“Sadly, it’s not an option.” Jules told them the news that had disappointed him, too, when he’d found out. “But it’s definitely a factoid that ups my percentage of certainty thatthere’re bodies buried in that garden.” He picked up the sharpie and added to the timeline, for the day after Milton Devonshire’s death,Harper cremates the remains. “The funeral’s not until next week—but it’s an internment ceremony with his ashes.”
“Hey now!” Robin said. “That body wasn’t even cold. Forget any visuals, DNA testing is now also off the table. Can’t do that with ashes.” He laughed a little. “Dead Milt isdefinitelyin the garden.”
Sam was shaking his head. “I’m not on Team Definitely, BW. I think we’re all just tired and need some sleep.”
Jules nodded. “Yeah, I was where you are, but... the bedsores clinched it for me.”
“Bedsores,” Robin said. “Oh! Oh! I know where this is going!”
“Rene told us,” Jules reminded skeptical Sam, “that Mr. Devonshire had a really bad bedsore—it’s a pretty common health issue for elderly people who are bedbound. She guessed, presumably from what it looked like—bedsores have stages, kinda like cancer, from one to four, with four being really awful. But she told us that she thoughtthisone had started years ago during his initial hospitalization, after the first stroke. They can last for a long time, and take literally years to heal. Best case for a later stage sore to fully heal is around three weeks. That’s absolute best case.”
“Just cut to the chase, Cassidy,” Sam said. “I get it. Bedsores, bad.”
Fair enough. “I called both Cathy and Paula yet again—this time to ask about bedsores. Cathy, post-stroke housekeeper number one, told me thatherMr. D had a really bad bedsore on his upper back, near his left shoulder blade. Paula?—”
“The housekeeper immediately after Cathy,” Robin confirmed by looking at the timeline.
“HerMr. D had no bedsores at all. It was something of which she was very proud.”
“It coulda healed,” Sam pointed out.
“It could have,” Jules agreed even as he shook his headno. “But not in the three day period between Cathy’s leaving and Paula’s arriving. And in the event that Paula was lying or misinformed, I called Rene to follow up, andherMr. Devonshire’s egregious bedsores—her words—were on his buttocks, also her word. Nothing at all on his shoulder.”
“So Cathy, left shoulder; Paula, zero; Rene, buttocks,” Robin summarized. “What I want to know is where did Harper and what’s-his-name, Security-Clayton, find an unlimited supply of extremely old men to stand in after the OG Milt died three years ago?”
“You honestly believe,” Sam asked, “that Dead Milt actually died after his so-called massive stroke? Andthatwas why Harper fired Helen?”
“I do,” Jules said. “Helen would obviously know that the new un-Dead-Milt wasn’t the Milt who’d employed her for decades. She would know that he was some stranger that Harper and Clayton Spencer—and whoever their accomplices were—dug out of some old folks home and stashed in that hospital bed in the library in order to keep control of Devonshire’s twenty million dollar fortune.”
Sam laughed. “That’s... bat-shit crazy.”
But Robin was fully on board as he consulted the info Jules had added to Sam’s timeline. “But oops, Dead-Milt’s first not-dead stand-in has health issues of his own, and he up and dies just a few months into the charade. Oh, I’m loving this. So now Cathy, hired to replace Helen, gets fired, because now Harper and gang are gonna bring in a new Not-Dead-Milt, and if Cathy gets a look at him, nowshe’llgoThat’s not Mr. D.So Cathy’s out and they hire Paula and this works for about a year untilthatNot-Dead-Milt, what is it that she said? Gets the flu?”
Jules nodded.
“But by this time, Harper has his routine down. Paula’s out, Rene’s in?—”
“Except Rene is Rene,” Jules said. “She completely screws things up for Harper by actually witnessingherfake Mr. Devonshire’s death and calling 9-1-1 instead of Clayton Spencer. At which point the jig is up.”
Sam laughed. “A) this is fucked up, and B) the fact that you came up with this is... I don’t know whether to be worried or proud.”
Now, in the morning light that streamed in through the kitchen’s slider, Sam sat at the counter, digging into his second bowl of Cocoa Puffs. “Still all feels pretty batshit crazy to me,” he pointed out. “We gonna do any digging in the garden today?”
Jules was sipping his coffee, but now he shook his head. “Not yet. As soon as we do, it’ll tip Harper off. I think we just keep an eye on it for now—make sure no one else startsgardening.” He used one hand to air-quote the word.
Robin was making toast, spread with that sunflower seed butter that he loved, and he offered a slice to Jules.
“Thanks.” Jules smiled at him. It was always good to not have coffee on an empty stomach. He turned back to Sam. “I want to reach out to Harper again—I really want to talk to Clayton Spencer.”
“Maybe he’s in the garden, too,” Sam suggested.
“He does seem to be missing,” Jules agreed.
“My guess is he’s hiding,” Robin offered and yeah, that was probably the most likely answer.
“I was thinking about the whole relaxed security setup at the estate,” Sam said. “If you’re right about all this, it kinda makes sense. There was no real fear that Wig-Milt was any kind of physical threat. The problem was if he somehow got onto the property and into the house and said,Hey, that guy in that bed is not my father.”
Jules nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking that, too. But I was also thinking... Remember checking the desk drawers in the library? For Devonshire’s address book and calendar?”
