“Oh,” Araminta Tucker said brightly, “I wouldn’t say that, dear.Every day I wake up and know it’s a good day because I don’t have to see Griselda Grimshaw today.”
OK, then.And now that was permanent.Which didn’t seem to bother her much.
“So you saw the footage on the news and recognized the house?”
She nodded.“I lived next to that house for forty-nine years.Not like I could mistake it.”
I guess not.“Any idea who might have wanted your sister-in-law dead?”
“Other than me?”She didn’t wait for me to answer.“Any number of people, I imagine.She had a positive genius for rubbing people the wrong way.And always sticking her nose in other people’s business.”
“She called the police on me yesterday,” I said.
Her brows, plucked to within an inch of their lives and carefully drawn on, arched.“Did she?”
“I was sitting in my car on the street watching the house next door.She called the police and reported a suspicious vehicle.”
Araminta Tucker nodded.“That sounds like something she’d do.I don’t suppose you killed her?”
I told her I hadn’t.“She died sometime overnight.Ten to midnight, I think Detective Mendoza said.I was at home by then.Asleep.”
“And I suppose you can prove that, can’t you?”She didn’t wait for me to answer.“Why were you watching the house next door?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said.“I’m a private investigator?—”
I fumbled in my purse for my license while her eyebrows winged up her forehead again.“Why didn’t you say so?That’s almost as good as the police.Maybe even better.”She snatched the license out of my hand and examined it carefully.
“Sorry,” I said.“I forgot.”
She handed the license back.“That’s the kind of thing you lead with, dear.Not something you use as a throwaway line in the middle of a conversation.”
I told her I’d keep that in mind.“So about the house…”
“The one you were watching.My house.”
I nodded.“I was following a man whose wife hired me to see if he was cheating on her.”
“Steven Morton,” Araminta Tucker said.
By now I was past surprise.“You know him?”
She shook her head.“Not to say know, dear.He contacted me a few days ago.”
He must have known her, then.Or known about her.Or something.“What did he want?”
“To rent my house,” Araminta Tucker said.“For his daughter.”
Daughter?“Steven doesn’t have a daughter.”
“You don’t say?”Araminta said.And added, “I wasn’t born yesterday, dear.”She shook her head.“They had different names.Different nationalities.And how many middle-aged men do you know who would pay the rent on a grown woman’s apartment out of the goodness of their hearts?Especially one that looks like that?”
Not many.David had contributed to Jacquie’s rent and wardrobe and probably wine budget, but it hadn’t been altruistic.
“What do you mean, different nationalities?”
“She was Russian,” Araminta Tucker said.“Or from somewhere in what we used to call the Soviet Union when I was a girl.He had her cosign the lease.He paid, first and last month’s rent, but he insisted she sign the lease.”
My heart started beating faster.“Do you have a copy of it?”
