Bent sent her a humorous look. “The more people around him, the more opportunities for his secrets to get out.”
“Good point.” The more people breathing who know your secrets, the less likely they are to stay secret. But, in the end, there were some secrets that just couldn’t be kept. “But there was a camera and screen in that box back there. She could have asked for ID.”
Bent shot her a grin. “Maybe I have a trustworthy face.”
Vera couldn’t deny this.
As promised, a woman, middle age, trim looking with a helmet of gray hair, waited on the veranda of the enormous home.
“Good Lord,” Vera whispered.
Bent reached for his door. “Vee, I don’t think the good Lord had a single thing to do with this.”
The man was just full of smart-alecky comebacks this morning.
Vera produced a smile as they crossed the cobblestone veranda. “Ma’am, good morning. I’m Vera Boyett. I work with Sheriff Benton.”
“Ingrid Deaton.” She nodded. “This way, please. Mr. Jamison should be arriving within the next few minutes, if it suits you to wait.”
“Suits us just fine,” Bent confirmed.
Inside, the mansion was just as stately as it was outside. Towering ceilings, awe-inspiring decor. Vera was no decorator, but it looked very Asian to her. Soft colors. Very modern and organic.
“Would you like coffee or water?” Deaton continued along the entry hall until they reached a grand great room complete with a concert-size baby grand piano. Wow.
“No thank you.” Vera surveyed the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Sleek polished wood floors. The walls and trim were painted in a soft beige while every single piece of furniture was a sleek black.
“What about you, Sheriff?”
“No thanks.”
“Very well. I’ll alert you when Mr. Jamison arrives.” With that she closed the massive doors and left them alone in the enormous room.
Vera wandered over to the wall of glass. Floor to ceiling, the entire width of the room. The view showed off a beautifully manicured lawn, but beyond that was mostly woods. She glanced back to Bent, who was roaming the room, pretending to study the artwork. It was likely best not to talk since the owner could have cameras or, at the very least, listening devices.
She drifted to the broad section of bookshelves tucked behind another grouping of furniture designed to promote conversation and interaction near the wall of glass. Lots and lots of books. A few photos of Jamison at various locations where he had presumably made donations. Many more photos of him receiving awards. Vera leaned closer to one and studied the people in the photo. Then she smiled. He’d photoshopped the same group repeatedly, adding them to different locations to make it appear like different award ceremonies. She wasn’t surprised at all. The man was obviously very good at the business of putting on a good show.
Bent was at the piano now. Studying the framed photographs stationed there. Vera moved to the fireplace, where a good many more framed photos were scattered about the mantel. Most were of Mr. Jamison hunting. The man appeared to really like hunting. Oh andthere was boating, except the boat looked more like a yacht. Another showed him in one of those mini helicopters. Vera gritted her teeth. What a piece of utter crap.
But it was the photographs right in the middle of all the others that made Vera’s morning.
The first one to capture her attention was of Gill Jamison and a woman he evidently held in high regard since she was hugged tightly to him in the photo. They were smiling widely at the barbecue that had been held right here in that neatly manicured backyard of his. The woman was perhaps eight or so years his senior. Gorgeous dark hair. Lovely pale skin. Gill’s embrace was not simply loving, but possessive. The woman in his arms was Lena Wilton. But Thomas Wilton was nowhere to be seen in the photo. So maybe this was the other man in the first wife’s life. Explained her decision to take on his LLC as a pet project. As if to confirm Vera’s assessment, there were numerous other photos of Gill with Lena. It appeared the couple had spent a good deal of time together.
Another shot caught Vera’s eye. This one was taken around Christmas in front of a nicely decorated tree. But this time the woman Jamison’s arm was draped around was not the first Mrs. Wilton. This woman was Helen Carter. Vera recognized the room as Carter’s living room.
“Well, well now,” Vera murmured. “What do we have here?”
Bent appeared at her side. “See anything interesting.”
Vera gave him the answer with a glance at the photograph. “See for yourself.”
The doors opened, and Deaton appeared once more. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she moved toward them, “but Mr. Jamison has been delayed. He can’t be sure how long he will be, so it wouldn’t be wise to wait.”
Bent shot Vera a sideways look. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”
Vera held back a smirk. Sounded like there had been a miscommunication about allowing them inside. “Ms. Deaton, could you answer a question for me?”
She presented Vera with an agreeable expression. “I can certainly try.”
