Cecilia’s story and shuddered. “What are you planning to do, then? Keep the ashes on the mantel?”
“I don’t even have a mantel,” he said with a bitter edge to his voice. “Didn’t you hear? She left everything to that Migration Alliance dude.”
“I heard.”
“Even the frickin’house.”
She hadn’t realized that Owens got the property, too. That didn’t seem fair. And it didn’t seem like something Esther would do. “Who told you Owens got everything?”
“Bernie Crandall. He said he was convinced I killed her, except he was having trouble finding a motive.”
“Maybe there’s been a mistake.”
“Hah. Fat chance.” Vic took another swig from the bottle.
“You can’t be sure of that. You two were living together like husband and wife. Maybe that makes you her common law husband?”
Vic’s head came up. “It might, huh?”
“Yeah.” Lark nodded, pleased that she might have found a solution to Vic’s problem. “If so, you’re entitled to some of the estate. If I were you, I’d check with Gil Arquette.”
“I’ll do just that,” said Vic, scraping back his chair and staggering to his feet.
“Later,” ordered Lark, pushing him back down on the seat. “Right now, you’re going to eat something. And give me that.” She took the bottle away from him and, against his protests, poured the contents down the sink.
Two eggs, some bacon, and several stiff cups of coffee restored Vic to some semblance of the man Lark knew. After she explained what she was looking for, he pointed her to a rolltop desk in the living room.
“How about I take a look while you go shower?” she suggested, clearing the dishes to the sink. “Then we can talk about what we’re doing on Saturday.”
A shadow crossed his face at the thought. “I can’t let go.”
Feeling helpless, Lark patted his shoulder. “We’ll work on it together.”
She waited until he’d disappeared into the bedroom before rolling up the desk’s top and rifling the contents of Esther’s desk. The sight might have been more than he could handle.
The pigeonholes were full of treasures: old fountain pens, wax and wax stamps, tissue writing paper. In one cubbyhole on the right, she found a stack of letters. Most of the postmarks were old, dated from the 1920s, and showed Paris Mills’address on the return. One or two were more recent.
Curiosity prompted Lark to open one postmarked two years ago from Mexico. It read:
My dearest Esther ,
Though it’s been only one day since you’ve been gone, in my heart it feels like months, years, an eternity. Knowing we may never be together again makes it all the harder .
Katherine returns today…
Katherine? Lark flipped to the last page and looked for the signature.
Yours forever and ever, Paul
Paul Owens. It had to be. The stamp was Mexican, and the postmark read San Cristóbal de las Casas. That was one of the places Esther bought coffee in Chiapas.
Esther Mills had been having an affair with Paul Owens. So that’s what he had been covering up. Lark wondered if Vic knew. Esther was the love of his life. If he had discovered she carried a torch for another man, might he have been jealous enough to kill her? More likely, he’d have killed Owens.
And what about Katherine? Even though she and Paul weren’t married, she seemed very possessive of her partner.
The sound of the closet door clicking into place prompted Lark to put the letter back in its envelope. But instead of sticking it back into its pigeonhole, she crammed it into her pocket
“Find what you were looking for?”
Lark glanced up. Vic stood in the doorway, shaved and wearing clean clothes. His eyes looked tired but alert. “Not yet,” she said.
“What are these?” He walked over and reached toward the letters. Lark held up a hand, but he plucked a stack of three-by-five cards from the next pigeonhole.
Lark’s heart pounded as she flipped through the stack. “Blank index cards.” She
“I don’t even have a mantel,” he said with a bitter edge to his voice. “Didn’t you hear? She left everything to that Migration Alliance dude.”
“I heard.”
“Even the frickin’house.”
She hadn’t realized that Owens got the property, too. That didn’t seem fair. And it didn’t seem like something Esther would do. “Who told you Owens got everything?”
“Bernie Crandall. He said he was convinced I killed her, except he was having trouble finding a motive.”
“Maybe there’s been a mistake.”
“Hah. Fat chance.” Vic took another swig from the bottle.
“You can’t be sure of that. You two were living together like husband and wife. Maybe that makes you her common law husband?”
Vic’s head came up. “It might, huh?”
“Yeah.” Lark nodded, pleased that she might have found a solution to Vic’s problem. “If so, you’re entitled to some of the estate. If I were you, I’d check with Gil Arquette.”
“I’ll do just that,” said Vic, scraping back his chair and staggering to his feet.
“Later,” ordered Lark, pushing him back down on the seat. “Right now, you’re going to eat something. And give me that.” She took the bottle away from him and, against his protests, poured the contents down the sink.
Two eggs, some bacon, and several stiff cups of coffee restored Vic to some semblance of the man Lark knew. After she explained what she was looking for, he pointed her to a rolltop desk in the living room.
“How about I take a look while you go shower?” she suggested, clearing the dishes to the sink. “Then we can talk about what we’re doing on Saturday.”
A shadow crossed his face at the thought. “I can’t let go.”
Feeling helpless, Lark patted his shoulder. “We’ll work on it together.”
She waited until he’d disappeared into the bedroom before rolling up the desk’s top and rifling the contents of Esther’s desk. The sight might have been more than he could handle.
The pigeonholes were full of treasures: old fountain pens, wax and wax stamps, tissue writing paper. In one cubbyhole on the right, she found a stack of letters. Most of the postmarks were old, dated from the 1920s, and showed Paris Mills’address on the return. One or two were more recent.
Curiosity prompted Lark to open one postmarked two years ago from Mexico. It read:
My dearest Esther ,
Though it’s been only one day since you’ve been gone, in my heart it feels like months, years, an eternity. Knowing we may never be together again makes it all the harder .
Katherine returns today…
Katherine? Lark flipped to the last page and looked for the signature.
Yours forever and ever, Paul
Paul Owens. It had to be. The stamp was Mexican, and the postmark read San Cristóbal de las Casas. That was one of the places Esther bought coffee in Chiapas.
Esther Mills had been having an affair with Paul Owens. So that’s what he had been covering up. Lark wondered if Vic knew. Esther was the love of his life. If he had discovered she carried a torch for another man, might he have been jealous enough to kill her? More likely, he’d have killed Owens.
And what about Katherine? Even though she and Paul weren’t married, she seemed very possessive of her partner.
The sound of the closet door clicking into place prompted Lark to put the letter back in its envelope. But instead of sticking it back into its pigeonhole, she crammed it into her pocket
“Find what you were looking for?”
Lark glanced up. Vic stood in the doorway, shaved and wearing clean clothes. His eyes looked tired but alert. “Not yet,” she said.
“What are these?” He walked over and reached toward the letters. Lark held up a hand, but he plucked a stack of three-by-five cards from the next pigeonhole.
Lark’s heart pounded as she flipped through the stack. “Blank index cards.” She
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