Page 57

“Mrs. Beckett? Perhaps when I wasn’t home. Has something happened?”
“She mentioned that the last time you popped in, you took a book from the library. She thought it might be the missing journal that your brother was looking for. We think it might help with your uncle’s case.”
It took her a moment to process the man’s words. The only thought going through her head was that Dex was in the office, holding a gun to her son.
Focus. Breathe. Appear concerned.
“The journal? What does that book have to do with my uncle?”
“We’re not sure, of course, but your brother seemed to think there were some entries in that particular volume that related to the stolen car.”
“What’s in there was written over a hundred years ago. Why would it be important?”
“That’s what we hope to find out. And why Mrs. Beckett said she’d call ahead.” He stepped to the side, looking at something behind her. “Naturally, that’s why I assume you have the journal there on the table. You knew I was coming by for it.”
She realized that if she objected, it would bring even more attention to her possession of the book—still, she needed to try. “I— I was hoping to keep it for a few days. I brought it home for my son to read. Ever since he went to live with my uncle, he’s been fascinated with the viscountcy.”
“I didn’t realize anyone else lived at Payton Manor but your uncle and Oliver.”
“This was a few years ago. Back when my husband and I were getting our divorce. I— I just felt it was best.”
“I’m sure your son must have enjoyed his time there. It’s a beautiful estate.”
“Trevor loved it there,” she said, wishing she’d let him stay, as he’d wanted, instead of forcing him to come home because of her misguided maternal notion to be near her son. What she needed now, though, was to get this man away from her house—the sooner, the better. “You said you had a couple of questions. What are they?”
“The journal, of course. We’ll need that for the investigation.”
Dex would object, but there was little she could do. It was clear the man wasn’t going to leave without it. “Is there anything else?” she asked, retrieving the journal and handing it to him.
He slipped the small volume into the breast pocket of his suit. “Actually, yes. Your brother mentioned that there had been an offer on the estate. He thought you’d know who it was.”
“The name escapes me.”
“He thought it was some distant relative.”
“Something makes me think it was some cousin to one of the viscounts generations ago.” Trying to hurry him along, she said, “If you have a card, I’ll give you a ring if I remember it. Right now, I’m too tired to think.”
&nb
sp; “Of course,” he said, reaching into his suit pocket. He pulled out a small gold case, slipping a card from it. “Do you recall anyone ever coming around and asking questions about your uncle or the Gray Ghost before the car show? Or remember anyone at his house when you were there? Someone who didn’t belong?”
In fact, she did, not that she was about to tell him. “People asking about the car? Honestly, I paid little attention. Oliver handled all that.”
“What about here?”
“At my house? No. Just me and my son.”
“You’re the only two that live here?”
“Yes.”
“He’s how old?” the PI asked, finally handing her his business card.
“Sixteen.”
“Is he home?”
“No. I’m here by myself. Why?”