Chapter Two
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind,
The thief doth fear each bush an officer.
Henry VI, Part V, vi, ii, William Shakespeare
Jim West entered the office building on Montgomery Street at midmorning, consulted a directory on the wall of the lobby, then took the elevator to the third floor. He knew that this was not the same building in which the murder of Abel Moffitt had been committed. Lloyd Morris had been able to tell him that shortly after assuming full control of the business, Irving Condit had not only moved to a newer, more swanky address, he had also married.
Gilt letters on a frosted door window proclaimed the location of the firm of Condit Real Estate, Inc., Irving Condit, President. Jim opened the door and stepped into a well-appointed anteroom, staffed by a bespectacled young man at a desk who looked up with an anticipatory smile.
"Good morning, sir. Looking to make a purchase in real estate?"
"Not exactly. My names is James West. I want to talk to Mr. Condit."
The beaming welcome faded. "What is your business with Mr. Condit?"
"That's between Mr. Condit and me. Is he in?"
The glance toward the door behind him revealed the truth as the secretary said, "No, he's away on business."
"Thank you," Jim murmured, pushing through the swinging gate in the polished wooden rail that separated the secretary's area from the chairs where visitors would wait.
"Wait a minute—!"
Jim shrugged off the hand that grasped at his sleeve and entered the inner office. Irving Condit looked up in surprise behind the broad polished desk. His office was even more impressive than the anteroom. Successful indeed.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Condit," the secretary groveled. "He forced his way in…"
Jim reached inside his jacket to pull out the folder with his identification, extending it toward Condit. "My name is James West. I'm an agent of the federal government, investigating the murder of prosecuting attorney Alexander Byram."
Irving Condit stared at the identification, looked at Jim, glanced at his hovering secretary, back at the card in the folder, and finally back to Jim West. "What do you want with me? I don't know anything about that." He waved a hand and the secretary scooted out, closing the door.
Condit was a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, an impressive mustache, and a girth that suggested he enjoyed food. When he stood up behind the desk, he proved to be rather short in height.
Uninvited, Jim moved a leather-upholstered chair closer to Condit's desk and sat down. "Mr. Condit, in the past few years, several unsolved murders have occurred in San Francisco. One of them was that of your partner, Abel Moffitt."
Condit sank back into his chair. "I don't understand. You said you were investigating the murder of Byram. That has nothing to do with Abel's death."
"That remains to be seen," Jim replied smoothly. He noticed how Condit's hands were fidgeting on the desktop, picking up a pencil, putting it down, moving a sheet of paper, picking up the pencil again. "I am most interested in a man who was working for Mr. Moffitt at his home at the time of the murder, one Theo Gaskin."
"Never heard of him." The response was swift, and Condit's expression revealed he belatedly realized that he had spoken too quickly. He cleared his throat. "Wait. I think I recall the police asking me about such a fellow. I'd never met him. Never. He worked for Abel at his home."
"Then you haven't seen Gaskin since the death of your partner."
"I just told you, I never met him." Condit pulled a handkerchief from inside his coat and wiped his hands on it.
"Did you know Gerald Kingston?"
Condit's mouth open, then closed. He had been about to voice a denial. Instead he cleared his throat. "I believe I may have met him at some social event."
"You once engaged in speculation. I understand that Kingston was also a speculator."
Condit laughed nervously. "Out of my league, I'm afraid. And as you are undoubtedly aware, much more successful that I was."
Jim remained silent a long moment, gazing at the man across the desk. Condit cleared his throat again, picked up the pencil and moved it to the other side of the desk, gazed above Jim's head toward the closed door. Finally Jim spoke in a casual tone.
"In a sense, one could say that your partner's death came at a fortuitous time for you."
"I was in Reno when Abel was murdered!"
Again Jim held his tongue for several seconds, keeping his gaze steady on Condit's face. The handkerchief wiped at the realtor's mouth, then forehead. "You were in Reno on business?" Jim finally inquired mildly.
"Yes. Yes. Looking at some property." Condit chuckled uneasily. "Turned out to be worthless."
"But you had witnesses to your presence there."
"Yes! Several! The police have their names and statements. Why are you asking all this now?"
"As I mentioned," Jim replied calmly, quite aware that the more serene he remained, the more nervous Condit was going to become, "the government is continuing the investigation of the unsolved murder of federal attorney Alexander Byram, with the cooperation of the San Francisco police. We are attempting to determine whether there is any connection among several unsolved murders."
"I don't understand," Condit protested. "I remember Byram's death. He was shot down on the street! My partner was killed in a robbery, and… er… I believe Kingston was murdered in his office. Uh… stabbed?"
Jim did not correct him. He was certain Irving Condit knew that Gerald Kingston had also been shot to death. "Still, we have found certain similarities. Enough that I decided to talk to you, and I appreciate your taking your valuable time to allow me to ask a few questions."
"Uh, yes. Of course. I'm very anxious to have Abel's murder solved. Very anxious."
Before Jim could say anything further, the office's door opened. When he looked around to see the woman who entered, he came to his feet, as did Condit, who was demonstrably relieved that the interruption occurred. The woman was young, middle twenties, with blonde hair stylishly coifed under an equally stylish chapeau, her garb perfectly fitting her well-endowed shape. Big brown eyes touched briefly on the man behind the desk, but then swept over the visitor with open approval.
"Lydia, dear!" Condit gushed. "I didn't expect to see you in the city today."
"I need some shopping money," the young woman said, again barely glancing his way. "Introduce me to your guest, Irving."
Condit cleared his throat. "This is Mr. James West, dear. He's an agent of the government. Mr. West, my wife."
Jim nodded, smiling as he met the woman's openly admiring gaze. "My pleasure, Mrs. Condit."
"The pleasure is all mine," she simpered, extending a gloved hand. Jim took the hand, his smile remaining, warm gaze meet hers. She was not exactly the type of woman he preferred. Besides being married, her obvious interest in money and material things was overt. He knew, nonetheless, the value of keeping the interest alive. "Are you in town on business, Mr. West?"
Jim released the hand with obvious reluctance. "I'm afraid so. Among other things, I'm investigating the death of Abel Moffitt."
"Oh dear!" The brown eyes widened. "That was such a tragedy. Of course I was not married to Mr. Condit at the time, but I know all about it. Such a tragedy! If I can help you in any way, Mr. West, any way at all, please feel free to call on me… at home. I'm nearly always there while Mr. Condit is here toiling away." The eyelashes fluttered, the coy smile returned.
Jim did not need to look at Irving Condit to be aware the man was seething. "Thank you, Mrs. Condit. That's very kind. I may take you up on your generous offer."
"Here!" Condit came around the desk. "Here, Lydia. Here's the money you need." He had his wallet out, and handed her a wad of bills. He had welcomed her arrival, but now wanted to shoo her away and out of the presence of the younger man.
"Oh, gracious, Irving, dear. Thank you. He's such a kind and generous husband, Mr. West." Lydia tucked the money into her reticule. "He's always here working so hard so that I can have the little pleasures in life. Sometimes I feel so guilty!"
"I'm sure your husband only wants you to be happy," Jim smiled. He had received numerous "invitations" in his life, but few so blatant, and even fewer in the presence of the husband.
Irving Condit ushered his wife out the door, and when he returned, he was perspiring even more heavily, although perhaps for a different reason. Jim had not been surprised to realize that Condit's bride was probably half her husband's age. Condit would have to work very hard to keep his wife happy, earning enough to support her spending habits.
"Lovely lady," Jim commented as they sat down again. "You're a lucky man."
Condit cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes, indeed. Mr. West, I have a great deal to do here. If you don't have any further questions…"
Jim got to his feet, extending his hand across the desk. "Thank you again for your time, Mr. Condit. You've been most helpful. Probably more than you know."
Whatever color that had remained in Condit's complexion washed from his face as he obviously tried to remember what he had said that could be so "helpful." With a nod, Jim left the office and took the elevator down. Leaving the building he crossed the street to a small restaurant where, fortunately, a table near the window was available. Ordering coffee, he waited and watched. About ten minutes later Condit's male secretary hurried through the front door and walked swiftly up the street. He had a white envelope in his hand.
Jim threw some coins on the table and exited the restaurant, stopping just inside the alley next door to watch the secretary enter a doorway a block away. Less than a minute later, the bespectacled man emerged and headed back toward the building of his employment. Jim remained where he was, watching the doorway the secretary had used. Within minutes, a man emerged, stuffing a white envelope into his jacket pocket. The man started walking in the opposite direction the secretary had taken.
Jim West followed at a distance. Seeing his quarry turn a corner, he quickened his own steps, then cursed silently when he also reached that corner to find the man had vanished. He could have entered any number of doorways, or could be on the streetcar that was rolling down the hill. Perhaps he was in one of the two hacks Jim saw traveling down the street as well.
Retracing his steps, Jim paused at the doorway where the secretary had entered and the man afterwards emerged. A sign on the front listed the offices of dentists, lawyers, doctors, and sundry other professions. Jim stepped inside and walked down a narrow hallway, noticing the signs on the closed doors.
Nothing he saw prompted him to stop and enter any door. He could not spare the time right now to investigate every office, especially because that man who took the envelope could have simply been waiting here in the hall, though for what reason Jim could not hazard a guess. No one except Artemus knew he was going to be visiting Condit this morning. Plus the chance remained that the envelope may have had nothing to do with the situation he was investigating, though Jim would have put money on it being involved. Perhaps Lloyd would have information on the tenants of this building.
Returning to his hotel, Jim found a message waiting for him from Mrs. Kingston, agreeing to a meeting and suggesting he come to her home at mid afternoon. After asking the desk clerk to arrange for the stableman to have his black stallion saddled by two p.m., Jim hailed a hack to take him to the hospital. He found his partner looking and feeling better. Icepacks on his face had taken the swelling down and reduced the discoloration.
"But the doctor says I have to stay another couple of days," Artemus groused.
Jim nodded. "Listen to the doctor, Artemus. Remember you have a cracked rib under all those bruises."
"Yes, papa," Artie muttered. He knew better than to even hint to Jim that he was planning to abscond from the hospital well before being officially discharged. Once out on the street, displaying his fitness, no one could send him back. "Now tell me what's going on."
"I visited the surviving partner of Abel Moffitt… and made him very, very nervous."
"That right?"
"He was sweating buckets."
"As though he had a guilty conscience, huh?"
"That's the impression I got."
Artie rubbed his chin, winced slightly as he touched a still sore spot. Though the livid coloration was going away, the tenderness was lingering. "So, I presume you are thinking that he arranged for the death of his partner."
"You're reading my mind."
"I'm good at that. Especially when you're so transparent."
"Thanks. When I left the office, I hung around a few minutes. Condit's secretary—a man, by the way—left the building, carrying an envelope. He went into a doorway a block or so away, was inside for a very short time before he came out and went back to work. After another couple minutes I saw a man with what looked like that envelope come out. I lost him about two blocks down."
"Could be just office business."
"Could be. Or he could be sending a message to… someone."
"If that's the case, you could make that 'someone' nervous."
"I hope so."
Artemus knew better than to voice a protest. Jim West thrived on putting himself in peril. "Anything else of note?"
"Irving Condit has a young, beautiful wife who likes to spend money… and flirt."
"Figures."
"I have a personal invitation to visit her, when her husband isn't home."
Artie's dark brows lifted. "She said that in her husband's presence?" Jim just grinned. "What about the poor Kingston widow?"
"I'm going to see her this afternoon. My primary hope where she is concerned is that she might be able to provide more information on friend Theo. I forgot to tell you about Lloyd's cousin Wade."
"Oh? Family reunion time?"
Succinctly, Jim related what the Sacramento policeman had told him. "Artie, I've got to believe that Gaskin was some kind of front man, a scout so to speak. Maybe provided information on the intended victim's habits and movements."
"Makes sense. But why was he banished from San Francisco if he was so valuable?"
"Lloyd is contacting other law enforcement agencies in the state to not only find out if Gaskin was involved in a murder in their area, and also trying to find out where he is now."
"No word from Mrs. Byram yet?"
"No. Knowing whether Gaskin was involved in Byram's death is a little less important now."
"Except as a reason for Richmond to allow us… you… to continue on the case."
"There is that, yes." Jim got to his feet. "I'm going to get myself some lunch, go change clothes, and head out to Daly City and the old widow."
"Well, good luck. I hope she has something interesting to tell you… something that she didn't tell the police. By the way Jim, the copies of my sketches of my newfound friends should be available by now. Or perhaps I should say Theo's friends. The colonel will have delivered them to the police to be distributed to the officers."
"Good. I'll get copies on my way to visit the widow. Don't be surprised if I don't get back to visit you again tonight, Artie. I don't know how long I'll be out there."
Artemus waved a forgiving hand. "I know. Don't worry. The prettiest nurses here are the night nurses. I won't be lonely."
Jim winked as he exited. Artemus Gordon heaved a great sigh, winced, laying his head back on the pillow. I hate this. I should be out there helping Jim with this investigation. I will be, soon, but even I know I probably need one more good night of rest. I'm sure I'll be able to get out of here tomorrow, regardless of what the doctor says. Or even Jim says. Jim shouldn't have to deal with flirtatious young wives and old widows all by himself!
W*W*W*W*W
Beauty is a terrible and awful thing!
It is terrible because it has not been fathomed,
For God sets us nothing but riddles.
The Brothers Karamazov [1879-1880], bk. III, ch. 3
— Fëdor Mikhailovich Dostoevski (1821-1881)
At first Jim had to control the sleek black horse with a firm hand. After several days in the stable behind the hotel, with his only exercise in the small corral, the stallion wanted to run. In the city, keeping a steady pace was important. Once they reached the outer edges of the city, heading south, Jim allowed his steed to vent its energy for a short distance, then pulled him back to a ground-eating lope. For one thing, he did not want to arrive at the Kingston home on a lathered horse, with himself being dusty. The old widow might not appreciate him bringing road dust into her fine parlor.
He had gotten directions to the Kingston estate from Lloyd Morris, who had visited there with the lead detective on the case at the time of the murder a year ago. Jim noticed a number of large homes with expansive, well landscaped yards, most of them behind wrought-iron or stone fences. He had also learned that Kingston purchased the property in this upscale neighborhood just three years ago, after a successful investment.
They had had no reason to disbelieve anything the widow told them at the time. Although the police delved into Kingston's financial dealings to some extent, they were hampered by the fact that few records existed. Mrs. Kingston had told the police that her husband kept figures in his head, wrote little down beyond his deposits and withdrawals from the bank where he kept his funds.
The Kingston estate was easy to spot. The gate was topped by an arc in which the words "Kingston Hall" were spelled out in wrought iron, with a crown at either end. Jim was not surprised to note an iron gate, but he was bemused to see the sentry waiting in a small guardhouse beside it. As he slowed his horse, a stocky man stepped out.
"My names is James West," Jim said quietly. "Mrs. Kingston is expecting me."
Wordless, the man went to the padlocked chain that secured the two sides of the gate, pulling a ring of keys from his belt. As he did so, Jim saw the shape of a holstered pistol under his heavy shirt. An armed guard. Was the old widow a nervous sort, perhaps now fearing that whoever killed her husband would come after her? Jim wished he had been able to talk to the detective who had been in charge of the Kingston case, but that man had taken ill and died a few months ago. Only his written reports, and the less exact memories of peripheral officers, like Morris, were available.
With a nod of thanks to the guard, Jim urged the black horse through the opened portal, up a stoned driveway toward the massive house. He did know that the Kingstons were childless. Just the two of them—with servants—in this huge building. And now the widow alone. He saw a turret on each of the four corners, gleaming windows and even stone gargoyles. The grounds were extensive, but did not seem to be well cared-for. Rose bushes were rambling over pathways. Trees, mostly oak and pine badly in need of trimming, had dropped leaves and needles, creating a covering that smothered most of what might have once been a lawn.
Jim dismounted and tied the black's reins to an enameled iron post that needed painting, and stepped up onto the broad porch, noticing how boards creaked under his boots. The exterior certainly needed some upkeep. Perhaps the old lady had lost interest after the death of her husband. At the double doors, he lifted and dropped the bronze doorknocker in the shape of a stag's head twice. After waiting what seemed like several minutes, he was about to knock again, when the door opened.
A man in smart butler's livery stood there. "Mr. West?"
Jim pulled off his hat. "Yes."
The butler stepped back to allow him to come inside. "Please wait here, sir. I'll tell Mrs. Kingston of your arrival." Closing the door, he took Jim's hat, hung it on a nearby hall tree, then walked swiftly down the hall, disappearing through a doorway.
Jim glanced around. The dilapidated state of the exterior did not carry over to the interior. The parquet floor of the entryway gleamed, a bowl of fresh flowers was on a well polished table nearby. The brass fittings of wall sconces were equally polished.
The butler reappeared at the doorway, and bowed slightly toward Jim, who strode toward him. The servant moved to one side, and James West thought he had never been so surprised—or stunned—in his life. As he entered the room, a lovely well furnished and tastefully decorated small parlor, a woman rose from a sofa.
This can't the widow! That thought rushed through his brain as he gazed upon perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. She was in her mid to late twenties, he thought, with stylishly coifed jet black hair and eyes that were somewhere between blue and lavender. She wore a dark gray gown trimmed in soft lace, suitable for a widow in the latter stages of mourning. But this can't be the widow!
She held out a slender, pale hand bedecked with an exquisite jade ring, the green stone carved to resemble a hibiscus. "Mr. West? Welcome to Kingston Hall. I am Beryl Kingston."
Jim West gathered his aplomb. He had never seen such perfect features, graced with a clear alabaster complexion that enhanced the dark hair and eyes. Lips were sensuous, but not too much so. He saw tiny diamonds in the lobes of perfectly shaped ears. Many an actress or dancer would die for a figure like Beryl Kingston's.
"How do you do, Mrs. Kingston. Please forgive this intrusion."
"Not at all," she smiled, and Jim saw her eyes sweep over him. He was accustomed to being admired by women, but somehow this was jarring. Different from the gaze he had received earlier today from Mrs. Condit. Beryl Kingston's appraisal was somehow… singular. Unusual. Yet he could not quite decide what he saw in the lavender eyes. Or were they blue? The light from the French windows that appeared to open onto an overgrown garden was not quite sufficient to determine their shade.
Mrs. Kingston waved him to a chair as she took her seat on the sofa again. "Can I offer you refreshment? Coffee? Tea? Brandy?"
"A glass of cold water first would be much appreciated. It was a long dusty ride. Then perhaps coffee if it's not too much trouble." He thought it would be a good idea to keep his senses clear during this visit.
She reached over to pull a cord, and the butler appeared almost instantly, leading Jim to believe he had been lingering outside the door. Mrs. Kingston instructed him to bring coffee, and a tumbler of water. Then she turned to Jim. "I understand from your note that you are a government agent, Mr. West, and that you are investigating my husband's murder. Can you tell me why a government man would become involved?" Her voice was silk and fog at the same time.
"We believe that your husband's death may be connected with the murder of a federal attorney."
"Oh! I remember reading about that incident in the newspaper sometime ago. But I recall that the police thought he was a victim of revenge."
"That was the original belief," Jim concurred, then paused as the butler appeared with a tray bearing a silver carafe, delicate cups, a plate of frosted cookies, and a wine goblet filled with water. The speed of the delivery also indicated it had been anticipated. Jim accepted the water, drank deeply, then took a cup of coffee, refusing the offer of cream and sugar, noticing that Mrs. Kingston added the supplements liberally.
"Go on, Mr. West," she said then. "What caused the police… and you… to change your minds about the attorney's death?"
"A number of things." Jim took a sip of the coffee and put the cup back on the saucer resting on the polished table beside his chair. "Do you know the name Theo Gaskin?"
If the question startled her in any manner, she gave no sign, only frowning slightly. "Yes… but I can't think of why. Who is he?"
Jim chose his words carefully. He did not entirely understand why, but he felt the need to be cautious. "He sometimes works as a handyman."
The incredible eyes widened, long dark lashes arcing toward the perfect brows. "Why, of course! He was employed on the grounds here around the time of my husband's… death."
"Who hired him?"
"Why… my husband of course. He attended to such things."
Was that the reason for the condition of the grounds? She had no interest in landscaping, but focused her attention on the beauty of the interior. "Do you remember what happened to Gaskin? Was he dismissed?"
Beryl Kingston shook her head slowly, her lovely mouth again forming a frown. "I'm afraid I have no idea. I can't even remember what he looked like. I knew the name because I heard it mentioned once or twice, perhaps when my husband was giving instructions to the head gardener about the care of the grounds."
"May I speak to the head gardener?"
She waved her hand, the green jade gleaming briefly. "I let him go ages ago. I just didn't have time, while settling my husband's affairs, to worry about the grounds." Now she laughed. "I'm sure you noticed."
"I did wonder."
Beryl Kingston sighed. "My husband would be appalled. He was very proud of the gardens. But they never meant that much to me."
"Were you married long before his death?" Odd that she never mentioned her husband by his given name, or even "Mr. Kingston." Always "my husband."
"Three years. Three very happy years. I'm sure you are aware he was a great deal older than me. But he was a wonderful, kind man and I loved him dearly."
"I'm sure you did," Jim murmured, picking up his coffee cup again. "Have you any idea where I might find the former head gardener?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I thought perhaps he might have asked you for references when he applied for a new position."
"No… I can't remember that he did. Of course, I would have been a poor reference. I could have said 'the grounds were lovely,' but really nothing about his personal endeavors."
"Do you recall his name?"
"I can tell you that. Hernando Perez. Mr. West, you still haven't explained why you think my husband's death is connected with that of the poor attorney. What did this Theo… what was his last name?"
"Gaskin."
"Theo Gaskin. What did he have to do with it? Surely, he did not kill my husband! I believe the police talked to all the employees here and all could account for their time."
"That's very true," Jim replied. "Are there any of your servants here now who were employed at the time of Mr. Kingston's death?"
The flash in her eyes revealed her awareness of his evasiveness. "My butler, Chase. He was…"
Her words were interrupted by the opening of the door. The man who entered was probably in his late thirties, a handsome man of stocky build with a neatly trimmed brown beard and hair of a similar shade slicked back from his high forehead. Beryl Kingston came to her feet swiftly, Jim rose more slowly.
"Harry!" Mrs. Kingston exclaimed, going toward him with an extended hand. "I didn't expect you today. I didn't know you had returned."
"And I didn't know you had a guest, Beryl. Forgive my intrusion." He took her hand, and Jim had the impression that if not for the presence a witness, he would have kissed it.
"Harry, this is Mr. James West, a government agent. He's reopening the investigation of the murder of my husband. Isn't that wonderful? Perhaps the culprit will finally be found. Mr. West, my attorney, Mr. Harrison Hazeltine."
Jim held out his hand. "Mr. Hazeltine."
The lawyer shook the hand. "James West. Your reputation precedes you. Beryl, if anyone can find Gerald's killer, Mr. West can."
"Thank you. I'll do my best." Jim turned to the lovely woman. "Mrs. Kingston, I won't trouble you any further today, but I hope you don't mind if I return. I may come up with more questions you can help me with."
Her hand rested on his wrist. "I would be highly disappointed if you did not return, Mr. West. Please do. And it won't be necessary to wait for an invitation. You will always be welcome."
"Thank you." Jim did not need to look at the lawyer to know that the man was annoyed. The widow's invitation was as blatant as had been Mrs. Condit's. "I'll see myself out." He left the room before either could speak.
W*W*W*W*W
"I didn't expect to see you here tonight." Artemus carefully pulled himself up against the pillows.
Jim West turned the single chair around and straddled it. "Don't let this go to your head, but I'm finding I miss you."
"Why, James!"
Jim grinned briefly. "As a sounding board, pal. I wanted to talk about a couple of things. One is that I picked up the copies of your sketches before I went to see the widow, but didn't take time to look at them until on the way back to the city when I stopped at an inn for a meal. One of the men you sketched is the man I saw leaving the same door that Condit's secretary entered with the envelope."
"Interesting! You didn't mention what that door led into."
"Another office building. None of the names on the directory rang a bell, especially none on the first floor. The secretary was in and out so fast, he wouldn't have had time to go to another floor. I'm going to ask Lloyd to tell me what he knows about the first floor tenants."
"Brilliant deduction. Now tell me about the grieving old lady."
Jim folded his arms over the back of the chair and rested his chin on them. "She's neither grieving, nor old."
"Indeed!"
"Artie, she's probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
Artemus's eyes widened. "That's saying something, considering the women we've met over the years."
"She's… it's difficult to describe. Black hair, blue… no maybe lavender… eyes, perfect complexion, exquisite figure, a voice that…" He stopped, lifting his head and staring toward the window.
Artemus was silent a long moment before he spoke. "Yet, you've discerned a flaw."
Jim looked at his partner. "That's just it. I feel… damn, I can't explain it."
"Don't tell me she didn't flirt with you!"
"Oh, she did. I have another invitation to visit anytime."
"Of course. But…"
Jim West exhaled a noisy sigh. "I'm going to see what I can find out about Beryl Kingston. Maybe… maybe it's simply her perfection that's setting me on edge. Not to mention she has an armed sentry installed at her front gate, in a regular guardhouse."
"Really! Nervous about intruders now that she lives alone?"
"That occurred to me… until I met her. Not sure what it means. Virtually all the estates there have fences and gates—probably locked—but I didn't see a guard at any of them. I'd like to find out whether the guardhouse was present when Gerald Kingston was alive. I may look up the local constable next time I'm in that area."
Artie decided to shift the subject a bit. "Did Mrs. Kingston offer much help regarding Theo?"
"No. She remembered the name but that was all. That's another odd thing. The interior of the house is beautiful, well kept, expensive… but the grounds are a mess. She said her husband was very proud of his gardens, yet when he died, she let them go to seed… all the while avowing her love for him."
"Well, that's a little strange. One would think she'd keep them up in his memory if for no other reason."
"That's what I thought. Just before I left, a man named Harrison Hazeltine showed up. He was introduced as her attorney, but he most certainly did not like seeing me there with her."
"Another name to check."
"What does the doctor say about your situation, Artie? Any word on when you'll be released?"
Aware that Jim might well speak to the physician, or the nurses, Artemus answered the question truthfully. "Maybe not for two-three days. My ribs are pretty sore." No one except the pretty blonde nurse knew that he had been out of bed today, tentatively moving about the room. She scolded him but Artie was pretty sure he had persuaded her not to tell the doctor, lest he get into trouble.
"All right. Listen to the doctor, pal. You'll be better off for it in the long run. You took a bad beating. At least you're looking better."
"Yeah, the ice packs on my face help. I want to be my normal handsome self when I present myself to the world."
Jim chuckled, getting to his feet. "Yeah, you don't want to scare the kiddies any more than usual."
Artie made a face, then asked. "What's on the docket next?"
"I'm pretty tired. I'm going to stop by the police station and if Lloyd has gone home, leave him a note to look up anything they have on the lovely Beryl and her jealous attorney. Also want to find a former gardener at the Kingston estate, name of Hernando Perez. He should have known Gaskin. Then I'm going to my hotel room and sleep for about twenty-four hours."
His partner only smiled. "See you bright and early, James."
