Page 112 of The Housekeeper

The silence that followed was so long, I thought we might have been disconnected. “No. It’s too crazy.”

“What’s too crazy?”

Another long silence. “You don’t think she could have had anything to do with Mom’s death, do you?”

“No way,” I insisted, as much to reassure myself as my sister. In truth, the thought had occurred to me more than once, but I’d always been too afraid to voice it out loud. “Dad was with her at the time, remember? They were having breakfast in the kitchen when they heard Mom fall.”

“Unless they weren’t.”

Another long silence, this time from my end of the line. “Whatare you saying? You’re seriously suggesting that Elyse may have murdered Mom? And that…what?…Dad is covering it up to protect her?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, hemightbe trying to protect her, but not because he thinks she killed her. Maybe he has no idea what really happened. Maybe he and Elyse were just in different parts of the house when he heard Mom fall, and he has no idea Elyse had anything to do with it.”

“You really think that’s possible?”

I hate to think what she might be capable of,I heard the building manager say.

“Do you?” Tracy asked.

“I think we should give old Mr. Miller a call.”

—

The offices of Miller, Ferguson, and Miller were located on the twenty-seventh floor of the giant white office tower that is First Canadian Place, in the heart of downtown Toronto.

I’d called Ronald Miller as soon as I got off the line with Tracy, and was able to get an appointment for three the next afternoon. I picked Tracy up at the gym, relieved when she only spent a few minutes grumbling about having had to cut short her session with Jeremy. “We were lucky to get this appointment,” I told her on the drive down. “He had a cancellation, or we would have had to wait another week.”

Tracy looked unimpressed. She pulled down the passenger seat visor to arrange her long hair into a high ponytail, then expertly applied a fresh coat of mascara to her lashes and gloss to her lips with a surprisingly steady hand, considering the number of potholes in the road.

I parked in the underground garage and we took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor.

“We’re here to see Ronald Miller,” Tracy announced as we approached the sweeping black marble counter in the large reception area. Two well-dressed, immaculately coiffed women—one about thirty, the other perhaps two decades older—sat at opposite ends of the counter, smiling at us expectantly. One was blond, the other blonder. Both were wearing identical shades of beige. I wondered if this was deliberate, if they made a conscious effort to coordinate their outfits.

“We have a three o’clock appointment,” I explained. “I’m Jodi Bishop. This is my sister, Tracy Dundas.”

“Yes, Ms. Bishop. I have you right here,” the older, blonder of the two women said. “You were very lucky. We got that cancellation two minutes before you called. Mr. Miller is just finishing up with a client. If you’ll have a seat”—she motioned toward a grouping of four red leather chairs beneath an imposing oil painting of a prairie landscape—“he’ll be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

“What did I tell you? We’ll probably have to sit here forever. I could have finished my session with Jeremy.” Tracy picked up several newspapers from a nearby black-lacquered coffee table, then immediately tossed them back. “God, theFinancial Postand the business section ofThe Globe.Does anybody actually read these things? Would it kill them to have a copy ofPeople?”

In fact, we waited less than five minutes before being ushered into the inner labyrinth of small offices and smaller cubicles reserved for support staff, until we reached the large corner office belonging to Ronald Miller.

“Ladies,” said the skinny, boyish-looking man behind the impressive oak desk, motioning us toward the two navy blue chairs stationed in front of it. “Please, have a seat.”

“He doesn’t look almost eighty,” Tracy whispered.

“Is there a problem?” the lawyer asked, sitting down behind the desk.

“Just that we were expecting someone much older,” I said.

He laughed. “You’re thinking of my father, whose name is also Ronald. I’m afraid he retired some years ago.”

“Oh.” Tracy and I exchanged worried glances. “Our dad was one of his clients.”

“Your dad was…?”

“Is,actually. He’s still very much alive. Victor Dundas. He founded Dundas Real Estate.”