Suicide King (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) by Shelley Singer Page B

voice, shoving the door wide open, hard, so it banged against the wall.
    A guy in overalls with the hotel’s name embroidered on the pocket stepped out of the bathroom.
    “Plumber, Mr. Samson.” I guessed that was probably true. “I’ve already found the problem.” He walked back into the bathroom and I followed him. He pointed at the edge of the tub, where, draped and dripping, hung my missing half-sock. “Now how do you suppose that got stuffed down the tub drain?” he wanted to know.
    I told him I had no idea.

– 17 –
    BY the time my plane left Wednesday afternoon I’d put in another full day’s work, headache and all.
    I got up at seven-thirty, had breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, and called Marietta Richmond, since I’d promised I would talk to her again before I left. I was told by whoever answered the phone that she was not available, by which I assumed he meant she was still lolling around in her bed. Was it Victorian? Directoire? Possibly Greco-Roman?
    Then I dialed the office number of the cousin who was the CEO of Richmond Mills. I had to go through two watchdogs before I got to the inner office. I would have had a nicer morning if they hadn’t put me through.
    “Francis Richmond here,” a deep, authoritative voice said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Samson?”
    I explained once again that I was investigating Joe Richmond’s death and was looking for any information I could get from the people who knew him best. I asked if I could stop by the office and talk to him for half an hour or so.
    “No, I don’t think so. I’m very busy today, and I don’t think there’s anything I could tell you. I’ve hardly spoken to the man in three years. I’m sorry if he killed himself. I’m sorry if someone killed him. But I couldn’t begin to even guess what might have happened.”
    “Three years? I guess he wasn’t still running your L.A. office, then?”
    Curtly: “He lost interest.”
    “I don’t believe you were at the funeral, were you?” I asked. “I don’t remember anyone pointing you out to me.”
    “No, Mr. Samson, I was not.”
    “Sounds like there was a problem between you and your cousin.”
    “There was. He was out to hamstring industry, and he was doing it with money that came from our mill. I didn’t like his politics and I thought he’d turned into a self-righteous prig. Anything else? I’ve got a meeting in two minutes.”
    “Yes. Where were you July 11?”
    The man laughed. “At a conference in Chicago. I’ll transfer you back to my administrative assistant. She can give you the particulars. Goodbye, Mr. Samson.”
    So that was cousin number one.
    I had just gotten off the phone when I got a call from Marietta. She laughed when I gave her a quick rundown of cousin Francis’s thoughts.
    “He always was a bastard. But a good executive. I don’t think he would have killed my son. He wouldn’t take the time. Did you want to talk to any more relatives?”
    “Not very much. But if I have time…”
    She gave me the names and numbers of some people she thought might still have kept in contact with her son. Then she promised to keep in touch. I said I hoped she’d stay out of the investigation. Again, she laughed. She had been right. Now that the funeral was over, she was feeling better.
    I had a couple of hours before my lunch appointment with Richmond’s local political buddy, so I called the numbers she’d given me. Two more cousins and a nephew. One of the cousins cried a lot and talked about what a sweet little boy Joe Richmond had been. The nephew admitted he was “politically disappointed” by his uncle’s death. I didn’t know whether that meant he wanted someone of Joe’s beliefs to have political clout or that he wanted some patronage to fall his way when it started being tossed around. The other cousin insisted on seeing me. On the chance that she might actually have something to say, I let myself be dragged out to her upper-middle-class suburb— she