Haunted in Death (In Death 22.50)

"Hopkins’s son?"

"So he said. He was very upset, nearly incoherent really." Buchanan patted Maeve’s hand when she passed him a cup. "Understandable under the circumstances."

"And he was looking specifically for letters?" Eve asked.

"He said his father had mentioned letters, a bombshell as he put it. Mr. Gill understood his father and I had done business and hoped I might know what it was about. I think he hopes to clear his family name."

"You going to help him with that?"

"I don’t see how." Buchanan spread his hands. "Nothing I have pertains."

"If there was something that pertained, or correspondence written near the time of her disappearance, would you know about it?"

He pursed his lips in thought. "I can certainly put out feelers. There are always rumors, of course. Several years ago someone tried to auction off what they claimed was a letter written by Bobbie two years after her disappearance. It was a forgery, and there was quite a scandal."

"There have been photos, too," Maeve added. "Purportedly taken of Bobbie after she went missing. None have ever been authenticated."

"Exactly." Buchanan nodded. "So substantiating the rumors and the claims, well, that’s a different matter. Do you know of correspondence from that time, Lieutenant?"

"I’ve got a source claiming there was some."

"Really." His eyes brightened. "If they’re authentic, acquiring them would be quite a coup."

"Were you name-dropping, Peabody?" Eve gave her partner a mild look as she slid behind the wheel.

"Roarke’s done business there before, and you guys went there together. But he doesn’t mention Roarke at all. And being in business, I figured Buchanan would keep track of his more well-heeled clients, you know, and should’ve made an immediate connection."

"Yeah, you’d think. Plausible reason he didn’t."

"You’d wondered, too."

"I wonder all kinds of things. Let’s wonder our way over to talk to Cliff Gill."

Like Bygones, the dance school was locked up tight. But as Fanny Gill lived in the apartment overhead, it was a short trip.

Cliff answered looking flushed and harassed. "Thank God! I was about to contact you."

"About?"

"We had to close the school." He took a quick look up and down the narrow hallway then gestured them inside. "I had to give my mother a soo

ther."

"Because?"

"Oh, this is a horrible mess. I’m having a Bloody Mary."

* * *

Unlike the Buchanan brownstone, Fanny’s apartment was full of bright, clashing colors, a lot of filmy fabrics and chrome. Artistic funk, Eve supposed. It was seriously lived in to the point of messy.

Cliff was looking pretty lived-in himself, Eve noted. He hadn’t shaved, and it looked like he’d slept in the sweats he was wearing. Shadows dogged his eyes.

"I stayed the night here," he began as he stood in the adjoining kitchen pouring vodka. "People came into the studio yesterday afternoon, some of them saying horrible things. Or they’d just call, leaving horrible, nasty transmissions. I’ve turned her ‘links off. She just can’t take any more."

He added enough tomato juice and Tabasco to turn the vodka muddy red, then took a quick gulp. "Apparently we’re being painted with the same brush as my grandfather. Spawn of Satan." He took another long drink, then blushed. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry, what can I get you?"

"We’re fine," Eve told him. "Mr. Gill, have you been threatened?"