A Tuesday lunch that ran from noon clear to half past three.A Thursday he’d blocked off the whole back half of the day, no names, no clinic, just a line drawn through it like he’d dared anybody to ask.S.J.tucked into a Sunday after church, when a widower had every reason in the world to be alone and nobody to answer to for it.He took his chances where he found them— hungry for something, short on time.
Then, in late September, a weekend.Friday through Sunday.There was a note below her initials that said Saint Augustine.It looked like the relationship had definitely progressed.Weekends away were serious business.
He’d gotten careful about the where, too, toward the end.Her place, once, which meant he knew the address well enough not to need writing it down.Never the same spot twice in a row.For all intents and purposes, the way he scheduled these times away with his lady friend screamed of a man who was trying to keep it secret.Even restaurants that were listed weren’t in places where he was likely to be seen or recognized.I made a list of them in another column, but the chances of anyone remembering him were slim to none.
“He was hiding her,” I said, mostly to myself.
“Or she was hiding him,” Bea said.“Takes two to sneak, sugar.We know he wasn’t married.But maybe she was.”
“Dash said the same thing,” I said.
I turned to the December after he died and worked my way backward.The book didn’t stop at October the thirteenth.Why would it?A man doesn’t know which day is his last.There were appointments penciled in for the weeks after he died, ordinary as anything.A clinic schedule.A dental cleaning he’d never gotten to keep.A board call the following month.Plans, in a dead man’s hand, for a life he didn’t get to finish.
I made myself look at every one.
And on the Monday after he died, Henry had two initials penciled in.
W.M.Ten in the morning.And under it, an address in Mount Pleasant.
“W.M,” I said.“What are the chances that’s Winston Malone?”
James frowned.“That’s odd.Henry didn’t ever have meetings with Winston as far as I knew.Not outside of board meeting reports that is.”
“He had a meeting scheduled with a W.M at ten o’clock the Monday after he died.In Mount Pleasant.”
“What’s the address?”Deidre asked.
I read it off to her.
“Well, well, well,” she said.“Looks like I just found Winston Malone.That’s his home address.And he still lives in Mount Pleasant.”
Nobody said anything for a moment.James had gone quiet across the table, the bourbon forgotten in his hand.
“Henry never told me he was meeting Winston,” he said finally.“Not a word.”
“Maybe he wasn’t planning to tell anybody.”I closed the appointment book over my thumb.The Saturday Henry died, and two days later a meeting he’d made with the one man who knew where every dollar in that foundation went.A meeting he never got to keep.
Chowder lifted his head off Hank’s foot and looked at me, like even he could feel the weight of the moment.
“I think,” I said, “it’s time somebody asked Winston Malone what that meeting was about.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
The bridgeoff Grimm Island always felt like crossing a border.One side, the soft enclosed world of live oaks and salt air and people who’d known your grandmother.The other side, the mainland, where the world was wider and less forgiving and nobody knew your business unless you told them.
Dash drove with one elbow propped on the door and his sunglasses on.Off duty suited him.The set of his shoulders was different, looser, and I tried not to find that as appealing as I did.
“Deidre tracked down Henry’s housekeeper last night,” I said, mostly to get my mind onto something useful.“Lila Mae Banks.She’s the one who found him.She’s in her eighties now, living with her daughter out in Arizona.”
“She willing to talk?”
“Deidre called the daughter to ask and got a polite brush-off.But she called back an hour later and said her mother would do a video call.Wednesday morning.”
Dash glanced over.“What changed her mind?”
“Hard to say.”I watched a pelican work the shallows below the bridge in a slow, patient arc through the passenger window.“Maybe she’s been waiting twenty-five years for someone to ask.”
“We’ll find out Wednesday,” he said.
