Page 626 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

“ALL THE RIVERS RUN INTO THE SEA; YET THE SEA IS NOT FULL;UNTO THE PLACE FROM WHENCE THE RIVERS COME, THITHER THEY RETURN AGAIN.”—ECCLESIASTES 1:7

It took Sydney a good four and a half hours to get from the sawmill to Mrs. Crawford’s house. She’d left work at 10:30 to give herself plenty of time. Sean had stopped her on her way out the door and asked where she was going. She was still upset about the kiln ordeal and told him in no uncertain terms that it was none of his business.

“I don’t work on an hourly basis. You and I both know I can come and go as I please.”

“Take it easy, Syd. I was just wondering if you wanted to go jogging with me this afternoon.”

How could he stand there and act like none of the events from the day before had taken place? “No thanks. I have an appointment.”

Sydney reachedfor her directions as she turned into the driveway. She compared the number on the mailbox to the one on her paper: 315 Preston Way. She was at the right place. The directions she’d gotten on the Internet had led her straight herewithout any difficulty. Her eyes took in the stately Tudor home with its carpeted lawn and majestic oak trees. The front bushes, shaped in perfect squares, looked like they’d been given a severe haircut. She walked up the brick path leading to the door. The sound of her high heels clicking on the bricks reminded her of Judith, and she wondered what her aunt would think about her decision to investigate Avery’s death—not too highly of it, she would imagine.

She stopped and took a deep breath before straightening her tan skirt. She had chosen her attire, a skirt and matching soft beige blouse, in the hope that the tailored lines and subtle colors would give her an air of sophistication. Her hair was pinned up in a neat bun, making her look older than twenty-six. She summoned the courage to ring the doorbell and smoothed down her hair.

A woman opened the door.

“Mrs. Crawford?”

“No, I’m the housekeeper.” She motioned. “Come this way.”

When Sydney entered the foyer, her love for wood drew her attention to the detailed parquet floors. A portrait of a man dressed in a suit hung on one wall, and Sydney guessed it might be the face of a young Judge Crawford staring back at her. She followed the woman down a hall where tasteful rugs and antique furniture pieces were expertly positioned. The housekeeper stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. Sydney’s knees went weak when she heard the commanding voice answer from within.

The first thing she saw was an older woman sitting in front of a large bay window. One afghan covered her knees and another wrapped around her shoulders. A book rested on her lap.

Mrs. Crawford was an imposing figure with her silver hair and black eyes. Even though she was sitting down, Sydney could tell that her height was an even match for her big-boned frame.She removed her reading glasses and put her book on a nearby table. As the two eyed each other, Sydney felt that the older woman was stripping her bare.

“Have a seat,” Mrs. Crawford said. It was more of a command than a suggestion.

“I appreciate your seeing me. As I told you on the phone, I believe there’s a connection between the death of your husband and my father.”

“Go on.”

Sydney pulled the newspaper articles from her bag and handed them to Mrs. Crawford. She reached for her glasses and began examining the articles.

“My father’s name was Avery McClain. Does that name sound familiar to you?”

Mrs. Crawford looked thoughtful then shook her head. “No.”

Sydney rushed on. “My father, Avery, kept a journal. He recorded that he had an appointment with Henry on March 25th.”

Until now, Mrs. Crawford had been looking over the articles while Sydney was speaking. Those black eyes looked up, and Sydney detected a hint of frustration in them. “WasHenrythe only name your father wrote? Wasn’t there a last name?”

Sydney’s pulse jumped up a notch. She’d anticipated this question. “I know this probably sounds strange to you, but I feel sure that it was your husband that my father had intended to meet. I just learned of my father’s journal a short while ago. Otherwise I would’ve contacted you sooner.”

Mrs. Crawford’s face was unreadable. She seemed to be weighing Sydney’s words. “What else makes you think there was a connection between Henry’s death and your father?”

Sydney told her about the sawmill and how she thought Avery had stumbled upon some sort of illegal activity. The woman looked unconvinced. “Stoney Creek and Glendale areneighboring towns. Two men died in an explosion on the same day. And Avery had an appointment with—well, I believe with your husband on that same evening they both were killed. Don’t you find any of this odd?”

Mrs. Crawford’s eyes grew distant. “Henry and I had a rocky relationship. We were trying to patch things up.” Her voice became husky. “He called me just before he left the office that evening to cancel our dinner reservation. I could tell he was anxious to get off the phone, and this made me angry. He said he had to get to an appointment.”

Déjà vu hit Sydney. Avery said almost those exact words.

“Henry seemed almost feverish with excitement. He said he thought it might be the big break he’d been looking for.”

“I don’t understand. Your husband was a judge, not a detective.”

“I didn’t understand it myself. Henry was a maverick of a sort who thought it was his duty to expose corruption on any score. He was always delving into things—things that he had no business being in.” She shook her head and looked directly at Sydney. “I’ve always thought that’s what got him killed.”

Sydney leaned forward in her chair. “Did he tell you who he was meeting?”

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