Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“Oh, I will,” Lisa chimed in. “I’ll make sure he wears a suit and tie, drag him to all the right parties and keep him from getting arrested.”

She turned in her seat and narrowed her eyes at the man in the blue swim trunks shrinking into the corner chair.

“Um, this has been very interesting,” I said, struggling to control my gag reflex. “But I still have a few more questions.”

Bower folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward, looking expectant. Lisa looked wary. Junior could have been a potted plant.

“Now that Billy Ray is dead, who’s next in line to take charge of the poultry business?”

Bower’s face took on a ponderous look. He stared at the bookcase behind me. Searching for a title? This stretched on for half a day or so.

“Mr. Bower?” I prompted. “Are you refusing to answer?”

“No. Just thinking about it.”

All right. It was personal information, after all. He had no obligation to tell me.

Finally, he unfolded his hands, lifted one and slapped it on the desk blotter. Lisa and I jumped. I think Junior may have twitched a little.

“Forgive my reluctance to tell you personal financial details,” Bower said. “But I tend to be very close-mouthed about such things. However, since I have nothing to hide and you are trying to find my stepson’s killer, I want to help you. So, unless I change my will, my daughter Marsha will inherit the business.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“So, your wife won’t take over?” I asked.

“My wife will benefit from a trust fund I’ve established that will protect my assets from estate taxes. I’m sure, as an attorney, you’re familiar with such things.”

I was, indeed, familiar with such things. I just didn’t do that kind of work. I found it intensely boring, for one thing. For another, I had no clients with the kind of moolah Bower had in abundance.

“Yes, I am,” I said. I kept my response short, the way they teach you in law school.

“My wife is anything but a business woman. My daughter, on the other hand—”

He stopped short as the door swung open. A brassy blonde pushing her mid forties sashayed in. Her tight purple Capri pants hugged ample hips; a red, purple, and yellow Hawaiian shirt completed the ensemble. With every step, a festive orange drink in her hand sloshed over the rim of its glass, leaving a dark trail on the Persian carpet. Circling the desk, she draped herself over Bower’s shoulders.

“Whatcha doing in here, baby?” She slurred. “We gotta party going on.”

“Ms. McRae,” Bower said. “This is my wife, Georgia Lee.”

I rose and extended my hand. “How do you do?”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m doing great. Can’tcha tell?” She managed to push herself upright, wiped a hand on her shirt and thrust it my way. We shook hands. Hers was sticky.

I resumed my seat, wiping my hand discreetly on the seat back as I did so.

“Okay, so your daughter—”

Bower cut me off with a raised hand—and eyebrows. He turned to his wife, putting a hand on each of her cheeks.

“Honey, we’re talking business, okay? I’ll be down in just a bit.”

Then he made smootchie noises, like you would to a baby. My gag reflex flared up again.

Georgia Lee looked like she’d just lost her best friend. “Okay, Daddy. But, hurry up. I’m lonely. And you know how I get when I’m lonely.”

In a multicolored blur, she left. No one spoke. Silence pressed in on my ears.

Bower looked paralyzed, then let out a breath. “Yeah.”