head. “No.”
He gave me a look of mock horror. “You mean your source couldn’t enlighten you? I’m shocked.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to mention what I’d read in Nick Atkins’s journal—that Lola had found something out, something her husband would “kill her” over—but I knew it would raise even more questions I didn’t want to answer. I bit my tongue, sank back in my chair.
“I just think the witnesses should have been more rigorously cross-examined,” I said.
“Ah—and just why is that? Do you think their stories would break down? Differ greatly?”
“Possibly,” I shot back. “Since I don’t know exactly what their stories were, it’s not a question I can answer.”
“Their accounts, if you will, were essentially all the same. They all retired long before the incident, and since they’d been drinking a good deal, all fell asleep almost instantly. The only two who remained awake were Mr. Grainger and Shelly Lott, the boat captain. They looked for Mrs. Grainger and placed the call to the Coast Guard. Both their accounts were consistent, down to each detail.”
“I don’t know about you, but I find that rather odd in itself. I mean, when stories are too consistent, the word
rehearsed
immediately pops to my mind.”
“I’m not certain what you mean. There wouldn’t have been enough time between the other occupants waking up and the finding of the body to rehearse too much.”
I crossed my legs at the ankles and slouched back in my chair. “Believe me, if someone wants something rehearsed, they find the time. I saw plenty of that in Chicago.”
“I’m sure you did.” He paused in his pencil tapping. The odd look was back in his eyes again. “So it’s your opinion there was some sort of cover-up regarding Mrs. Grainger’s death?”
I held up my hand. “I wouldn’t presume to make that judgment, not without more facts. All I’m saying is a little more effort could have gone into questioning the sus—the other people on the yacht.”
The intercom buzzed just then. Corleone murmured, “Excuse me,” and then pressed the button. “Yes, Margaret?”
“The captain is on line one for you. Shall I transfer him?”
“Yes. Give me a minute, please.” He disconnected, and glanced at me. “I’m sorry. I have to take this call.”
“Of course.” I picked up my notepad, stuffed it back in my purse, and rose. “Thank you for your time,” I murmured, hoping my jaw wasn’t clenching too badly. I was having a hard time concealing my disappointment.
“Wait.” He held up one finger. “I’d like to continue this discussion with you, if I may.”
That surprised me, since his demeanor had indicated he thought me either incredibly nosy or one step away from a fruitcake. “You would?”
He nodded. “You make some interesting points. I think they may bear some further investigation.”
“You mean you’d be willing to recommend the case be reopened?”
“I don’t know if we can go that far,” he said. “But I agree—certain aspects could have been handled better. I’d like to ask you to postpone publishing anything on this in your magazine until we talk further. Will you agree to that?”
“Why, of course.” That was pretty easy, considering I’d never really intended to do a story—yet anyway. “That seems only fair.”
“Good.” His phone rang. “I’ll call you. And remember—don’t discuss this with anyone. Do I have your word?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
He picked up the phone, and I felt as if I’d been summarily dismissed. His interest seemed vague at best, and I’ve never held much stock in words without action.
I’ll call you
sounded pretty indefinite to me—like something you’d say to appease someone you were afraid might turn into a troublemaking pest.
In the doorway I paused. Something else bothered me about Daniel Corleone—and not just the way his jacket molded to his upper torso like a second skin. Something was off, but I
He gave me a look of mock horror. “You mean your source couldn’t enlighten you? I’m shocked.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to mention what I’d read in Nick Atkins’s journal—that Lola had found something out, something her husband would “kill her” over—but I knew it would raise even more questions I didn’t want to answer. I bit my tongue, sank back in my chair.
“I just think the witnesses should have been more rigorously cross-examined,” I said.
“Ah—and just why is that? Do you think their stories would break down? Differ greatly?”
“Possibly,” I shot back. “Since I don’t know exactly what their stories were, it’s not a question I can answer.”
“Their accounts, if you will, were essentially all the same. They all retired long before the incident, and since they’d been drinking a good deal, all fell asleep almost instantly. The only two who remained awake were Mr. Grainger and Shelly Lott, the boat captain. They looked for Mrs. Grainger and placed the call to the Coast Guard. Both their accounts were consistent, down to each detail.”
“I don’t know about you, but I find that rather odd in itself. I mean, when stories are too consistent, the word
rehearsed
immediately pops to my mind.”
“I’m not certain what you mean. There wouldn’t have been enough time between the other occupants waking up and the finding of the body to rehearse too much.”
I crossed my legs at the ankles and slouched back in my chair. “Believe me, if someone wants something rehearsed, they find the time. I saw plenty of that in Chicago.”
“I’m sure you did.” He paused in his pencil tapping. The odd look was back in his eyes again. “So it’s your opinion there was some sort of cover-up regarding Mrs. Grainger’s death?”
I held up my hand. “I wouldn’t presume to make that judgment, not without more facts. All I’m saying is a little more effort could have gone into questioning the sus—the other people on the yacht.”
The intercom buzzed just then. Corleone murmured, “Excuse me,” and then pressed the button. “Yes, Margaret?”
“The captain is on line one for you. Shall I transfer him?”
“Yes. Give me a minute, please.” He disconnected, and glanced at me. “I’m sorry. I have to take this call.”
“Of course.” I picked up my notepad, stuffed it back in my purse, and rose. “Thank you for your time,” I murmured, hoping my jaw wasn’t clenching too badly. I was having a hard time concealing my disappointment.
“Wait.” He held up one finger. “I’d like to continue this discussion with you, if I may.”
That surprised me, since his demeanor had indicated he thought me either incredibly nosy or one step away from a fruitcake. “You would?”
He nodded. “You make some interesting points. I think they may bear some further investigation.”
“You mean you’d be willing to recommend the case be reopened?”
“I don’t know if we can go that far,” he said. “But I agree—certain aspects could have been handled better. I’d like to ask you to postpone publishing anything on this in your magazine until we talk further. Will you agree to that?”
“Why, of course.” That was pretty easy, considering I’d never really intended to do a story—yet anyway. “That seems only fair.”
“Good.” His phone rang. “I’ll call you. And remember—don’t discuss this with anyone. Do I have your word?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
He picked up the phone, and I felt as if I’d been summarily dismissed. His interest seemed vague at best, and I’ve never held much stock in words without action.
I’ll call you
sounded pretty indefinite to me—like something you’d say to appease someone you were afraid might turn into a troublemaking pest.
In the doorway I paused. Something else bothered me about Daniel Corleone—and not just the way his jacket molded to his upper torso like a second skin. Something was off, but I
Similar Books
