“Alastair said your father did a lot of work for her, and charged her too little, but still...”
Jack stepped into the room, hobbled over to a table by the window, picked up a framed picture and handed it to her. It was a black-and-white photo of three beautiful young men: tall, muscular, radiating good health. It was a candid shot. They had their arms around each other and were laughing. The one on the right was obviously Cal. He was a clone of Jack. The middle one looked enough like Alastair that he must’ve been his father—but he was better-looking than his son. There was something round and open and friendly about his features that Alastair didn’t have.
“This guy?” she asked.
“Walter Kirkwood, Tayla’s late husband.”
“Could Mrs. Stewart have been there because her late husband and your grandfather were friends?”
“Possible. But not likely.”
“What’s she like?”
“Mrs. Stewart?” Jack limped into his closet. “As a person or your future mother-in-law?”
“Person.”
“Cold, pinched woman. Granddad said Hamish—”
“Who?”
“Hamish Stewart. Named after some Scottish ancestor. Anyway, Granddad said Hamish was given a choice of marrying rich, smart Noreen or being disinherited. He was a very likable guy, but he wasn’t strong in the brains department. And he didn’t want to have to work for a living. He married her.”
Jack came out of the closet wearing a white dress shirt and a tie, but no pants.
Thighs of a soccer player, she thought, then held up the pants with the open leg. “Try them on.”
“I think I need help.”
“I’ll call Melissa.”
“Spoilsport.” He took the pants from her. “What else did ol’ Stewart tell you?”
“Just that we need to get a date of when—when the murder happened. He has scrapbooks from high school. Maybe we can piece together something. Although, Alastair thinks we should look at men, not boys. He thinks that was why Cheryl wore so much makeup and dressed the way she did—she was trying to look older for some man.”
Jack’s jaw clenched. “She was trying to look older for the career she wanted.”
“That’s what I told him.” He had pulled on his trousers and one pant leg flared out like a skirt. “That looks awful. You should sit down at the service and not get up again.”
“Can’t. I’m singing.”
“You’re what?”
“Singing. ‘Ave Maria.’ Didn’t have time to rehearse something new. Don’t look at me like that. I can do things besides hammer in nails.”
“Velcro,” she said. “Wait here.” She ran to the cabinet by the kitchen, where she’d seen a roll of the adhesive-backed fastener. She grabbed it and a pair of scissors and went back to
Jack. She went onto her knees behind him. “Stand still, and no smart-aleck remarks. I’ve got to stick a strip of this on the cast and more on the fabric. There may be a gap but it’s better than wearing palazzo pants.”
“I saw Cheryl on her sixteenth birthday.”
“That was the day Roy showed up, yelled at both of you, then ran over your bike. Happy birthday, Cheryl.”
“Yeah, that’s the day. School started a few days later, but she didn’t show up. By then she was... She was...”
“I know.” Kate was peeling the backing off the Velcro and sticking it to his cast. “That’s too big of a time window. We need to narrow it down.”
“Then find alibis for everyone in Lachlan?”