Page 31 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“It’s not your fault,” Cissy assured her.

“What am I going to do?” Deborah asked, and Cissy spent another twenty minutes consoling her. Deborah flat-out asked about the terms of her employment now, and Cissy really didn’t know what to say. Eugenia was gone, and there was no need for her. As gently as possible, Cissy pointed out the obvious, saying that she would be paid through the end of the month.

After she hung up, she decided to call Lars, the chauffeur; Elsa, the cook; the maids; and the groundskeeper. They deserved to hear what had happened from her, and she wanted to assure them that she appreciated their loyalty. In that moment she determined they could stay on staff and be paid for another two months, and that they would be given excellent recommendations if it was decided that they were no longer needed at the house.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she caught herself up. Was it even up to her to make these decisions?

She decided that, yes, it was. Someone needed to talk to the Cahill employees. Someone needed to keep some semblance of order.

Thanks, Gran, she thought, feeling a mixture of pain and frustration. Cissy wasn’t that crazy about Lars, and though Elsa and Rosa were both sweeties, Paloma was hard to read. Still, she needed to deal with each of them.

Her shower would have to wait.

Chapter 7

“So what do we know about what happened to Eugenia Cahill?” Paterno asked the next morning as Janet Quinn, ever efficient, dropped a cup of black coffee onto the corner of his desk while she sipped from a similar cup that held all kinds of goop. Milk, sugar, caramel, foam, everything but coffee.

“Not much,” she said. “There was no sign of forced entry on any of the doors or windows, though one window, near the back stairs leading to the basement, was open just a fraction, probably to air out the old staircase, but we couldn’t find prints beneath it, and it’s pretty high, five feet off the ground. There was a stepladder in an outbuilding, but it looks like it hasn’t been moved in months, cobwebs all over it. The electronic locks on the garage and main gate were working.”

“Someone could have known the code. All the servants have to have a way to get inside. Same with friends and workmen. I’ll check. What else?”

“Phone records have been requested. Autopsy’s scheduled in a couple of days, and the lab will be working on her tox screens, to see what’s in her blood.” She took a sip and then had to lick a little foam from her lip. If another woman had taken the same action, it would have been sexy. With Quinn, it barely registered in the male side of his brain. “Nothing seems to be missing. She had jewelry in a box in her bathroom, looks like the real thing—diamonds, rubies, you name it—and we found the safe, had it opened. More jewelry, a little cash, and I did come across a couple of insurance policies and her will.”

Paterno looked up, interested, as a phone in the department started ringing and a fax machine began sputtering out pages just around the corner.

“A little money thrown at charities here and there and to loyal members of her staff, but the inheritance falls to three: Cissy Cahill Holt, her brother, and uncle.”

“Who are still in Oregon. Never left. I checked. So far, I think the last person to see Eugenia alive was Deborah Kropft, who usually has Sundays off but stopped by to take Eugenia to church services. She walked Mrs. Cahill into the house, offered to fix her something to eat, but Eugenia had said she was fine. Deborah claims she left her very much alive in the living room.” Paterno leaned back in his chair and sipped some of the hot coffee.

“You think she’s lying?”

Paterno shrugged. “I think we should interview her in person.”

Quinn was nodding. “I don’t like changes in any routine. Why did she call Deborah?”

“They both go to the same Methodist church, and Eugenia usually rides with her friend, a widow, Marcia Mantello, but Marcia was ill. I’m checking it out.” He took another swallow of his coffee. Despite what he said, he didn’t like the change in Eugenia’s routine either.

“So what about the insurance policies?”

“Originally the beneficiaries were split between the same three—Cissy, her brother, her uncle—but eighteen months ago, about the time Cissy had the baby, Eugenia changed the beneficiaries. Only Cissy and her child are listed. Cissy for a million, her child for two.”

“Millions? The old lady had that much life insurance?” Paterno asked, whistling through his teeth.

“Yeah, it looks like she took the policies out about ten years ago.”

“Oh.” Paterno picked up a yellowed file on Marla Cahill, flipped it open, and found his notes. “Let’s see…Yeah, now I get it. There was a time when Cahill International was in financial trouble. I didn’t think the old lady knew about it, but it could be that she’s smarter than we all gave her credit for. She might have figured that if she kicked off, everything the family owned would be gone.” He scowled, studying his own chicken scratchings. “That’s probably it. She was the matriarch of the family, felt responsible.”

“And then, when the company turned around and Cissy gave her this new great-grandson, she changed the policies.”

“I wonder if Mrs. Holt knows?” Paterno said.

“Doesn’t matter. The estate is worth so much that if she were greedy and needed money, she’d inherit a fortune without the insurance benefits.”

Paterno drummed his fingers on the cluttered desk. He didn’t figure Cissy for a killer. He’d already talked to a couple of members of the staff. Deborah Kropft and Elsa Johanssen, who both had solid alibis, told the same story of familial devotion, of Cissy Holt visiting her grandmother like clockwork on Sundays. He glanced at the list of names Cissy had given him and frowned. He hadn’t been able to get through to the chauffeur or either of the maids.

And there was still the matter of Marla Cahill, he thought, spying her mug shot in the folder. A cold-hearted bitch if there ever was one, but beautiful and bewitching as well, a woman who had a history of twisting men around her little finger. There had been sightings reported, to the state police, to the FBI, and to the station. None of the “leads” had led authorities to anyone resembling Marla Amhurst Cahill.

He scratched at his chin while another detective dragged a reluctant suspect or witness toward an interrogation room. The man was protesting all over the place.

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