Page 13 of Line of Sight

Miss Marple tilted her head to one side. “You made it sound is if your stepdad doesn’t know about Scott’s plans.”

“That’s because he doesn’t. I think I’m the only one. And I only think Scott toldmebecause he feels like I’m the same kind of guy.” His lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, right.”

“Wait a sec.” John frowned. “I’m confused. How would killing him help the situation?”

Poirot gave another eye roll. “Duh. Think about it. Scott dies, I step up to the plate, and Owen passes everything to me—eventually. Sole owner. I get the lot.”

I leaped at the chance to play devil’s advocate.

“There’s no guarantee your stepfather would pass it all to you, you know. He might bring in someone else, someone already senior in the company.”

Poirot glared at me. “I know that, okay? Don’t you think I’ve considered that? But I’d have time to work on him. Butter him up. Dazzle him. By the time I’m finished with Owen McCarthy, he won’t hesitate to give me full control.”

Miss Marple dumped her knitting on the table, then folded her arms. “Okay, Mr. Wannabe Tycoon. How? How would you do it, without incriminating yourself?”

Poirot raised his eyebrows. “What reason wouldIhave for killing him? No one’s gonna evenlookat me. I’m talking about a long game here. It might be ten, fifteen, hell, eventwentyyears before Owen decides to hand over the reins. But that doesn’tmatter, not if it’s all coming to me. So there’d be nothing to point to me as a suspect. I wouldn’t have a motive, as far as the cops would be concerned. And motive is everything, right?”

Lord, he seemed so smug.

John finished his punch. “You still haven’t told us your plan for the perfect murder.” His eyes twinkled. “Come on, admit it. You don’t have a clue, because you couldn’t do it. This is the punch talking, isn’t it? You couldn’treallykill someone.”

Poirot gave him a thin smile. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, see? Scott’s this fitness freak. Always doing something—swimming, cycling, running…. So here’s what I’d do.” He leaned forward, glancing around him as if to ensure no one was listening, then spoke in a low voice. “I’d wait until he went on one of his early morning runs, hide in the bushes in a place where there’s no one around, then push him into the Charles River—or Crystal Lake, whichever is nearest. Either will do.” He sat back, arms folded, that same smug smile back in evidence.

I snorted. “Call that a plan? That’sboring. If you’re going to kill someone, at least have the guts to do it with some panache. Think about all these books we’re so fond of. What are the most memorable murders? The ones that stick in your head?”

Sherlock grinned. “That’s easy. The gory ones. The imaginative ones.”

It was as though someone had turned on a faucet. They started talking over one another, pulling up scenes from books I too had read. I sat there and listened, internally grinning. They knew their stuff, that was obvious.

How kind of them to do all the hard work for me. Except that was a lie. I’d already donemyhomework.

John offered a lazy smile. “I always liked that bit fromThe Name of the Rose, where the monk drowns in a huge vat of wine.” He chuckled. “What a way to go. What are you all reading at the moment?”

Another floodgate opened, and I lapsed into silence as they talked. I didn’t mind the change of topic. They could chatter about their thrillers all night long if they wanted.

I’d heard everything I wanted.

Not that I’d needed to hear which fictional murders stuck in their minds—I already had a list. I’d been compiling it for three years.

Waiting for the right day.

The right time.

The right victim.

Looks as if my time has come.

Chapter Six

Thanksgiving, November 22, 2018.

Springfield, MA

GARY’S DADwas asleep in his armchair, and Mom was dozing too. Not all that surprising, given that she’d been up since the crack of dawn, cooking enough to feed three times their number, the same as she did every year.

Except this Thanksgiving took Gary back to his teenage years. That was probably the last time he’d heard laughter around the dining table.

And that’s down to Dan.