DISAPPOINTED THAT she hadn’t found anything more to implicate Martha after a quick search of the other woman’s bedroom, Sydney headed downstairs for Kenneth’s study.
The wind rattled around the house. A loose shutter banged somewhere nearby and made Sydney jump. She sucked in a deep breath. She couldn’t help being a bit spooked. Taking charge of an illegal act like breaking and entering was not the easiest thing in the world for a person who had more than once been accused of being a “straight arrow,” though technically she hadn’t broken anything since she still had the front door key.
To distract herself from any untoward imaginings, Sydney set her mind back on the pieces of the puzzle they’d found as she’d been doing off and on since she’d left Benno’s Place.
Something kept niggling at her, something she was positive she was missing. The register tape and arcade coin were of no further use. But the newspaper clipping and mechanical pencil were of significance, as was the note. If only she knew whether Martha had sent the missive to Al Fox or to another... say Mick Brickman.
Could the three of them be working together?
She entered the study and turned on the room light, wondering where Benno had left off in his search. There was no helping going over the ground he’d covered.
The large first floor room made a comfortable yet fairly informal office for a working architect. Leather couch and chairs surrounding a fireplace. Drawing table set between two long windows. Teak storage unit with a pull down desk hugging the wall opposite.
Noting the file drawers that were part of the wall unit, she decided to start with those.
Kenneth Lord certainly had been organized. The hanging files with matching interior folders alternated in color – gold, red, blue, gold, red, blue – and their identification tabs were set precisely in five stair step positions.
About to pull the first file, Sydney froze when she heard a noise outside she couldn’t identify. Someone returning to the house? Though she listened intently, no other sound followed but the scraping of a tree limb on the upper story. No doubt the wind had blown some loose object against the house.
Breathing normally again, she got to work, checking file after file, skimming through the folders within, but finding nothing obvious. Only when she finished all three drawers did she think to take a more objective look inside. She started over.
When she reopened the middle drawer, something about the color coding didn’t seem quite right. Gold, red, blue... gold, red, blue... gold...
A red file was missing from the center of the drawer. The gold file on one side of the blank spot was labeled “Kramer, James,” the blue file, “Lundquist, Helga.”
Resolved to find out what that red file might be, Sydney began by checking the desk area as well as the drawers and shelves of the wall unit, all the while fighting the uneasy sensation that made her want to look over her shoulder. A frisson of fear settled in her chest and blossomed. She was being silly, she assured herself in an attempt to shake the feeling. If Martha returned, she would hear the car.
She ordered herself to concentrate in the meantime, to try to pinpoint that which was still nagging at her – something she’d missed in going over what she and Benno knew about the murder.
The murder.
To the best of her ability, Sydney replayed first the dream and then the reality. What did she know from either? The only clue had been a small metal stud found in Kenneth’s closed fist. In the dream she’d seen him rip something from his assailant’s sleeve while falling.
She thought about the stud and its possible source.
Metal studs sometimes decorated fancy shirts... or leather jackets... and she’d seen Brickman slip a black leather jacket around Martha’s shoulders that very night.
Brickman’s jacket? Or Martha’s? How could she find out?
She examined one of the higher shelves of the wall unit, feeling behind a speaker, part of an elaborate sound system. No missing folder. Trying not to lose heart, she thoroughly searched the drawing table and the sitting area, including the magazine rack. No luck there, either.
A noise at one of the windows made her whip around, heart pounding, but she could see nothing. She hadn’t noticed the outside shutters were closed when she’d entered the room, a fact that gave her the creeps.
Without a view, the room felt so close, so warm.
The heat of discomfort shot through her and she shifted uneasily. A warning threaded through her consciousness: she’d been stupid to do this alone without back up. But there’d been no helping it. Benno was already wounded. Her fault. If something worse happened to him...
Realizing her imagination was starting to work overtime, that she was conjuring danger where there was none, Sydney figured she’d better finish up quickly and get out of the house. Foolish or not, she couldn’t wait to leave, to get back to the safety of Benno’s Place.
To the safety of Benno’s arms, a little voice whispered.
She couldn’t think about Benno now or she would lose her impetus and she was almost done.
The only piece of furniture she hadn’t yet searched was a storage unit with a half-dozen wide, shallow drawers that would hold architectural drawings or blueprints. Though placing a hanging file in such a unit seemed ridiculous, she couldn’t leave without being certain.
The top two drawers held exactly what she’d expected, but she could only pull the third open a few inches. Something wedged inside was jamming it as if Kenneth had hastily shoved in the contents. Because he didn’t want someone else to see? She squeezed her fingers through the opening and tried to work the papers loose while pulling on the handle. The drawer gave and flew open into her stomach.
And in its middle sat a red file tagged “Lord, Martha.”
With a sense of elation, she opened it. Inside were three matching red folders marked “Estate,” “Personal,” and “School.”
The “Estate” folder held the documents that granted Kenneth total power over the distribution of Martha’s trust until she was twenty-five unless he gave up or was, for some reason, unable to fulfill said duty. Or unless she married with his consent. If Martha married without his consent, however, Kenneth would then have power over her trust for an additional five years.
Martha was presently twenty-three, Sydney thought. And a dead man would have an impossible time overseeing a trust.
Another noise made Sydney jump and a surge of fear go straight to her chest which immediately tightened. She listened but couldn’t identify the source. The wind, she reminded herself uneasily, hurrying to open the “Personal” folder with trembling fingers.
As she did, the breath caught in her throat. A stack of correspondence was topped by a copy of a letter addressed to one Alan Foxglove.
Alan Foxglove... Al Fox. Obviously the same man using an alias.
Eagerly, Sydney read the missive: