It’s a gut punch but also a fair question that fills me with self-loathing. “I’m not feeling so well. I haven’t eaten since seven a.m.,” I explain.
“Want a cookie or something? We have food in the lunchroom.”
I consider it, but the thought of chewing and swallowing makes my insides curdle. “I’ll just stick with water.”
LaPierre looks down at his notes. “Let’s continue. I want to get through this so you can get back to your family.” He flips a page. “So ... you didn’t answer the question about your restaurant. Have you had money troubles? And was your wife aware?”
“Of course she was aware. We had good communication about the business.”
“And how did she feel about it?”
“Not great. She thought I worked too much.”
His eyes lift from his notes. “Was she worried that you might bankrupt the family?”
The question sets me on edge because that’s exactly how Sienna had phrased it. “Yes, she was worried.”
“Did you ever ask her for money?”
My heart races faster. “Yes.”
“But she didn’t want to give you any more money. Correct?”
I feel impaled by his accusing stare, and I wonder where he’s gleaned this information. Not from Facebook. No one knew anything about my private conversations with Sienna, so it must have been Becky. She and Sienna told each other everything.
Now that I think about it, Becky was probably the one who convinced Sienna to talk to a lawyer in the first place. Those two were like peas in a pod after Jacob died. I’ve witnessed it. They have a bond I could never quite compete with.
I wish suddenly that I’d insisted on having a lawyer present for this.
“It sounds like you’ve already done some investigating,” I say.
LaPierre sits back. “Just answer the question.”
I slowly exhale. “She didn’t want to pour any more money into the restaurant.”
“And how did you feel about that?”
My fingers drum against my thigh, quick and restless. “I think this is the moment when I ask to call my lawyer, because it’s starting to sound like I’m being treated as a suspect.”
LaPierre tosses his pen onto the file in front of him. “Fine. Who’s your lawyer? I’ll give him or her a call. In the meantime, I’ll get you some food from Tim Hortons. What would you like?”
I still don’t feel like eating, but I don’t want to pass out. “Coffee and a bagel.”
“What do you take in your coffee?”
“Just black.”
He picks up his pen. “The name of your lawyer?”
God help me. My lawyer is a tax attorney who handles my business and personal real estate issues. He’s not the sort of lawyer I need today. What I need is a courtroom bulldog. My father would be perfect, but there’s no way I’m calling him. So I’ll take the next best thing.
“Arthur Palmer at Palmer and Associates.”
LaPierre’s eyes lift. “I’ve dealt with the Palmers. Are you related?”
“Arthur’s my brother.”
LaPierre’s forehead creases over drawn brows. “That must make Bill Palmer your father.”
