He rotated, faced me, eyes half closed but alert, like those of a resting guard dog. “And the point is …”
“Mel Abbot’s only child died ten years ago, Jane’s, just a few days ago. Now Mel will be declared incompetent and someone else will be placed in charge of all the assets. Probably a court-appointed conservator. My guess is relatives will start lining up. I wonder who’s next in line, from a legal standpoint.”
“Some cousin from Iowa. So what?”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Jane mentioned a prenup, but that could’ve applied only to divorce, not death. If Mel’s will signed everything over to Jane, that would’ve put Lauren in place to inherit. But with Lauren dead, her closest living relative could step up to the plate. And look who just called you and asked about Lauren’s finances.”
His head shot forward, and the eyes opened wide. “Daddy dearest— Oh, man, you have a devious mind.”
“He did call. Hours after Jane died.”
“Jane and Lauren both hated his guts. There’d be no reason for him to think anyone made him a beneficiary.”
“Any will come up for Lauren?”
“Not yet.”
“If she died intestate,” I said, “her estate will end up in probate and be up for grabs. I’m no lawyer, but my bet is that, as her closest living blood relative, Lyle will have a strong claim. Sure, getting through the paperwork will be a hassle, and there’ll be estate taxes to pay, but if those paintings are real, even a chunk would be serious money. Lyle’s hurting financially. A Picasso or two would do wonders.”
“He offs his ex and plants the gun in the old guy’s hand?”
“Like you said, no love lost between them.”
“C’mon, Alex. He can’t be stupid enough to do it and call me the same day. Talk about obvious.” He frowned. “But it wasn’t obvious, was it? Not till your warped mind seized upon it. You are one creative puppy.”
He began pacing along the side of the house. Low chatter from the front of the property created an irritating soundtrack: noise but no reason.
“Lyle’s calling you was blatant,” I said. “But, like you said, people get careless. Did he seem the subtle type to you? The guy’s angry, depressed, out of work, drinks, stomps around his property with a loaded shotgun. If that’s not a recipe for violence, I don’t know what is.”
“You’re saying he did Jane and Lauren? No big bad Duke conspiracy or Shawna cover-up?”
“Who knows?” I said. “The other thing to think about is everyone around Lauren is dying. Which fits with Jane not being more forthcoming because she did know something explosive. Either way, pinning it on Abbot seems awfully convenient.”
“For argument’s sake, let’s say Lyle was the shooter. He shows up and Jane just lets him in?”
“She might Ve. Even with tons of hostility, there was that early bond— the years they’d been together, familiarity, chemistry. I’ve seen it plenty of times working custody cases. The nastiest divorces. Two people trying to rip each other’s hearts out in court, then they find themselves alone and end up in bed. Maybe Lyle put on a big show of grief—that’s the one thing they shared. Lauren’s death. For all we know he didn’t even cometo kill her. They started talking, Lyle segued into money talk like he did with you, Jane lost it, and one thing led to another.”
“So why’s the old guy still breathing?”
“Because Lyle’s no genius, but he did have an inspiration. Picture it this way: The argument begins downstairs. Jane orders Lyle out, he refuses. She rushes upstairs, thinking to lock herself in the bedroom, then call the police. Lyle goes after her, gets in the bedroom, shoots her. It’s dark, they could’ve wrestled from a spot near the bed—the hole in the wall. He misses that time but hits his mark twice, and Jane goes down. Abbot’s asleep—maybe deeply, he’s probably on medication. The gunshot wakes him up. He sits up. Disoriented. A senile old man confronted with sudden loud noise and darkness. His consciousness is clouded anyway. He wouldn’t have focused immediately— Where were his glasses?”