FORGET ME NOT (Mark Kane Mysteries Book One) Page 6

  I stood up and thanked her for her time.

  “I know you need to get back to work,” I said, squeezing myself out of the booth. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to contact me when you have the documents I requested to hand. It’s been nice meeting you. I’ll try to get things moving along as swiftly as I can.”

  As I drove home I realized that the investigation might not turn out to be as straightforward as I’d anticipated.

  Chapter Seven

  The Plane Crash

  “So you drew a blank, then? I don’t suppose that’ll impress your new client much.”

  Lucy was being her usual reassuring self. She was still miffed about the fee, although I had been able to mollify her to some extent by giving her the check for my retainer to bank.

  “Greg’s a realist, not a fantasist,” I said. “He understands the difficulties. What would you have done, tortured her to make her talk?”

  “I wouldn’t have put up with that nonsense. Why not come straight out with it and accuse her of not being who she claims to be?”

  “Because she may well be who she claims to be. I’m approaching the matter at the moment as something my client suspects may not be the truth. Even he admits he might be mistaken.”

  “But you’ve just told me that you think his suspicions may be justified; in view of your less-than-productive interview with her.”

  “That’s true, but it’s still no more than suspicion. Suspicion isn’t proof. Even suspicion plus suspicion doesn’t amount to proof. You see the trick is to probe. To try to get her to tell me something that I can prove is false; maybe several things. Then I’ll have her on the back foot. That’s why I want you to check about the plane crash. It’s a gem, you see, because whether it’s true or not it takes the investigation forward.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If it’s not true, and I can prove it’s not true, then I would have sufficient reason to confront her with the lie. People seldom lie for no reason after all. But if it is true then the report of the crash will probably provide me with details of her parents that I don’t have. You know, ‘Richard and Joyce Granger, of such and such a place, aged so and so were tragically killed on such and such a day…Richard Granger was employed by so and so from such and such…’ That sort of thing. It will provide a lot of useful leads. If I knew where her father or mother worked, where they lived and so on, I could discover a wealth of information.”

  “If it’s not true it would virtually prove that she’s a fraud.”

  “Not necessarily. A lie about one thing doesn’t necessarily prove a lie about something else; but it’s part of the way there.”

  “I was thinking about those polygraph tests,” Lucy said. “I know why they don’t use them in court.”

  “And you’re going to tell me, whether I like it or not?”

  “They’re too easy to fake.”

  “Are they?”

  “I could fake one easily.”

  “I hope you’re never in a situation where you’ll need to put it to the test.”

  “No, listen. They work like this, right? First they ask simple questions to which everybody knows the answer − like what’s your name? − so they can test that the machine’s working properly, then they move on to questions about the crime; like did you commit the murder? Or were you involved in the robbery? If the suspect says ‘no’ and it’s a lie, their blood pressure goes up or something.”

  “Yes,” I said patiently.

  “So, if I wanted to answer ‘no’, and it was an untruthful answer, but I didn’t want my blood pressure to go up I would ask myself a silent question in my head to which the truthful answer would be no before I gave the answer. Like ‘is your name Mickey Mouse’.”

  “And the point of all this is?”

  “I’m smarter than the average bear,” she said in a passable imitation of Yogi, the cartoon character.

  “Well we won’t be using any polygraphs in this case.”

  “Just as well, because by the sound of her Susan would be able to fake it.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind for the future.”

  It was not uncommon for Lucy to spin off at a tangent. I had discovered that it was best at these times to say as little as possible.

  “So you’ll check about the plane crash?” I said.

  “We don’t even know where and when the crash took place.”

  “Idaho,” I said. “In the fall.”

  “Idaho’s a big place,” Lucy said, “and the fall’s a long season – I’ll have to trawl through hundreds of newspapers − it’ll take ages. There wasn’t any internet in those days you know?”

  “I don’t suppose there were that many plane crashes in the fall of 1989 − even in Idaho,”

  “Am I to be paid overtime for this?”

  “Lucy, there are vast tracts of the day when you sit there doing nothing at all. It’ll give you something to do. You know, help to pass the time. Plus it’ll be an interest for you; stop you getting bored.”

  “So the answer’s no?”

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  “Don’t answer a question with another question, counselor.”

  “I’ll be off home then.”

  “There’s no need to dash off. I’m going to make some popcorn.”

  “Okay, shall we let the Susan matter drop for the time being? I’m on my break time.”

  We sat eating popcorn, but not before I’d nipped back to my place for a beer. I even persuaded Lucy to have one.

  “Doesn’t taste the same without beer, does it?” I said.

  Lucy was lost in a little world of her own.

  “I was thinking: do you really need an office at all?” she said. “I mean why don’t you work from home? Lots of people do that now; you’d save lots of valuable and potentially productive time and you’d save on rent, too.”

  A little illuminated light had suddenly appeared over my head like in cartoons when an obvious truth suddenly hits home. I should have guessed the popcorn was a prelude to something else.

  “And what would you do? You’d be out of a job.” I said.

  “I could work at home too.”

  “Was this plan conceived before or after you inveigled me into moving almost next door to you?”

  “You mean before I gave you the golden opportunity of being my neighbor?”

  “I need an office. It creates the right impression for clients.”

  “You mean the wrong impression,” she chuckled, “the impression that you can afford a prestigious address.”

  I had to admit she’d got me that time. I tried to counter it anyway.

  “We can afford it, we just have to share the overheads,” I said.

  “I still think my idea’s a good one. I mean we’re not like a hair salon. We don’t get people walking in off the street.”

  “As long as I’m paying your wages I’ll make the decisions.”

  Lucy went into an exaggerated sulk.

  “And now, there being no further matters on the agenda, I shall take myself off to bed,” I said. And I did.

  Chapter Eight

  Orchids

  It was Thursday morning as I made my way back to see Greg Philips in Boylston again. An easterly wind blew the clouds away so that the sun was shining brightly as I made my way up the gently curving driveway. As I drove towards the Philips house I opened the Chevy’s windows in anticipation of the invigorating scent of freshly mown grass and wasn’t disappointed. Everything looked exactly the same as before, as if the house and grounds were enchanted and frozen in time. Even the weather seemed to have adjusted itself accordingly. I parked on the wide sweep of the drive in front of the garage and rang the doorbell. Philips looked as dapper as ever. The cravat was back in favor today, complimented by a shirt of cerulean blue. His white hair accentuated the slight tan on his face. He looked happy to see me.

  “Come in Kane, I think you’ll be pleased. I’ve managed to find some hair samples. Please, come th
rough to the living room and take a seat. I’ve got some coffee brewing and I’ll be with you in two ticks.”

  I walked through to the living room, noticing for the first time that I was leaving footprints in the pile of the living room carpet. There was a florid scent in the air. I went over to the glass doors to admire the grounds again. In the distance the leaves on the trees were gently waving in the light breeze and shimmering in the sunlight. Greg came in and set the coffee cups, cream and sugar down on the table. The coffee smelled like an expensive Italian variety.

  “One of Gloria’s hairbrushes was still in the bedroom. I used to brush her hair for her you know towards the end; it was really the only intimacy that was possible. Fortunately that bedroom hasn’t been occupied since Gloria passed away. It was a guest room and I haven’t actually had any guests. Sally, my daughter in law, left it in the room on purpose. She’s very thoughtful. She said it was too personal a thing to give or throw away. I haven’t touched it. I thought it better for an expert to examine it first to see if it’s any help. I would like the brush back afterwards though, if possible.”

  He walked over to the credenza and picked up the brush, which he had already placed in a zip lock bag.

  “I had all the carpets professionally cleaned yesterday. After what you told me on Tuesday I couldn’t get it out of my head that things might be lurking in there.”

  “You’ve done well,” I said. “I’m afraid I didn’t fare too well with Susan.” I told him the gist of the paucity of information that I had been able to obtain from her.

  “It doesn’t really help one way or the other,” I said, “because there’s little I can do to research her background. Everything she told me may be true, or there may be no truth in it at all. Copies of the amended birth certificate, ID card, and social security number don’t prove anything; they would be easily accessible to someone who wanted to assume the identity of the real Susan. I really needed something concrete from her background that I could check. I’ve got my assistant checking the newspaper files at the public library and on the internet to see if we can verify the plane crash which Susan said killed her parents, although the details were a bit vague; but even if that turns out to be true there’s still no way of verifying that she was the one who was adopted by the Grangers. Still, if there is a report of such an event then the article will probably contain details of the unfortunate victims which will at least be a start.

  “Obviously Gloria had a daughter who was put up for adoption,” I said, “but whether it was Susan is still a matter of conjecture. I’m sure you’ve heard of identity theft. It’s pretty difficult to get away with nowadays if the person whose identity is stolen is still alive; it’s normally only a matter of time before it’s discovered, usually by the person whose identity has been stolen. But theft of a deceased person’s identity is still difficult to establish, particularly if it occurred a long time ago. Have you ever read Forsyth’s ‘Day of the Jackal’, where the hit man assumes the identity of a dead man?”

  “Yes, ages ago. I think I was in college then. I read once that the author had difficulty finding a publisher because they thought no-one would buy a book in which the outcome was obvious from the start.”

  “Well, that’s publishers for you, what do they know? But suppose Susan is not the real Susan. If she knew, or knew of, the real Susan, and the real Susan died, then assuming her identity would be relatively simple once she got hold of the birth certificate. The problem is that we have no point of reference. I will try to find out where she went to school, perhaps even find an old school photograph, but a person’s appearance may change considerably over the years. If I knew where she grew up I could check police files, but even if she’d been in trouble as a juvenile it’s unlikely her prints would still be on file. They probably haven’t got that far back with their computer records yet anyway.

  “I still have matters to discuss with her and I may hit on something which helps. She’s promised to give me copies of her birth certificate and other documents. In the meantime let’s hope that the hair yields DNA. If it does then we can dispense with the rest. I’ll say this though, if Susan isn’t telling the truth she’s rehearsed her story very thoroughly and knows what can and cannot be verified. After I’d talked with her I had the distinct impression that she was mentally reviewing what she had told me. That’s not something people ordinarily do when they’re telling the truth.”

  “Well I’m grateful for your efforts. Let’s hope the lab technicians can help us draw a line under this whole thing.”

  “Even if it turns out that Susan is genuine it still leaves the question of Gloria’s mental capacity at the time the will was drawn up. Can you give me a copy?”

  “Yes, of course.” He took out his cell phone from his shirt pocket and dialed a number. “Bill Saunders please. Thank you. Bill, its Greg. Can you fax me another copy of the will for Mr. Kane? Yes, he did. Not really, no; not yet anyway. Thanks, I’ll be in touch.”

  “That was Gloria’s attorney. He’ll attach a copy to an email and I should have it in a few minutes. Shall we have another stroll in the garden while we wait?”

  “Perfect. I’ll have a few more questions for you once I’ve seen the will.”

  Greg took me to see his vegetable garden and a greenhouse. The greenhouse was at least twelve feet high and the size of a modest family home. It abutted the house at one end and there were wood-framed glass doors leading to a small family room. It was hot and humid and bursting with color, the air thick with the scent of bougainvillea, orchids and other flowering plants that I was unable to name. The sun’s rays were beating against the arched glass ceiling trying to find a way inside.

  “Those are African violets and over there some Chinese hibiscus,” said Greg. “I should have planted them outside by now but I’ve been a bit preoccupied what with one thing and another.” Greg noticed me running my hand over the back of my neck. “The air is kept moist in here with two humidifiers, otherwise the plants would wilt. “Now,” said Greg, “these beauties thrive on stress.” He was referring to a thick tangle of bougainvillea which was growing alongside one side of the glass, the highest of the tendrils perhaps ten feet from the ground. The almost impenetrable thorny foliage was softened by the delicate rich color of the numerous bracts. “They flower best when the soil is dry and need very little water. They love the sun too.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said. “You must have green fingers.”

  “Perhaps you’d like one or two orchids to take home with you. They make wonderful house plants, or if you’ve got a yard you can graft them onto the trunk or branches of a tree. Did you know that orchids were the first flowering plants on the planet?”

  I didn’t know that and I briefly wondered how anybody could know that, but I didn’t say anything.

  “They’re the most diverse flowering plants in the world today, too” Greg paused and without looking in my direction said, “They’d make a rather nice gift if you have a special lady friend.” He stole a sideways glance at me to see my reaction to this last remark. .

  “That’s very kind. I could do with a bit more color in my life.”

  Greg selected half a dozen orchids of varying colors and placed them in a wooden box. He carried the box back to the wrought iron table on the deck and motioned me to sit. He excused himself and disappeared for a minute or two, returning with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and some glasses. He acted the wine waiter again to perfection.

  “I hope you’ll like this; it was one of Gloria’s favorites.”

  I sensed his loneliness. This was probably the highlight of his day. I couldn’t picture him alone at the bar in the Boylston country club. I said so to him.

  “No, even when I used to go there regularly with Gloria we pretty much kept ourselves to ourselves. I still go there quite often to eat − cooking for one is such a depressing thing − but I’ve never been one of the crowd. Let me see if that email has come through.”

  He reappear
ed a few minutes later with a copy of Gloria’s will. There were several small bequests, one to an ornithological society and some items of jewelry to her daughter-in-law, Sally; but my attention was mainly drawn to the witnesses. Beneath the usual preamble about perjury were the names, addresses and signatures of two witnesses.

  “Do you know who the witnesses are?”

  “No, their names aren’t familiar to me; I’ll have to make some enquiries.”

  “How about the date; was that before or after the dementia was problematical?”

  Philips thought about it for a while. “It was more than a year after she was diagnosed, probably about three or four months after Susan arrived on the scene.”

  “Well, as I said earlier, irrespective of Susan’s identity there may be a question of whether Gloria was mentally fit to make this will.”

  “Yes, it’s difficult to be sure. During that time her symptoms varied a lot. Some days she was perfectly fine. I’ve been thinking about Susan. I mean when she first came to see Gloria it was before she became noticeably ill, before her symptoms became fairly obvious. So there really couldn’t have been any planning on her part. Nobody knew that she was going to succumb to the final stages of dementia so quickly. I wonder if I’m being over cautious about the whole thing.”

  “I don’t think you are. There’s still the possibility that Susan was hoping to gain something by contacting Gloria. Not her estate at that stage, but perhaps some other financial benefit. And whatever her original motive may have been, if she has been responsible for any dishonesty or manipulation then it should be investigated. Of course, the matter is entirely in your hands. What concerns me is the amount of the bequest. It seems disproportionate given your own situation and that of your sons.”