanna looked at me uncertainly.

“I’m kidding,” I assured her. “I have no intention of missing a syllable.”

“All right, then . . .” Joanna drew a deep breath. “I saw Kenneth Beacham quite often when I first started working at Pratchett and Moss.”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

Joanna shrugged. “Average height, medium build, brown hair—he was fairly nondescript, though he dressed well. His suits were beautifully tailored and he had excellent taste in ties.”

“He must have been fairly well off,” I commented.

“Presumably,” said Joanna. “He came to the office at least twice a week, to lunch with Elizabeth at Woolery’s. They were obviously fond of each other, always finishing each other’s sentences and laughing at the same jokes, the way brothers and sisters do. It went on like that for several months until, without warning, it stopped. Kenneth stopped coming round. I never saw him again. I’ve always wondered what happened to him.”

I gave her a puzzled glance. “Didn’t you ask Miss Beacham?”

“I did, once, but all she would say was that Kenneth had to leave Oxford.” Joanna sighed. “The way she said it . . . it seemed to cause her pain. I didn’t like to ask again.”

“You must have been curious,” said Gabriel.

Joanna smiled. “I’m a working mother. I don’t have time for curiosity. It seemed to me that if Elizabeth wanted to tell me what had happened, she would. If not, it was none of my business.”

“It must be your business now,” I pointed out. “I mean, literally. Mr. Moss is your boss, and he’s in charge of the Beacham estate. You must have seen her files.”

“I haven’t,” said Joanna, and her expression became grim. “Mr. Moss keeps them locked in his desk. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to speak with you. Mr. Moss is being entirely too secretive about Elizabeth’s affairs, and with so much money at stake, I can’t help wondering why. Do you think Kenneth holds the answer?”

“Possibly.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “He’s her next of kin, right? What if she included Mr. Moss in her will, too? He was her boss, wasn’t he? She might have had a soft spot for him. What if Mr. Moss gets a bigger share of the inheritance if Kenneth stays lost?”

“I find it hard to believe that a respectable solicitor would betray a client’s trust for monetary gain,” said Gabriel.

“Need I remind you of the root of all evil?” I asked. “We still don’t know who gets the proceeds from Miss Beacham’s auction, but whoever does will be a rich man. That kind of temptation could corrupt anyone.” I was on the verge of asking Joanna if she knew how to use a nail file to open the locked drawer in Mr. Moss’s desk when the image of Bill’s face loomed in my mind, glaring disapprovingly, and I subsided. Asking Joanna to risk her job was one thing. Asking her to break the law was going a little too far.

We concentrated on the lasagna. Joanna ate steadily and in silence while Gabriel and I toyed with our food halfheartedly. My appetite had been sated by the sandwich at Woolery’s Café, but I suspected that Gabriel was simply too smitten by Joanna’s loveliness to think about food. While Joanna supped and he gazed, I poked holes in the pasta and pondered the least obvious way of obtaining Joanna’s home phone number and address.

“Address,” I murmured, and turned to Joanna. “Do you know where Kenneth lived in Oxford? If we knew where he lived, we could talk to his former neighbors. They might know where he went.”

“I have no idea where he lived,” said Joanna. “But a five-year-old telephone directory might provide a clue.”

“Where would we find a five-year-old telephone directory?” I asked.

Gabriel answered readily, “My flat.”

My eyebrows rose. “Your flat? Why do you keep old telephone directories in your flat?”

“You never know when you’ll need one,” Gabriel replied.

“You’d best get back there and have a look,” said Joanna.

Gabriel shook his head. “We can’t leave you here alone.”

“I’ve finished eating, Gabriel.” Joanna tapped her empty plate with her fork. “I’m ready to go home. If I don’t get a few loads of laundry done tonight, I
will
have a family emergency. But you’ll keep in touch, won’t you? You’ll let me know what you find out?”

“Of course.” Gabriel whipped a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “If you hear anything new, or remember anything about Kenneth, please ring me.”

Joanna took one of her own business cards from her purse, flipped it over, and scribbled something on the back. “I’ve added my home number,” she said, handing the card to Gabriel. “In case you think of a question you forgot to ask, or have any news to report.”

My presence had evidently slipped their minds, because no business cards came my way.

“I’ll get a cab for you,” Gabriel offered, and bounded toward the front entrance.

“I should have told him not to bother,” Joanna confessed when he was out of earshot. “My budget doesn’t allow for cabs.”

“Let Gabriel pay,” I advised. “He’s feeling heroic today.”

Joanna looked over her shoulder. “He seems like a nice man.”

“If he remembers to get a cab for me, too, I’ll agree with you,” I said. “I’m not used to walking on hard sidewalks. My feet are killing me.”

Joanna turned back to me. “Do you live in the country?”

I nodded absently, momentarily distracted by the brilliant idea that had just taken shape in my mind. I’d kept my eyes and ears open, as per Dimity’s instructions. The time seemed ripe for a bit of nudging.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” I asked. “A neighbor of mine is opening a riding school. There’ll be a party there tomorrow and everyone’s invited. Why don’t you and Chloe join us? I’ll bet she’d enjoy a day in the country.”

“I don’t know . . . ,” Joanna said shyly.

“You don’t have to get dressed up,” I told her. “It’s not a formal event, just a bunch of friends getting together to celebrate. My twins’ll be there, so Chloe will have someone to play with—two someones, in fact. And there’ll be horses, of course.”

“Oh, dear, I think I’m weakening,” said Joanna. “Chloe’s horse-mad at the moment. She’s always begging me to take her riding, but it’s beyond my means.”

“There’ll be free pony rides for everyone under six,” I said quickly.

Joanna held out for another half second, then nodded gratefully. “Yes, thank you, we’ll come.”

“Wonderful. The more the merrier.” I wrote directions to Anscombe Manor on a scrap of paper wrestled from my shoulder bag.

As Joanna tucked the scrap into her purse, she asked casually, “Will Gabriel be there?”

“He certainly will,” I said, adding silently,
Once I tell him
you’re
coming.

Thirteen

Gabriel didn’t think to call a cab to get us back to St. Cuthbert Lane until after he’d paid for Joanna’s and waved her off, but I forgave him. He had more important things on his mind. One of them was the state of his apartment. It seemed to bother him.

“My flat’s not like Miss Beacham’s,” he cautioned me.

“Not many flats are like Miss Beacham’s,” I said.

“No, Lori,” he said, swinging around to face me. “What I’m trying to say is: It’s not
remotely
like Miss Beacham’s.”

I shrugged. “I live with two boys who fill my living room with dinosaurs every other day. How bad can yours be?”

He grimaced and said nothing more until we stood outside the door of his flat, when he began to explain that he didn’t have guests often, that he hadn’t been expecting one today, and that if he had been, he would’ve . . .

“What am I, the housekeeping police?” I broke in, exasperated. “Open the door and get it over with. I promise not to recoil in horror, no matter what I see.”

He squared his shoulders and turned the key in the lock, muttering, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As it turned out, his apartment wasn’t messy. It was pathetic. The living room was the same size and shape as Miss Beacham’s, but the few furnishings it contained were modern, cheap, and shabby—an armchair upholstered in cracked green vinyl, a fiberboard bookshelf bowing under a weighty load of art reference books, a wobbly floor lamp, and, facing the picture window, a worktable, one end of which was held up by a stack of old telephone directories.