“This is Jack’s mother, Heather.” Sara slipped through the people to flee into her bedroom.
Heather stood beside Kate. “I bet she hates this many people in her home. Sorry, but I couldn’t help it. I put in a call to one person and...” She shrugged. “They all showed up. They’re searching out people who knew the Morris ladies.”
“Plus, there’s the pull of getting to see Sara’s house.”
“Very true,” Heather said.
Kate looked at her. “We heard some really nasty gossip from the sheriff.”
“I know,” Heather said. “Jack’s been told. He—”
“Where is he?”
“Hiding somewhere. Drawing into himself. Escaping. I don’t know what to—”
“Excuse me,” Kate said. “Too much tea.” She made her way past the people into her suite, closing the doors behind her. She hurried into her bedroom and out through the doors to the little courtyard with the dancing-girl fountain. As she thought, Jack was there, sitting in silence. She took a chair beside him. “So who told you?”
“The deputy at the desk, Pete, is a friend of mine. He likes to eavesdrop. What took you so long to get back?”
“Aunt Sara and I stopped at a restaurant. She asked me if I wanted to run back home to Mommy.”
“Sounds like a sensible idea. When do you leave?”
“As soon as she tells me everything I want to know about my father.”
“Looks like you’re staying here for this century.”
“Guess so. How are we going to do this?”
“Do what?”
She glared at him.
He smiled. “I guess people will send us stories.”
“‘I liked Cheryl Morris so much that I killed her.’ That kind of story?”
Jack gave a one-sided smile and scratched at his leg. “You have any better ideas?”
“I might. Can you really build things? Like with saws and hammers?”
He looked at her in amusement. “When Sara bought this house, it hadn’t been touched in twenty-one years. This courtyard? The pavers had crumbled. There was a hole in the roof of your bedroom. Termites had eaten half of your living room. Sara’s bedroom was—”
“Okay. I get it. Strong Man Jack. Anyway, when we left the restaurant, I saw an ATM machine set back in a wall. Those things are opened from the inside so money can be put in them. And they have cameras that take photos of everyone who makes a transaction.”
“What does that have to do with a murder?”
“I thought of secrecy. What if people were to put their stories in a kind of ATM and were told that the papers will go directly into the coffins? Maybe people would reveal more if they believed their stories were to be kept secret.”
Jack stared at her. “But a camera would record who put what in the box. And, of course, the stories would be opened and read.”
“Of course. I don’t expect anyone to admit to murder, but Cheryl and her mother were unusual people. Surely someone didn’t like them.”
“A few wives, maybe?”
“And all the boys Cheryl said no to,” Kate said. “Could you build something like that? Somewhere for the papers to go?”
“Easily, but I’d have to go to the shop to do it.”