“If you would agree to bring the diary to my house . . .”
“No,” I said sharply. He put up his hands and then, with that cute smirk on his face, began to back up toward the doorway.
“Don’t shoot. I’m going, I’m going.” He threw me a kiss and disappeared.
I went to the window and watched him leave. Literally seconds later, I saw my father pull into the driveway. I could tell from the way he came into the house and started up the stairs that he was tired. I stepped out to greet him in the hallway.
“Hey,” I said. “How was your dinner?”
“It was okay. The steak was a little overdone for me.”
“I don’t mean the food, Dad,” I said.
He stood there looking at me.
“So?”
“Remember how I once told you that getting to know someone is like peeling an onion?”
“Yes.”
“Well, getting to know what’s behind the building of a new mansion on the foundation of Foxworth Hall is like peeling an onion, too.”
I thought he was going to leave it at that, but it was just a long pause as he put his own thoughts about it together. I waited.
“The man I met tonight still isn’t the man behind the project. Arthur Johnson was one layer of onion, and the man I met tonight is another. You know how I feel about navigating through mazes.”
“Who did you meet tonight?”
“A Dr. Martin West,” he said.
I saw that he was waiting to see if I knew that name from reading the diary. I shook my head. “What kind of a doctor is he?”
“He’s a psychiatrist.”
Again, he waited for my reaction. Again, I shook my head. “How is he involved in all this?”
“He didn’t come right out and say it, but I’m sure he worked in the clinic Corrine Foxworth was taken to after the fire here,” he said.
“Corrine was his patient?”
“My guess is that’s how Arthur Johnson and his wife know so much about the interior of Foxworth Hall. Dr. West knew it all from what she told him during whatever they call that treatment psychiatrists do. You know, patient on a couch or something, babbling.”
“So Arthur Johnson works for this psychiatrist?”
“Not exactly. I mean, he’s not on the title document. As I’ve told you, it’s a trust, and the owners or partners, or whatever they call them, aren’t mentioned.”
“But the doctor is a wealthy man?”
“I don’t know if he’s the one who’s wealthy. Although he didn’t say it, I had the feeling he was working for someone else, someone who’s a major investor in Johnson’s hedge fund. That’s all I can tell you. My head’s spinning with all the intrigue. I’m going to sleep,” he said.
“Are you upset about it?” I asked quickly.
“Upset?” He thought a moment. “I’m not sure if ‘upset’ is the right word. I’m more . . . confused about it, but maybe, if I just stick to what I have to do to build this turkey, I’ll be fine. Which reminds me. Mrs. Osterhouse is going to pick up the turkey I ordered. I’ve given her a list of what I need to prepare it. When does your holiday start?”
“Next Wednesday. We usually pick it up and do the extra shopping.”
“I know, but she wanted to do something. Sometimes being generous means letting someone do something for you. It doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but it does. You and I will get the rest of it on Sunday along with our weekly food, okay?”