Page 26 of What Happens in Paradise
“I put my son Cash on a plane to St. Thomas this morning,” Irene says. “He’ll arrive at the house in St. John sometime tonight.”
Beckett nods. “They should be finished with the search by then.”
“But if they’re not?”
“They’ll let him know and he can make other arrangements.”
Huck, Irene thinks. Maybe he can stay with Huck for a night or two. Which is a crazy thought. Huck isn’t family; he’s merely a sort of friend.
“I guess I’m confused about what you’re after. Is this part of the investigation about the helicopter?”
“Possibly related,” Beckett says. “Do you know a man named Todd Croft?”
“Russ’s boss,” Irene says. “I met him once, December 2005, in the lobby of the Drake Hotel in Chicago. That was right before he offered Russ the job at Ascension. They knew each other at Northwestern. Or at least, that’s what Russ said.”
“Do you have contact information for Mr. Croft?” Beckett asks.
“I don’t. Mr. Croft’s secretary, Marilyn Monroe, called here on the night of January first to tell me Russ had died. I’ve tried calling her back since then but that number has been disconnected and the Ascension website is down.”
Beckett says, “Your husband made quite a good living, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Irene says. “After he took the job with Ascension.”
“This house must have been expensive to renovate.”
“It was.”
“And how did you think your husband was earning so much money?”
“He worked at a hedge fund,” Irene says. “And I thought that provided a good salary. I didn’t know about St. John. I didn’t know about the other house…”
“You went down there recently, though? After he died?”
“Yes. That was my first time. We went for a week and returned home last Friday. My mother-in-law, Russ’s mother, was failing. Now she’s passed away so I have that to deal with.”
“I’m sorry,” Beckett says. He looks at her again, this time more sympathetically.
“Would you like some tea, Agent Beckett?”
“No, but thank you.”
“I’d like some tea,” Irene says. “Is it all right if we go into the kitchen so I can make some? I mean, I’m free to move around the house, right?”
“Just stay where we can see you,” Agent Beckett says. He rests his hands on his thighs and pushes himself to a stand. “Actually, some tea might warm me up.”
Irene makes a pot of Lady Grey, and while she’s at it, she prepares a tray of sandwiches and rinses two bunches of grapes. Agent Beckett accepts a ham and cheese and a cup of tea. An agent who looks like Tom Selleck pops into the kitchen to report that they have found nothing.
“Did you remove or destroy any of your husband’s papers or personal belongings after he died?” Beckett asks.
“I did not,” Irene says. “I searched through both this house and the house on St. John, looking for clues.”
“Clues?”
“What he was into,” Irene says. “Certainly, Agent Beckett, you realize that I think all this is suspicious as well. My husband was killed in a place I didn’t know he was visiting, then I found out he lived there. He owned property there. I was looking for answers.”
“What did you find?”
A mistress, Irene thinks. A love child. “Nothing,” she says.
