Survival Clause, стр. 52
“You’d know,” Grimaldi said.
I shrugged. “It’s my job. And I grew up in the Martin mansion. I know the value of old houses. This is a beautiful one.”
“Thank you, young lady.”
The booming voice came from outside the door. A moment later, a man—Mr. Mullinax—sailed through.
He must have been about a decade older than Uncle Sid. And he was as jolly as Santa Claus. The only thing missing was the white beard. The hair was white and fluffy, like down, the cheeks were rosy red, and the twinkling eyes were blue, but he was clean-shaven.
“Mr. Mullinax.” I flushed. Mother would not be happy to hear that I’d been calculating the man’s value in his hearing, and given the probable antecedents and bank balance here, Mrs. Mullinax and Mother were most likely friends. It would undoubtedly get back to her. Since I had to tell him who I was and why we were here, there was no way to pretend I was some uncouth bystander, either. “I’m Savannah Martin. Collier. My Uncle Sid told me about you.”
“Regina’s niece.” He grabbed my hand and patted it. “You married the cop.”
I had. And Art Mullinax was nicer about the description of Rafe than some I’ve heard.
“This is Police Chief Grimaldi,” I said, gesturing with my free hand. Mr. Mullinax dropped me like my hand was hot and turned to her, looking her over.
“Charming,” he said.
It was the first time I’d heard that word applied to Grimaldi, and from her expression, it might have been the first time she’d heard it applied to herself, too. “Mr. Mullinax.”
When he snatched for her hand, she snatched back, and gave his a good shake before dropping it. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Kent Jurgensson.”
Art Mullinax’s blue eyes went sorrowful, and he shook his head, clucking. “Terrible tragedy. Just terrible what happened.”
“Uncle Sid said you played golf with him,” I said.
He turned to me. “Indeed, young lady. Sid, Kent, me, and Jacob Drimmel when he was available.”
“Laura Lee Drimmel’s father? The same Laura Lee who used to date Noah Trent?”
Mullinax nodded. “The very same. Now, what do you know about Noah Trent?”
His eyes were still twinkling, but the look was intent.
“Not much,” I admitted, with a glance at Grimaldi. This was her interview; shouldn’t she be asking the questions and answering them?
She didn’t say anything, though, just arched her brows at me, so I added, “Someone told me he was the boy involved in the… um… incident with Mr. Jurgensson.”
Mullinax nodded. “So he was. But he’s dead now, rest his soul. And we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
No, we shouldn’t. Or so Mother had always told me.
I glanced at Grimaldi. She still wasn’t speaking up. “Uncle Sid said you’d been in touch with Mr. Jurgensson since he left here. We thought maybe you’d be able to tell us where he is.”
Mr. Mullinax tilted his head to look at me, like a plump sparrow. “Now, why would you be looking for Kent?”
“We have some questions,” Grimaldi said, finally. Mullinax turned to her, and she added, “Not about what happened back then. Or not specifically.”
“About what, then?”
“Another case,” Grimaldi said. “With a Latin connection.”
Mullinax’s bushy eyebrows rose. “A Latin connection?”
“We just wanted to discuss some former students with him.” After a second she added, “Not Noah Trent.”
Mullinax nodded and looked thoughtful.
“Uncle Sid said he heard that Jurgensson worked some menial job in Tupelo or Tucson,” I contributed. “I guess it must have been you who told him that?”
“I imagine it might have been. Although it might just as well have been Toledo or Toronto as Tucson. It’s a long time ago. Not sure I can remember the particulars.”
“I don’t suppose you have any letters or postcards he might have sent you?”
“Oh, I don’t imagine I do,” Art Mullinax said cheerfully. “The last time I heard from Kent… it must be a dozen years ago, at least. Probably more. Just Christmas cards, you know, or a note whenever he moved to a new place. He found it hard to find employment that lasted, poor bastard. And not surprising, either.”
No, it wasn’t surprising. Even if he had avoided being listed on the Sexual Offender registry, the kind of thing that had happened here is apt to follow a man around. People talk.
“So you have no idea where we’d be able to find him,” Grimaldi said.
Mullinax shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my dear. Chief Inspector. Um…”
“Chief is fine,” Grimaldi said. “We appreciate the time.”
She gave me a look. I smiled politely. “Thank you, Mr. Mullinax. Our best to your wife.”
Mullinax beamed pleasantly as he let us out, and then he stood in the open door and waved as we piled back into the SUV.
“Nice place,” I said, giving it one last look as Grimaldi put the SUV in gear and we rolled off down the track toward town. Behind us, Art Mullinax disappeared inside the big, white house and shut the door.
Grimaldi grunted.
I turned in my seat and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
She glanced over before she turned her attention back to the—I use the word in its loosest sense—road. “Just wondering which part of the acreage I’d have to dig up to find what’s left of Jurgensson.”
My jaw dropped, and it took me a few seconds to hike it up. “You’re kidding. Right?”
She didn’t answer, and I repeated it. “You’re kidding. You must be.”
“I’m not sure what I am.”
The trees closed behind us, and we drove on in a tunnel of green leaves. The sun, starting to wane now, slanted late-afternoon spears of light through the branches in front of us.
“You think he killed Jurgensson? Why? He didn’t say anything suspicious, did he?” If he had, I hadn’t noticed. “What makes you think he killed Jurgensson?”
She didn’t say anything, so I continued, figuring it out in my head as we went down the track. “It makes for a nice theory.