The Devil You Know (Sarah Woods Mystery Book 15)

The Devil You Know

A Sarah Woods Mystery

book 15

By

Jennifer L. Jennings

Copyright © 2015

Query Publishing, LLC

 All Rights Reserved

Chapter 1

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

January in New England is the worst; a nightmare of cold, dreary days with no end in sight. February isn’t much better, but at least there are only twenty-eight days. March is a tease, with a few warm, sunny days here and there to remind you that spring is just around the corner.

On this particular Wednesday in March, I had no desire to move my lazy bones out of bed. The forecast called for temps in the twenties with a chance of freezing rain, a good reason to stay under the warm covers for as long as possible.

“Sarah?” Carter’s deep, husky voice beckoned to me. I opened my eyes to see him standing in the doorway holding a coffee mug, an amused grin on his face. “You plan on staying in bed all day?”

I forced myself to sit up. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.” He walked over and handed me the mug, then sat on the edge of the bed.

“Thanks. I need this.” The smell of freshly brewed coffee helped to clear the cobwebs from my brain. I held the warm mug in my hands as I sipped the scalding liquid. Noticing Carter was shaved and dressed for the day, I surmised he’d already completed his morning exercise regimen of push-ups, sit-ups and jumping jacks. For a man in his mid-fifties, he had the body of a thirty year old. His thick, wavy grey hair and slightly weathered face were the only things that gave away his age.

“So I got a call this morning from a potential client,” he said. “We’re meeting with him in a few hours.”

“Really? What’s the job?”

“He didn’t give me details over the phone. Just said he needs a man and woman private detective team immediately and that the job is somewhat involved.”

“What’s his name?”

Carter reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a small notepad. He squinted at his handwriting. “George Caswell. I’ve already done a background check on him. He’s sixty-nine years old and comes from money but it appears as though he’s made quite a fortune on his own with real estate investments. The guy’s a millionaire.”

“Great. A client that can actually afford to pay us for a change.”

He nodded and pointed to his watch. “Yeah, thing is we’re meeting him in two hours.”

“Where?”

“At his home in Kennebunkport.”

“Then I have just enough time to take a shower and make myself presentable.”

Carter leaned over and brushed a hand through my shoulder length brown hair. “You look fine. Just get dressed and put on some lipstick.”

I kissed his hand and chuckled. “Nice try but I’m not buying it. Takes a little more than lipstick to freshen
this
face up.”

As I padded across the room completely naked, I could feel Carter’s eyes on me. It had been six months since our romance officially began and I still felt self-conscious around him. Not that he’s ever given me a reason to feel that way. In fact, he’s always complimentary about my figure but, as a woman reaching forty-five years of age, my body isn’t as tight as it used to be. Even though I run three miles a day, I’m a sucker for wine and chocolate. That being said, I try not to obsess over my physical flaws. There are more important things in life to worry about.

***

By nine o’clock, we were on the 95 turnpike heading north toward Kennebunkport; a quaint, affluent coastal town exploding with tourists in the summer and fall months. In March, however, the place is a ghost town.

Carter’s GPS led us to a quiet residential neighborhood lined with impressive homes and sprawling lawns still covered in snow. When we reached our destination, Carter pulled the Buick into the driveway of a four-story colonial style home with a detached three car garage, and an adjacent carriage house.

“This guy can’t be living here all alone,” I said, scanning the property. “Is he married?”

“He’s a widower. He mentioned on the phone that his wife died over a decade ago.” Carter checked his watch and frowned. “We’re five minutes late, by the way. Let’s get a move on. He’s waiting for us inside the carriage house.”

We followed the shoveled path that led to the front door and, as soon as we arrived, an older gentleman appeared behind the glass door. He wore pressed navy blue slacks and a wool sweater over a white button down shirt. Thin gray hair was combed back from his clean-shaven face, revealing bright green eyes. He opened the door and invited us in.

Carter held out his hand. “Mr. Caswell?”

The older man shook Carter’s hand. “Please call me George. I’m so glad you could make it on such short notice.” He then turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “And you must be Sarah.”

I offered my hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. You have a lovely property, here.”

He smiled faintly at the compliment, as if to be polite, but I got the sense that he wasn’t proud. “The main house is too big for one lonely man. I much prefer the coziness of the carriage house.”

“Really? So the mansion is empty?” I asked.

“For the time being.” He gestured for us to follow him through the foyer and into a sitting room. For a carriage house, the place had elegant touches: silk window dressings, a stone fireplace and oriental carpets. Two plush sofas faced each other, a coffee table between them. On top of the table was a tray containing a carafe, a basket of muffins and coffee mugs. “Please have a seat and make yourselves comfortable. I just brewed some coffee.”

This guy knew how to treat his guests. Carter poured us each a mug while I held up my cell phone so George could see it. “Would you mind if I recorded our conversation? It helps me to remember all the details.”

George made a vague hand gesture as he sat down on the sofa facing us and crossed his legs. “Fine with me. I’m just not exactly sure where to begin.”

I pressed the record button and set the phone on the coffee table. “There’s no hurry. Whenever you’re ready.”

George cleared his throat as he folded his hands in his lap. “As I told Carter on the phone, my wife died about ten years ago and I haven’t remarried. About three years ago, I got reacquainted with an old girlfriend from high school, Josephine Hayes. Her husband had been gone for some time, as well. Anyway, we rekindled our relationship and she eventually moved in with me about three months ago.” He paused to clear his throat again, and I noticed his eyes were teary. “We were engaged to be married.”

Since he’d referred to their engagement in the past tense, I assumed they had broken up or she was dead. “What happened?” I asked.

He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. “Last month, Josephine passed away after an unfortunate accident. She fell down a flight of stairs …” Lips pursed, he shifted uncomfortably as he cleared his throat again. “She broke her neck in the fall. The doctor says it was instantaneous.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Carter said. “But something tells me you don’t believe it was an accident.”

George nodded. “There is absolutely no evidence to support that it wasn’t an accident and there was never a police investigation. I’ve given this a lot of thought, however, and I need an objective point of view.”

“Okay,” Carter said. “We’re all ears.”

“Last month, my kids and their families all came to stay here for the weekend, along with my sister Margaret. I’ve made a list, with pertinent information, just to make things easier for you.” George handed me a sheet of paper listing the name, age and occupation of each family member including their addresses. “I’d invited them so I could share the wonderful news, that Josephine and I were engaged. They were shocked and I could tell they were less than thrilled at the idea.”

“You think one of them is responsible for Josephine’s death?” I asked.

He took a long time to respond. “I suppose if I didn’t, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

I could tell he was in pain, but I needed to press on. “Could you tell us more about the night Josephine fell?”

“It was a Saturday night, Valentine's Day. We had just announced our engagement after dinner. Everyone retired early that night. Josephine suffered from insomnia so she would often get up in the middle of the night, go downstairs to get a snack or read a book. I can’t be sure what time it was. I certainly didn’t think it would be the last time I’d ever see her alive.”

George shut his eyes and bowed his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if that might help the tears from coming.

I gave him a few moments to compose himself, then asked, “Who found Josephine?”

“Jeremy Myers. He’s my sister’s full-time nurse. Last year Margaret had her foot amputated after some complications with diabetes.”

I glanced at the list of family names. Sure enough, Jeremy Myers was listed as his sister Margaret’s nurse. “When did he find Josephine?”

“In the morning. Apparently he was heading down to the kitchen to get some water for my sister. It was around six-thirty when he knocked on my door. Poor kid was shaking like a leaf when he told me about Josephine. He confirmed she was dead. He’d already called 911 and the ambulance was on its way so there was little we could do until then. I knelt by Josephine’s body and held her hand until the paramedics showed up.”

“I know this is hard for you to talk about,” I said. “But could you tell us about the coroner’s report? Was an autopsy performed?”

“Yes. The coroner examined her and concluded that her death was caused by a severed spinal cord. Time of death he estimated between eleven and one o'clock in the morning. Since there were no defensive wounds on her body, her death was ruled an accident.”

“I’m sorry to ask this next question, but had Josephine been drinking that night?”

“She had one glass of wine with dinner. I’m sure the effects of that had worn off before bedtime. A full toxicology test confirmed that only a trace amount of alcohol was in her system.”

I nodded. “Was she on any medications that might have made her drowsy or lose her balance?”

“No. She hated taking pills.”

“So your theory is that one of your family members pushed her down the stairs because she posed a threat to his or her inheritance? Or was there something else going on?”

“Well, it’s probably the most likely motive.” George sighed and rubbed his eyes. “My sister Margaret doesn’t need my money; her late husband died years ago and left her a fortune. My kids, on the other hand …”

I glanced at the sheet again. “Let’s start with your son, Miles. He’s married to Sue-Ann and they have a nineteen year old daughter named Sasha. What is their financial situation?”

“Miles lost his job last year. Corporate downsizing. He worked for an outfit in Tennessee called Burton Pharmaceuticals, Inc. Miles hasn’t been able to find a decent job since then. His wife is a southern girl, raised to be a housewife. She refuses to get a job as it’s beneath her. Sasha goes to Cornell. I’ve given them thousands of dollars over the past year, just so they won’t lose their house but, I also know that if I continue to hand them money, Miles won’t be motivated to find another job.”

I felt ashamed to think that Miles and his family were probably banking on the fact that, once George was gone, they’d never have to worry about money again. “And what about your daughter?”

“Olivia is a struggling actress living in Manhattan with her third husband Brett, who is also a struggling actor. They’ve been together a few years now which is saying something. Her marriages tend to fizzle out after the first year.”

“So money is tight with them too?”

“Yes but, to her credit, Olivia never asks for handouts. She seems determined to make it on her own, which I respect. But I’m sure she’s looking forward to her inheritance once I’m gone.”

For the first time in my life, I felt glad that I wasn’t rich. Must be awful to know that your kids are waiting to take your money. My son Brian would be lucky to find a thousand bucks in my checking account once I’ve kicked the bucket. “Have you spoken to the police about your theory?” I asked.

“No. Truth is, I don’t want an official investigation into this matter. I could never send one of my kids to jail, even if I could prove that one of them is responsible for Josephine’s death. There are other ways to punish someone.”

I had no idea what he meant by that. Perhaps he figured leaving them out of the will was the right punishment for the crime. In my mind, that was getting off easy.

“What about Josephine’s family? Does she have any kids?”

“Only a daughter that she hasn’t seen or spoken to in years. Tina Hayes travels the world, doing documentaries on remote tribes of Africa and South America. She’s often gone for months at a time with no contact. She’s on an assignment right now, as a matter of fact. I tried getting in touch to tell her about her mother but, she’s somewhere in Africa and no one knows when she’ll return. Other than Tina, Josephine has an elderly aunt who lives in Arizona. She’s ill and won’t be able to make it to the memorial.”

“I'm sure you know that accidents can happen to anyone,” I said, keeping my tone gentle and sincere. “Especially late at night when you’re sleep deprived.”

“I know anything’s possible,” he said. “But I want to make sure my family had nothing to do with it. Until I can determine that, I won’t be able to rest.”